by Cynthia Sax
I don’t open to him. My teeth clench together and my jaw locks, my body protesting this male’s invasion. Michael’s eyes are blue, not green, his face too handsome, too perfect, his approach too rushed.
I draw away from him.
A harsh emotion flashes in Michael’s eyes. He then grins a little too widely. “You are a mystery, kiddo.” He releases me and steps backward. I shiver, the evening air surprisingly cool. “I’ll see you on Monday?”
“Of course.” My smile adds to my guilt, my fake casualness being another lie.
“All righty, then.” Michael stuffs his hands in the front pocket of his khaki pants and walks away, his broad shoulders slightly hunched.
I glance at the spot where the bearded man has stood. He hasn’t returned but I don’t take any chances. I follow a crooning couple closely until I reach the brightly lit bus stop. The bus driver grunts at me as I enter his vehicle. His surliness can’t dim my gratitude to see him.
Chapter Six
THAT NIGHT I stare down at Blaine’s empty lounge chair, feeling his absence, my soul-deep loneliness accentuated by the silence. “I don’t know if you can hear me, Blaine.” Do security cameras have audio? “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to talk to you anyway.”
I play with the tie of the robe. I feel grubby, unclean both inside and out, but I need to confess before I swim, the guilt gnawing at me.
“A guy from work kissed me,” I blurt. “He’s handsome, a nice guy. Everyone likes him . . . especially the girls.” I peer into the darkness surrounding the pool, seeing nothing and no one. “And he likes me. He says I’m a mystery. Can you believe that?”
I tilt my head back and smile up at the stars. Although the moon isn’t full, it is bright and big and hangs low in the midnight sky.
“But I don’t think he’ll kiss me again.” My happiness dims. Have I made a mistake? Is what I have with Blaine an illusion, as fake as my padded bra? “Because I didn’t kiss him back. I couldn’t open my mouth. I couldn’t let him inside me.”
I take a deep breath. “If you were here, you’d ask me how I felt about that and I’d say his kiss felt wrong. I’m a phony when I’m with him, Blaine. I’m not myself. I lie to him about everything and I hide, my body, my thoughts, my soul. I don’t show him anything and I certainly don’t show him everything, not like I show you.”
I open my robe and slide the soft cotton off my shoulders. The cool night air wisps over my skin and my nipples tighten. The key rests in the valley between my breasts, the ribbon soft against my neck.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I remove the key and I drop it on the table next to the black velvet bag. “I needed to see, to know. I hope you understand.”
I kick off my flip-flops, turn and face the pool. The blue water ripples before me, fed by the waterfall. The rush of liquid over hard rock is soothing, reminding me of the bliss I found on previous nights. I picture Blaine sitting in his chair, puffing on his dreadful cigar, watching me, his brilliant green eyes glittering, his face too angular to be handsome.
I reach up, toward the stars, and I stretch, savoring the air on my bare skin, undulating my body for him. Others may watch me but he’s the man I move for. I bend my knees and dive, and for a moment I fly, my feet leaving the ground, my body completely free.
The cool water hits my heated flesh, a wave of sensation leaving none of my skin untouched, and I press my lips together, swallowing my gasp. I flutter my feet, remaining under the water for as long as possible, my lungs burning, bursting.
Curving my spine, I change direction and break the surface. Rivulets of liquid stream down my neck, shoulders, and breasts.
I laugh and smooth my hair back. I am woman, powerful and free, reborn in nature and baptized by the elements.
The waves around me flatten and I float onto my back, staring up at the stars, allowing my elusive billionaire to leisurely look at me, secure in my desirability. A meteor shoots across the sky, magic coloring the sweetly scented air.
Is Blaine naked as he watches me? Is his cock hard? Is he stroking himself?
I swim to the edge of the pool, pull myself out of the water, and pad to his lounge chair. It remains empty. I had foolishly hoped it wouldn’t be.
I claim his seat, draping my naked body over the tan fabric. The moisture dripping from my skin releases his scent and I sigh, satisfaction flowing to arousal.
“What did you leave for me, Blaine?” I clasp the black velvet bag, revealing a piece of crisp white paper. A short, sweet message is scrawled in thick black ink.
