The incessant cawing of blue jays woke me the next morning. I pulled the pillow over my ears and buried my head into the mattress to return to the faceless man of my dreams. He was caressing me, and I was responding with moans and moistness. I wanted him to make love to me, to sweep me into a dimension of fervor I had never experienced in real life. I searched for him, but he had fled, and I couldn't find him in the deepest recesses of my mind. I rolled over and stared at the antique light fixture in the ceiling.
The dream was a new one. This time I wasn't running away from the faceless man. I wanted him to touch me, to heal my wounded soul. Maybe I was making progress. Maybe I would someday allow a man touch me someplace other than my arm. Someone gentle and understanding, someone who would ease me through the pain of my scarred past.
I sat up when I smelled the first whiff of coffee and stared at the bedroom door. Max was downstairs waiting for me, reading the paper, sipping black coffee. Would he bring me a cup? If I concentrated hard and sent him a telepathic message, would he fill a cup and climb the stairs to my room? Were we connected on that plane? I dropped to the pillow and smiled up at the ceiling while I broadcast my request. It was nice to have him around.
I thought about how I had misread him as a youth. Strong, virile looks equaled a sexually aggressive man, right? Max seemed almost shy with women. Not shy perhaps, but what? What feeling filled Max with trepidation? Something about his actions seemed familiar to me. He seemed almost innocent, but not the innocence of a virgin. It was more the innocence of a monk come late to the calling, after he had tasted the forbidden fruits of hedonism. Max seemed to have sworn off women, but he was very private about his vow.
Was he tormented by sex in some way? That would explain why he didn't seem to have any real relationships. Maybe he lived a reclusive life in the woods because he couldn't form a bond with a woman, couldn't make that leap of love. Like Margarite, independent and totally alone. That was how he described her. Something unique connected the two of them; I sensed that the night before. But their bond was still a mystery. Did the answer lay buried in her stories? Did she explore her feelings for Max and their strange relationship in her therapy? If I continued reading, would I figure out what passed between them? Did I really want to know? Yes, I wanted to know. Somehow I thought I was the only sexual misfit in the world. If someone else proved sexually dysfunctional, was I so crazy after all?
The coffee teased my nose, and I sprang from the bed. The temperature had barely cooled throughout the night. I grabbed a pair of cutoffs and a tank top. The clean panties felt delicious as I changed from the damp ones I had slept in. The scent of my wetness emanated from the soiled underwear and haunted me as I rolled them into a ball and threw them in the hamper.
I ran the brush through my hair before went barefoot to the kitchen. Sitting at the table in jogging shorts and sneakers, Max read the sports section of the paper. The dark hair on his chest caught my eyes, and I looked up quickly as his eyes rose from the print.
"Good morning." He pushed the paper aside and watched me pour coffee. "How did you sleep?"
"I was too hot to sleep." I was too hot in more than one way, but Max didn't need to know that. "And you failed the test."
"Test? What test?"
"I sent you a telepathic message to bring me a cup of coffee in bed. You didn't get it. I guess we're not on the same wavelength."
He grinned. "Oh, I thought about it, but I wasn't sure you would welcome me."
"You never know about me," I said smiling.
The banter seemed to unnerve Max who blushed.
"It's supposed to be hot again today," said Max in self-defense. "Good day to go caving."
"Caving?"
"Yeah." He stretched his legs to one of the kitchen chairs. "There are some fascinating caves around here, and it's always cool inside."
"Sounds creepy to me," I said turning up my nose.
"Ever tried it?" asked Max.
"No."
"Well, then, why not come with me? I'll show you the ropes...so to speak."
"Ropes?" I asked raising my eyebrows.
"Well, some caves you have to rappel into," explained Max.
"I don't think so," I said shaking my head.
"OK, how about one you can walk into?" He was trying to lure me into a cave, but the thought of being underground scared me. What if I got claustrophobic?
"I don't know, Max," I said trying to chicken out. "I should work on my book."
"Jamie, you have all summer to work on your book. It's Sunday!" He pointed out the window to the lake as if the placid water made a statement. "Play a little."
"No ropes?" I couldn't believe I was actually considering entering a dark, dank cave.
"No ropes," echoed Max.
"If I get scared and want to stop, we come right out?"
"Absolutely." He dropped his feet to the floor and rested his arms on the table.
"And you won't make fun of me if I'm scared?"
"Of course I'll make fun of you," he said with a soft smile. "But not too much. I have a healthy respect for fear. Fear has always taught me something."
"OK," I said with a sigh. "I'll go with you."
"Great!" said Max rising and taking his cup the sink. "You'll love it... just wait."
"So what time are we leaving?"
"I've got a few things to do this morning before it gets hot. How about lunch time? We can grab a sandwich in town."
"Do I need to bring anything?"
"I would suggest pants and a long sleeve shirt...and you might want a hat or a pin to put your hair up. You'll need some type of covering to keep from getting dirty and to protect your skin from the rocks."
"I'll find something," I said. "Thanks."
