by Alexis Angel
The young w…the woman staring down the corridor turns her head to me.
“Excuse me?”
“Sigh. I apologize, dear. Things have been quite...lively around here lately. I’m sure I’ve seen you around here before. How good to see a familiar face!”
Maybe-Emilia, who I have seen around the Bradford lobby before, is now looking me up and down—and trying to suppress a laugh.
“Are you in character for a play or something? Tony and Tina’s Wedding or some kinda shit like that?”
“Oh…no, is that what was happening earlier out here?”
“Uh, no. I was just having a fi—an argument with this guy…I’m not even sure what it’s about anymore. I can’t help but assume that it’s always gonna be bullshit, you know? Like, I can’t let myself keep falling for the same old…”
“It’s not part of the pajama thing, then?”
Emilia can’t suppress her laughter anymore. “Lady, I appreciate the laugh right now. Good luck with your play or whatever.”
I’m not sure what that means, but I think it means I can close the door without being too rude. Which is exactly what I do.
“She’s the one doing the performance thing, right?” I ask Thomas.
“I’m quite confident that was real and also that you just slammed the door in her face. But, hey, what the fuck do I know?”
The smile sneaks up on me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from grinning, feeling the mischief spread across my face. That roguish feeling is taking over me entirely when I turn to my husband, a bit amused himself with my behavior.
“So, Thomas, as the French say, are we going to go into the other fucking room or not?”
“It’s quiet now. We can talk here.”
“Can we, smart guy?”
“Now you think I’m smart?”
“Not smart enough to spot sarcasm…”
“You know our martinis are still waiting for us, right? Why don’t we make that Step One?”
There’s that feeling of mischief again. It’s like it’s in the air, and it has us both captured. It’s clear in Thomas’s smile—and I’m sure in mine, as well.
“Step One in what? Towards what?”
My curiosity is, admittedly, overwhelming—to the point I may be running a slight temperature.
Is that a normal symptom of curiosity? No wonder it’s so dangerous to felines.
Yet my husband’s refusing to indulge my question. Silently, he takes a single step towards me.
That isn’t helping to solve my curiosity one bit. In fact, my feverishness is suddenly getting worse.
“Goddammit, Thomas.”
Out of frustration, I grab that smiling face of his and pull it towards me, not stopping until my lips are softly touching his ear.
“Don’t like answering questions, do you?” I whisper, before giving his earlobe a firm little bite.
And my husband still doesn’t answer the question. All he does is lean down slightly to adorn my neck with slow, lingering kisses. Thomas is holding both my arms as his lips float up towards mine, and we spend a lengthy few moments returning to where we were before the last hallway interruption.
My curiosity-induced fever is at an all-time high by the time we stop, but I don’t feel ill in the least.
“To answer your question,” Thomas whispers, at long last, “I don’t know. But I’d like to find out. Wouldn’t you?”
“I think so, Thomas. I think so.”
“Our cocktails await, my love.”
“And your olives…”
“Oh! How could I forget?”
Thomas lets go of me and makes a beeline back towards the bar.
“I’m quite pleased to learn how olives still interest you above everything, and I do mean everything else.”
To be fair and honest, I’m very much looking forward to returning to my own drink as well as I drift to the bar.
“I’m smart enough to spot that sarcasm, my love. Or am I?”
My feverishness recedes, and a sense of comfort washes over me as we retake our usual spots at the bar.
“Are you asking about the nature of my comment?” I ask, picking up my martini glass by its stem.
“If I were, what would you say?”
My drink is still nicely chilled as I take a sip. So much is happening in such a short time.
“I suppose I was being straightforward, Thomas. I do enjoy your quirks, and I’m always finding new ones.”
Thomas demolishes the last of his olives in one bite.
“Good to know I’m not a bore.”
“Ohhhh—I didn’t say that.”
My husband startles me, again, by letting out a few forceful coughs before gulping down everything that remains in his glass.
“I just choked on my fucking olives. That’s not boring, I hope.”
“No. Nothing you do is boring to me.”
“But that’s not what you just said, dearest.”
“What can I say? I think what I think, but sometimes...”
“Sometimes you think I’m boring?”
“Sometimes shit just comes out all fucking weird when I try to say it.”
Thomas drops his empty glass. It shatters on the Brazilian walnut floor.
And he stares at me, wordlessly.
“That’s…that’s my favorite thing you’ve ever said.”
“Really? That?”
“I’m in love with you.”
“I should hope so.”
“And I’m tired of being a bore, so...”
“Okay…wait. Do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m ready to try some new ways of expressing it. You’ve still got that leather overnight bag, right? What were you keeping in there, again?”
“Let’s go to the other fucking room already.”
Thomas
So that’s what I was fucking afraid of this whole time?
“That’s from Bloomingdale’s, right?”
Margarita’s walking out of the walk-in closet, smiling in a way I never see her smile. Her pale, hazel eyes are focused on mine even more penetratingly than they were in the wood flooring in the living room earlier.