Enjoy
Blaine
“I will. Thank you.” I smile and slide the marble dildo out of the bag. It has been thoroughly cleaned, the stone smooth.
“Ahhh . . . Blaine.” I run the dildo over my cheek, along my lips, caressing Blaine’s gift as I wish to caress him, as I will caress him. I’ll touch him and allow him to touch me, this decision feeling right.
I lean back on the chair and spread my legs wide. Soon I’ll have Blaine between my thighs. I’ll finally see him without his suit, feel his skin sliding over mine, his cock stretching my pussy open. Moisture flows down my thighs, my body humming with anticipation.
“I want to taste you, Blaine.” I tug on the tip of the dildo with my lips, tasting nothing, no lingering essence clinging to the stone. Will he taste like me? I take the fake cock deeper into my mouth, running the flat of my tongue underneath the smooth marble, and I suck, my cheeks indenting as Blaine’s cheeks do when he puffs on his cigar.
I release the dildo with a pop and I smack my lips, the sounds obscenely loud. The marble glistens. I follow the curves of my breasts with the tip around and around, tightening the circles, coiling my desire into a hard ball.
I slap my nipples. “Yes,” I cry. I repeat the delectable torture, abusing my sensitive flesh with the hard stone until I ache.
“Do you wish you were here, touching me, Blaine?” I glide the dildo down my stomach and stroke its length along my pussy lips, rubbing my clit, wetting the thin shaft. “I wish you were.” The warmth inside me spreads, rippling from my core along my thighs, up my torso, tingling my fingers and my toes. “I want you so badly. I want to hear your voice, feel your breath on my skin, smell that awful cigar you always smoke.”
I push the dildo into my pussy, stretching me open. “You’re thicker than this. I’ll be so tight around you, gripping you snugly.” I contract my inner muscles around the stone and I moan, the friction luscious. “No pussy will ever hug your cock like mine will.” I fill myself with the hardness and I close my eyes, savoring the sensation. “I’m made for you, Blaine.” My thighs quiver.
I pump myself slowly, swiping my thumb across my clit with every thrust, the extra stimulation edging me closer and closer to satisfaction. “Are you watching me?” I lift into my strokes, raising my hips, increasing the intensity of my thrusts. My legs shake. “I’m showing you.” I drive the marble dildo in and out of my pussy. The wet sucking sound echoes in the night. “I’m showing you everything.”
I work my body hard, harder than my careful billionaire can. I know my limitations, can walk the fine line between pleasure and pain.
“Are you stroking yourself, Blaine?” I visualize his tanned rough hands around his cock, the black curls at his base, his balls swinging, the images gathered from movies I’ve watched, books I’ve read.
“I want you to come with me.” My body trembles uncontrollably, the tremors building, spreading. “To call my name as I call yours.” I thrust the dildo into me with a frightening ferocity, slamming my thumb against my clit. “Tell the world who you belong to.”
The rush starts and I can’t stop it. I can’t slow it down. “Yes, yes, yes, Blaine!” I scream, flinging my body upward, the dildo rammed deep in my pussy, the heel of my right hand pressed against my clit. I buck and shriek and writhe, thrashing my head to the left and the right. I’m a wild thing, unrestrained by convention, unbound by the rules of an unforgiving world.
&n
bsp; I’m not alone in my fulfillment. Blaine and I may be separated by distance, physically situated on opposite sides of the country, but we’re together in release, in spirit. He sees me. He knows me.
I quiet. My heartbeat slows. My breathing levels. I withdraw the dildo. The white marble gleams with my juices. I extend my tongue and lick along its length, tasting myself, accepting my body as Blaine accepts it, with kindness and with desire.
I miss him. I set the dildo on the table, beside the clean ashtray, and I lie back on his chair, inhaling his scent, wondering how I can care so much for a man so quickly.
But Blaine isn’t every man, as he often tells me. I smile. The stars shine above me, the moonlight casting a blue glow over my white skin.
I track the flight of a small brown moth as she flutters higher and higher. Lights illuminate the pool, the bulbs burning brightly, heating to dangerous temperatures, and that’s where she’s heading, my foolish little moth.