Max headed out the kitchen door and left me with my morning coffee. What had I gotten myself into? Caving. I shook my head in wonder at the things that I would agree to do. After all, curiosity killed the cat.
The clock on the kitchen wall said ten o'clock, and I thought about rereading the novel outline I had sketched the day before. My mind flashed to the box in the attic, and I wondered again about Margarite and Max...what secret they shared. What brought them so close? If I wanted to know, I would have to keep reading her stories.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and climbed to the attic telling myself that I was reading to find out about Margarite...not as a voyeur...not for my own jollies. The stairs had become accustomed to my weight and didn't creak as I climbed to the loft. I removed the familiar file and took it to my reading spot by the window. I had absently left the window open the day before, and the warm, pine-scented breeze wafted across my face. Tucking my feet under me, I searched the file and picked up the next story.
"The hot water cascades over your long, dark hair. You lean back into the water; the spray bounces across your face, and it feels so warm, so good. Water drips from your hair onto your tush, warm drops that feel like liquid petals. Heat penetrates your skin, sinking deep into the tissues, warming you to your bone marrow. The feeling relaxes and soothes. You turn your face to the shower, closing your eyes and letting the hot water run over your cheeks and lips, down your chest, between your breasts, over your flat tummy, down one thigh, a delicious stream of hot stimulation. You drift a moment, and at first you hardly notice the fingers walking down your sides. Fingers? You start to move, and he whispers in your ear.
"It's OK, it's fine, it's magical."
You want to ask him how he managed to invade your shower, but the fingers feel so good, like old friends that know your every wish. Instead, you relax and let the hands slither over your water slick skin. You feel one hand cup your breast, testing it, loving the feel of your body. You hear the other hand fumble with something, and you wonder, but you don't look. To look would spoil the illusion, the sensuality. As you listen, you hear his hands rub together, and then the hands find your body, and you feel smooth lather on your water-warmed skin. You smell the vanilla scent. The hands apply the scented shower gel to breasts and tummy, slathering soap and scent over your skin and nipples that rise to the touch. With deliberate slowness the hands slide down your right leg--thigh, knee, calf, ankle--massaging in smell and heat. The hands come up your left leg--ankle, calf, knee, thigh.
The touch stimulates more than you can believe, and you anticipate the hands and fingers touching you where water doesn't moisten. The fingers find you, sudsy fingers that slip inside and touch and stroke. You gasp with delight and sudden urge. The hands play and cleanse, and your body responds automatically. The fingers move on. You miss their touch, but they haven't left. The hands spread vanilla and soap over your shoulders, your neck, kneading heat and anticipation into you body. Finally, delicately, fingertips lather your cheeks and chin and forehead, touching and pleasing, cleaning. The water gushes over you, rinsing away the soap, leaving your body sleek and slick and smelling wonderfully.
The hands direct water all over you, washing off the soap, touching nipples and breasts and tummy all over again. Thighs are stroked. Knees are squeezed. Tush is traced with warm waterful hands. And as you wish, the fingers find you again, slipping inside to renew the wonderful connection. As they circle and trace passion, you feel a body lean against yours. A warm, wet body touches your tush and the back of your thighs. Chest to your back, you feel the welcome hardness of the body, the quivering passionate breath on your neck.
Lips kiss and tongue licks, and the shaft slips along your bottom, between your legs. You move your hips along him, rubbing yourself on him. His fingers slip away. You reach down and take hold of him, guiding me inside you. His hands find your breasts and play as your body leans onto him. He slides inside with ease. The feel of him is exquisite, a feeling of urgency you hardly believe is real. With a sensuousness you find irresistible he begins to stroke.
Water rushes down your body and across the joining of you and down your thigh. The heat builds. He plunges deeper. Your body screams with desire. His breath is hot and fast on your cheek. His hips move faster against yours. His fingers twist your nipples. You feel the explosion coming, the rush of your own body to encompass his, to release upon him. He fills you. A little harder, a little faster, bodies move in sync. With a hot joy, you feel him pulsate inside you. Water splashes down your chest. You reach behind and pull his head forward that you might kiss his cheek.
"Now," you whisper.
With incredible strength he takes you. Your body locks onto him. The heat and smell come together in a lunge of passion. Your body spasms against him as he explodes inside. You feel your boiling juices mingle inside as your body milks him, urges him, keeps him. For a moment you are lost in the sheer ecstasy of your total release. Your love is complete and unfettered. Then, you breathe and relax. A kiss on your neck. He moves away, slipping away, leaving you weak and warm and fulfilled. You turn. The shower is empty.
Was he ever there? You close your eyes as the hot water runs down your back.
The wetness had gathered between my legs, but I was determined not touch myself. This was research, not pleasure. I wanted to identify this faceless man who made Margarite burn with desire. Why didn't she use his name? I leafed to the next story and read with both relish and anticipation.
Cold, you feel cold. Hands, feet, legs, your body feels cold from inside out. You strip and crawl into bed and under the covers and wait for warmth to seep into you. You close your eyes and curl up on your side and shiver a little. The cold will soon pass. You wait.