“It’s the only place you can get a Pan Am bag these days.”
Yes, that’s what my wife is carrying, and the thing I was afraid of. A blue leather bag.
With the logo of the defunct airline on it. From a fucking department store.
Of course, I’m not sure what’s inside the bag.
Margarita’s tried to tell me once or twice, but…
“I’m ready,” I announce aloud.
“You fucking better be. I didn’t reach up and grab this shit from the top shelf for nothing.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, my heart rate feels like it’s starting to get a bit…swifter than usual. And my ol’ ticker really shoots up towards the stars when Margarita drops the bag on the floor with a weighty thump.
It’s a thump that means something, and I’m about to find out what.
“Seriously, Thomas, that cardigan’s getting frizzy. Take it off.”
Look, it’s a comfortable fucking sweater. The last thing I thought I’d be doing at this point in the evening is…
Fuck that shit. My hands can’t move fast enough to tear the cardigan off my shoulders. I’m starting on the buttons of my dress shirt when I hear a zip. Margarita’s opening the bag, and her fiery grin is now focused downwards at whatever she’s grabbing through the open zipper.
My heart hastens, my mouth parches, my breathing becomes heavy and slow—and so does time for a moment. It’s like I’m watching a series of vivid, brilliantly colored still frames as Margarita’s hand emerges ever so slowly from the piece of luggage.
Holding a small, purple and white squeeze tube with a plastic cap.
“Is that...toothpaste?”
“I know you’re not joking, Thomas. But you’re not charmless, either. Why’d you stop undressing?”
With the mystery and the anticipation tearing me in
a thousand different directions, I finish slipping off my dress shirt, and I start pulling off my undershirt while Margarita opens the tube.
The second I pull the shirt up over my eyes, I hear a couple rapid footsteps then the sudden sensation of greedy, eager hands pushing me down onto the mattress. There’s the feeling a warm balm of some sort being voraciously rubbed into my chest with one hand, while another grasps the top of my shirt and rips it off my arms.
The first thing I see once my shirt is off is Margarita’s hands—both of them now—massaging a violet gel across the muscular expanse of my chest, moving up towards my shoulders.
“I’m confused, is it toothpaste or not?”
“It’s concord fucking grape flavored, okay?”
“That doesn’t answer the...”
The feel of Margarita’s teeth digging lightly into my shoulder, followed by her tongue and her lips polishing off all the gel she left there, is enough to stop my words in their path.
“It’s edible massage gel,” I hear her voice snarl softly into my ear. “I mean…fucking hell, dude.”
Those wonderful words are followed by Margarita’s teeth grazing my earlobe once again, leading seamlessly into the tip of her tongue sliding slowly down the side of my neck, returning down to my shoulder, and ending its journey on the border of my sculpted fucking pecs.
The tip of her tongue, providing a riling sensation like a trail of carnal fire in its wake, becomes the side of her tongue as Margarita moves across my chest slowly. Her tongue maneuvers in ways that are both twisting and twisted in their ability to send my mind and my soul into paroxysms of excitement and desire.
“Yeah, you’re so fucking good at licking up that fucking gel.”
That’s my voice, but…yeah, that’s me saying that. There’s no fucking script anymore, though. This shit is coming from the pure, ferocious nature of the moment.
“My fucking cock is so fucking ready for you.”
“Okay, Thomas,” she’s doing that French thing again, “plenty of gel left in the tube.”
“Holy fucking shit! How did we just let that bag sit in the closet for so looooonngggggg…”
The word turns into a deep earthquake of a moan as Margarita reaches right into the waistline of my trousers and grabs my stiff, throbbing shaft with a firm fucking grip.
Really fucking firm.
“Fuck, fucking squeeze that shit.”
“Oh, you fucking like that, huh? You sure you can handle what I can do with some concord fucking grape flavored gel down there?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care if I lose my mind, or I just fucking die from the intensity. It’s all I fucking want in life right now or maybe ever fucking again.”
“You fucking asked for it, then.”
Margarita tears my belt from its loops faster than I ever thought it could be fucking done. And she doesn’t just tear my trousers off…
She fucking tears them in half.
And, at some point, she got a massive glob of the massage gel in her hand—which she proceeds to slather roughly over every part of my fucking cock.
“Arghhh!”
It’s so fucking intense—it feels like my brain’s about to short fucking circuit.
“I fucking told you,” hisses Margarita.
When her tongue starts gliding unevenly around my shaft, I can hear myself yelling again, but all I can feel is the tremendous fucking intensity of pleasure flowing around my lower half, around all of me.
My mind goes in and out of blankness, but during my more lucid moments, all I can think about is how I’m going to return this pleasure—and then some.
Margarita
Breathless, flushed with that new, feverish feeling running through me like the Bethesda goddamn Fountain—this feels like the end of one story and the beginning of another.
Part of me wants to think the story that ends now began at a little store—an ‘adult entertainment store’ as they call it—on Second Avenue.