“Don’t do it, moth,” I call, my muscles tightening with each flick of her wings. She doesn’t heed my warning, continuing recklessly along her doomed path, intent upon reaching her destination.
I should look away. I can’t. I stare with morbid fascination, knowing how the moth’s night will end, unable to do anything to prevent her death, the light positioned too high, the moth flying beyond my reach.
Inches away from the light, the brown moth pauses in the air, battering her wings against an invisible wall. The tension eases from my shoulders and I laugh, giddy with relief.
The tiny creature won’t be harmed. A clear plastic shield protects her fragile body from the hot bulb. She can fly toward the brilliance without fear, without worry.
I stand, stretch, stroll to the waterfall. I duck my head under the cascade, wetting my hair, and I step into the flow, the cool water streaming down my chest, between my thighs. As I wash, I turn, ensuring Blaine sees all of my naked body.
Is he the only one watching me? I spread my leg and bend over, sticking my ass in the air. Water gushes over my pussy lips, feeding my arousal. I won’t come again tonight. I’ll save this building desire for Blaine.
I pump the conditioner into my palm, straighten and apply the vanilla-scented mousse to my wet hair, combing my fingers though my long straight tresses, swirling my fingertips into my short private curls.
I rinse off my skin, leaving most of the conditioner to do its magic, and I traipse toward Blaine’s chair, refreshed and revived. Beads of moisture form on my slender curves, dewdrops of promised passion.
I wrap the white cotton robe around me, return the key to its rightful place—between my breasts, and recline on the chair. I should return to my tiny, overheated bedroom but there’s no connection to Blaine there.
I pick up Blaine’s note, trace his name with one of my fingernails and picture him writing his message to me. The rebellious black lock of hair falls forward on his forehead. His shoulders are clad in a dark suit. His shirt is white and crisp. The color of his tie will surprise me.
I bring the paper to my nose and inhale, breathing his scent. A serenity settles over me. I lay my head back and close my eyes, listening to the rush of water and the flutter of moth wings.
Chapter Seven
I WAKE AS the sun’s rays break the horizon, tinting the sky a delicate yellow and pink. Birds sing and sprinklers whiz back and forth, back and forth. A large brown and white snail crawls up the table’s base, leaving a glistening trail of slime behind him.
The windows in Blaine’s mansion remain dark. “Blaine?” I call, ever hopeful. No one answers. I sigh. He isn’t home.
Disappointed, I return to the Leighs’ bungalow, head to my bedroom and place the note Blaine left for me in the carry-on-sized suitcase containing all of the possessions I own. Executives often travel with similar luggage, rolling the black bags through airport terminals, looking straight ahead, intent on reaching their destinations, returning home.
I dress in a black ribbed tank top and faded cutoff jean shorts, make a piece of dry toast, and gaze out the kitchen window as I eat my simple breakfast.
There’s no activity next door.
Normally, on Saturdays, I’ll pack a lunch and spend the day exploring L.A. I’ve hiked in parks, watched the wealthy shop on Rodeo Drive, and attended free street festivals.
Today I stay close to the house. I do my laundry, hanging my wet clothes on the deck railing to dry. I carefully dust the glass cones and other objects d’art Mrs. Leigh collects. I wipe down the screen of the humongous TV that I’m not allowed to turn on. Dr. Leigh, having spent a month and thousands of dollars calibrating it properly, locked the remote control in a safe before he left.
I wait for Blaine.
Tires crunch on the driveway and my heart leaps. I rush to the front foyer, my bare feet smacking against the concrete floor, and I swing the front door open.
It isn’t Blaine.
A tall, thin man clad in a brown short-sleeve shirt and matching shorts pulls his tanned index finger away from the stainless steel doorbell. “Are you?” He glances down at the label on the small brown box he’s holding. “Miss Anna Sampson?”
Someone sent me a package? I wiggle my bare toes. “Yes.”
“Sign here, please.” As he hands me a handheld device and a plastic stylus, he brushes his fingers against my hand. “You have the softest, most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen, Miss Sampson.”