You don't feel him slip into the bed. The first time you know he's there is when his hand slips across your shoulder, walking down your chest. You're a little startled at first, but the touch is so soft, so reassuring, your apprehensions fade. As his fingers find your breast, you feel his body mold itself to yours. You know he's naked. His warm breath slips across your neck. His heat runs along your back and bottom and legs. You fold your feet against his legs, soft hairy legs that feel so warm. Fingers tweak your nipple. A tongue plays a tune on your neck. You feel the hardness of him on your bottom, and you wiggle a little to show him you know.
He pulls you tighter and his hand slips lower, down your tummy, across your thigh, down the inner knee. His touch is electric and warm. Fingers pirouette on your skin, leaping and dancing and always touching, always heating your body. His hardness slips between your legs, a wonderfully alive thing that provides a source of more heat. The cold begins to melt as his hand finds you, as lips nibble at your shoulder, as the live thing between your legs begins to stroke. He touches you gently, slowly. Your body feels warm and loose, and you crave his touch. The finger moves up and down. Your body wets and heats, and you wait for the finger to penetrate, to find the delicate inner folds of pure fire. You don't wait long. With a tenderness you can barely describe his finger probes deeper. A moan escapes your lips. Teeth tease your skin with baby bites, bites that stoke a fresh fire.
Fingers twist inside you, and your hips gyrate slowly, deriving pleasure from his touch. As you move so do the fingers, touching and retouching the hot, wet deepness of you. Lips and tongue please your neck and ear, but your body craves the touch. His hardness rubs inside your thighs, and you know his flame burns as brightly as your own. His fingers move quickly, and you gasp with newfound pleasure. Your body clamps tightly and releases, and his fingers move faster. You suck breath around clenched teeth as the need and passion flame. His touch is exquisite, a mix of power and gentleness and speed that makes you soaked with fervor.
"Yes," you whisper as his fingers fan the fire. "Right there. Don't stop."
You feel him panting on you neck. His hardness pulses between your legs.
"Faster," you say.
His fingers sink fast and deep, and your body jerks with need. His hard chest on your back. His essence rubs the softness of your thighs. But his fingers, those magic fingers bring a cry to your lips. You want him so much. He pleases you so much. You feel a great wind building inside. A tornado whips into shape inside you. Your hips push and wiggle, and you know you're seconds away from complete release. You can tell he is too.
"Now," you whisper. "Now."
Hard and fast, the fingers seem wild inside your hot tightness. You hear him grunt. You grab your nipples and twist. And it happens. Your orgasm rips through you like a huge whirlwind. You feel him explode between your legs, shooting hot, sticky manness across your thighs. For a moment, everything seems perfect. You're lost in heat and light and love.
As your body sinks into the bed, you feel his fingers leave you. A last kiss on the neck, and his hardness is gone, leaving only its seed behind. You feel his body leave yours. You don't mind. You're happy. You're warm. From feet to fingers, you're warm and happy and loved. He'll be back. You know that. He'll be back. And you'll always be warm. He'll keep you warm.
My hands shook as I turned the pages. The words had ignited my own fire, and I ached for relief. My fingers crept up inside my pant leg and slipped beneath the elastic of my panties. As I slid them between my lips, my wetness covered them.
"Oh," I sighed, closing my eyes and caressing myself. "Just this once."
The sound of the front door slamming jerked my hand out of my crotch.
"Jamie?" called Max from below. "Ready to go?"
I scrambled to shove the file back into the box and took the attic steps two at a time.
"Almost!" I yelled down the stairs as I hurried into my room I slipped into a pair of jeans and grabbed a plaid, long sleeved shirt. My body quivered as I hurried. I needed a release for my pent up desire, but I was going caving instead. Bad timing seemed to have plagued me all my life.
"Hiking boots or sneakers?" I yelled to Max.
"Boots," yelled Max.
I snatched my boots out of the closet and pulled my hair in a pony tail, realizing that I didn't own a hat. Max waited in the living room. I avoided his eyes as I sat to pull on the boots.
"You OK?" he asked.
"Yeah... why?" I asked defensively.
"I don't know... you look kind of .. flushed."
"It's hot upstairs," I lied. "I don't have a hat."
"You can use one of mine," said Max standing. "Who do you like? Cubs or Orioles?"
I laughed as I laced the boots. "Cubs, I guess."
"OK... I'll meet you outside."
After Max left I took a huge breath and willed my heart to slow. Was Margarite's writing responsible for my passion or had I gone too long with too little companionship? I couldn't tell, but I knew caving wouldn't distract me entirely. I knew the visions of the shower and the bed would lie dormant inside my brain and then pop into full bloom at the strangest moments. I could envision Max helping me across some chasm, and Margarite's shower scene leaping into my mind, and my body responding with a gush of moistness that would sound like a tidal wave in the spooky silence of the cave. What would Max think when he felt the carnal heat and heard the flood of wetness? No, I wouldn't think that way. I could control my mind and my body.
©Copyright 1996 - 1998 Angela Preston. These stories may not be reprinted in any form without written permission.