I can’t remember what drove me there that day, although I do remember I was wearing a silk scarf around my head and big Oliver Goldsmith sunglasses in case any nosyparkers—like that goddamn Patricia Sherman upstairs—were snooping around the block for whatever goddamn reason.
Woman behind the counter assured me that there was no expiration date.
Trying to catch my breath on the lip of our bed, a couple years later at this point, I’m optimistic about the way that story is about to end.
I’m not going to say I’m satisfied—not yet—but that’s what I’m optimistic about.
“What else is in the bag?”
Thomas’s voice is still slightly weak, but it’s regaining strength.
His cock is as purple, rigid, and engorged with excitement as ever.
“Why don’t you go take a look? Feet don’t work?”
Thomas sits up at last, and his strong, sizable hands begin wrapping softly around my shoulders.
“I’d rather do it myself.”
“Do what yourself?”
“Give you the fuck of a fucking lifetime.”
“We’ve still got to turn up the heat a few degrees before that.”
Thomas starts nudging the thermostat immediately. His lips fall gently just above my shoulder, just above the top of my shawl.
His kisses begin just as gently, maybe even more than that, to the point I can barely feel a thing.
They pick up in roughness, though, and I sense an untamed and uncontrollable animal in him as he kisses around the bottom of my neck—and tears off my shawl.
Both of us are breathing heavy enough to create an orchestra of overstimulated panting as our two sets of hands work together to take off my blouse, then my bra.
“Ohhhhhhhh.”
Thomas’s roughness reaches a crescendo of sorts as his hungry kisses reach the top of my tits. Each landing of his lips starts to soften as moves his way down my left tit, closer to the nipple.
Before he reaches the outer edge of my areola, he stops.
My fingers curl around the surface of our comforter, and my toes start to curl subtly, too.
Thomas repeats the routine with my right tit, this time getting even more gentle, getting even slower until he stops.
“Fuck, Thomas, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
Thomas takes my nipple softly into his mouth as he reaches into my long silk skirt.
“You’re so fucking wet, aren’t you?”
He’s hovering just above my tits now, and his hand is just close enough to my cunt to feel how fucking soaked it is.
“Yes, I’m so fucking wet, so stop talking about and do something about it.”
As Thomas’s hand slides up towards my panties, his entire body slides up as well, and he takes my left shoulder into his mouth—tonguing it and sucking on it like I did with his.
“Fuck, we need more fucking massage oil.”
Thomas doesn’t destroy my skirt like I did to his pants, but he does deftly and efficiently get it off my legs and onto the floor.
The feel of his head, floating somewhere so painfully close to my pussy, nearly sends me into some sort of hysteric convulsions.
My husband, for the first time that I can remember, takes the waist of my panties into his teeth, and pulls them down with his mouth like a hungry, wild wolf.
Thomas’s tongue is soon paying gradual and deliberate attention to every nuance of my insistently tingling pussy.
As waves of bliss crash through me and the tide of my ecstasy starts to come in, Thomas’s lips get in on the action.
My hands slam against the top of the mattress, and my feet kick with a powerful climax.
Thomas leans back only slightly as I squirt like a geyser, and he begins climbing on top of me before the orgasm’s even finished.
That initial high-water mark of gratification blends and fades into the rising heat and ineffable pleasure of Thomas’s huge cock starting to slide into me.
“Oof. Oh, holy fuckin
g Chrrrrriiiiiiiiist.”
Thomas’s face appears above me, an unquenchable fire in his eyes as he slips in further.
The focus in his eyes starts draining as the pleasure just mounts and fucking mounts.
The tide is already coming to another high mark.
Closing my eyes for a second, I let it build. And build.
Fuck.
I’ve never felt like this.
That’s what I want to say, but I can’t.
I can’t speak a fucking word.
We’re just letting that tide come in together as it just mounts and fucking mounts.
My body shudders only slightly with the next orgasm, although it’s even more powerful than the last.
And I’m still rendered speechless as we keep building after that.
With my next orgasm, Thomas comes as well, and the world is set on fire with brilliant, white flames around us.
We hold each other as the beautiful light of our lovemaking fades into an ethereal glow.
“Next time,” Thomas whispers, “we’ll see what else is in the bag.”
“Oh, you just wait. That was only the beginning.”
Alexis and WineBar #5
But there were problems with me and WineBar.
He made my head spin.
Half the time it was in ecstasy.
But the other half?
Rage.
He wasn’t my boyfriend. He didn’t do relationships.
He made that explicitly clear.
I kept my dignity. I told him I was a modern sort of woman. I didn’t need relationships either.
We were just enjoying each other.
We respected each other.
It was just fun.
That’s what we both said.
Until I saw him in his bar.
It was brunch and he was behind the counter and some skank who had too many Bellinis leaned over the counter and tried to kiss him.
He moved his mouth so she got his cheek instead of his lips.
I was fuming.
When he picked me up for dinner that night, he could tell something was the matter.
We fought.
“What the fuck do you want from us?” he shouted.
“What do you fucking think?” I yelled back.