I blink. The Leighs have sent many packages home from Europe, a collection stored in a spare bedroom, but none of the deliverymen have ever flirted with me before today. “I’ve been scrubbing the floors with them.”
“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.” He winks, bracing his long thin body against door frame. The mysterious box rests on one of his hips.
“Ummm . . .” What should I say to this? Thank you? I hastily scribble my signature on the small black screen and give the equipment back to him, eager to complete this increasingly uncomfortable transaction.
“This is one of my regular routes.” As the deliveryman clips his handheld device onto his belt, he yanks on his shorts, pulling the brown fabric over a noticeably large bulge. “If you ever need someone to talk to.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I eye the box, my curiosity killing me. Who would send me a package?
“Here you go.” The deliveryman holds the box out to me and I grab the sides.
He doesn’t release the box. I pull. He pulls back, a wide grin on his face.
“Give. Me. The. Box.” I twist it out of his hands. “Thank you.” I shake the package. It’s intriguingly light and the return address is New York.
Blaine was in New York. I tremble with excitement.
“Is it a gift?” The deliveryman remains on the Leighs’ front step, his brown truck idling in the driveway.
“Yes.” I nod. “From my very jealous lover.” I dart a glance over my shoulder and I lean forward. “He watches me.”
“Oh.” The deliveryman widens his eyes and I smother my grin. “Have a good day, miss.” He casts a furtive glance at the door and practically runs to his truck.
I laugh softly as I hurry to my bedroom. I rip the tape off the box and open the cardboard folds. The package is from Blaine. His distinctive handwriting flows across a piece of white paper.
If you must wear something, nymph, wear something beautiful.
Blaine
“Very poetic,” I murmur. I raise the paper and breathe in. It smells of his cologne. I carefully transfer the note to the bed, not wishing to lose any of its scent.
I search through the thin white tissue paper and close my fingers around sinfully soft fabric. Is it a swimsuit? No, I extract a dainty white cotton bra. The cups resemble clamshells. The edges are scalloped and the ripples are fine, flat embroidery. The embroidery extends up the ribbon straps and around the band. Waves ripple. Water falls.
It is exquisite, a work of art. I blink back tears. And there’s more. Blaine has given me seven equally stunning panties, one
for every day of the week. Each pure white panty is unique, one of a kind, the sea being the common theme. They are all delectably soft.
I spend the rest of the day, all of the evening, and much of the night debating which panty to wear. I also stake out Blaine’s mansion. There’s no sign of life. No cars enter his stone-set driveway. No doors open. As darkness falls, the windows remain unlit.
Blaine will return home. He said he would.
I choose the panty most closely matching the bra. The cotton clamshell covers my mons as though the delicate garment was made for me. White satin ribbons caress my hips and disappear between my ass cheeks.
The bra fits as perfectly, hugging my slender curves. I skim my fingertips along the cups, the fabric barely covering my nipples, and I shiver, aroused and excited. I’m beautiful, feminine, desirable.
Blaine’s key is my only jewelry, the black ribbon accentuating the whiteness of the bra, the gold adding shine. I wrap the white robe around my body, slip my feet into the flip-flops and venture into the night.
I follow the siren call of the waterfall, unlocking the gate quickly, eager to see Blaine. The ground cover releases sweet scents as I walk toward the pool of clear blue water. Insects buzz around the lights.
“Blaine.” I stand before his empty chair and peer into the darkness. “Are you watching me?” I see nothing. No cigars glow. I breathe in. His cologne doesn’t fill my nostrils.
“I must be early.” I gaze up at the moon, struggling to control my disappointment. “Because he’ll be here. I trust him.” I don’t trust much in this crazy world but I do trust Blaine. If he says he’ll be home tonight, he’ll be home tonight.
Tires crunch on stone. A door opens and slams shuts. I turn toward the noise, hope lifting my heart. Hinges creak. A cologne I smell in my dreams wafts on the night breeze.
“Blaine.”
“You’re overdressed, nymph.” Blaine is wearing his usual black suit and white shirt but both are uncharacteristically wrinkled. His charcoal gray tie has been loosened. There are dark circles under his brilliant green eyes and his black hair is mussed.
