by Heidi Lowe
How long are you going to keep me waiting before you let me eat you out again? You know how impatient I am.
The phone is shaking in my hand, my heart is slamming against my chest. I read the message over and over again, unable to move. I close it when I hear Faye approaching down the hall, and return the phone to the nightstand.
“Your cheeks are flushed. You okay?” she asks as she hands me my water.
I fan myself, pretending to be hot. “Just overheated.” Well, that's technically true; I am hot, boiling hot, but only in one place. If I don't do something about it, I feel like I might lose my mind.
Faye barely gets to sip her water before I take it from her unsuspecting hands and place it, along with mine, on her nightstand.
“Honey, what are you–”
I start kissing her forcefully, while trying to pull off her nightshirt.
“Nik, not tonight, I'm beat,” she says through my kisses.
I pretend I don't hear her at first, knowing that sometimes when she says this what she really means is she wants me to do all the work. But when I feel her hands on my chest, lightly pushing me back as my tongue is down her throat, I know she's not into it.
“It's been a long day,” she explains once I settle back down.
“I don't know what I was thinking.” I kiss her on the cheek, and within seconds the lamps are out and we've settled down to sleep.
It doesn't take long for her to fall asleep – it never does. But me, I lie awake in the dark, embittered and uncomfortable because my panties are soaked and I couldn't get my release. It's a fate worse than death, being left in this state.
After half an hour or more of tossing and turning, resenting the ground Angel walks on, I can't take it anymore. She got me into this mess, I think as I snatch my phone up and hasten from my room, so she should be the one to get me out of it. I tiptoe across the hall to the bathroom, then lock the door behind me.
She's probably lying in bed, beside my father, ready to get a good night's sleep knowing that she's deprived me of mine. Well I won't let her. As I hit call on her number, I'm not thinking about the risks involved in doing what I'm about to do. My actions are desire-driven; my vagina is doing the thinking.
The phone rings for several seconds, and I'm about to give up, resigning myself to the fact that I might have to see myself through this without her help, when she picks up.
“Wow, a phone call. I wasn't expecting that.” Her voice is smoky, as though I've just woken her; but there's definitely a hint of laughter in it.
“Don't give me that crap. You knew exactly what would happen when you sent that message.”
“I think I underestimated the power of the written word.” Her voice is hushed; my father must be nearby.
I'm so furious and horny that I can't even produce words. How will I bring myself to ask – no, demand – what I want from her?
“What can I do for you tonight?” she says, and there's that spiteful laugh I know so well. “I'm guessing you've snuck off somewhere nice and quiet and private, huh?”
I run the shower so that at least some of my conversation will be obscured should my wife wake up. Then I sit on the toilet seat.
“I can't sleep thanks to you. You're going to put that right.”
“Oh yeah? How do you propose I do that? You're all the way over there, and I'm all the way over here...with no panties on, as it happens.”
That's probably a lie, if she's at my father's house, but the image is firmly planted in my mind. I slip my free hand into my panties, into the river of arousal.
“Do you like the sound of that, of me panty-less?”
“Yeah,” I breathe, starting a very slow strumming against my bean.
“What are you doing right now? Because it sounds like you're touching yourself, and I don't remember telling you you could.”
I immediately stop. The game has officially begun.
“I bet your fingers are all wet now, aren't they? You naughty girl! Next time you listen to me before you touch yourself there, you got that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now I want you to take those soaking wet fingers and touch your nipple. Can you do that for me, or will I have to spank you?”
“I can do it.” I snake my hand up my vest, seek out my breast, and do as she commanded.
“Are you doing it? Make it nice and hard for me. And when you're done with that one, do the same to the other. I want to see both nipples rock hard, shining and sticky with your sap.”
Her voice is dripping with sex. I can close my eyes and imagine her in the room with me, it's that real. And if I close them really hard, I can envision her doing these sordid things to me.
“They're both hard and wet now,” I whisper, my breathing erratic.
“Good girl. Mmm, I bet those fingers taste delicious. How about you taste one for me, let me know what I'm missing?”
I take my middle finger into my mouth, let her hear me lick off my residue. She lets out a contented sigh. “You sound like you're enjoying that. How does it taste?”
“Good,” I say.
“Is your finger nice and wet again? Because now I want you to take that moist finger and rub it against that stiff nub between your thighs. But slowly. I don't want you coming prematurely.”
I'm ready for this. When I return my fingers to my sex, I know I'll never be able to control myself the way she wants. But I try anyway, strumming my bean as slowly as I can manage.
“Gently, baby. I know you're tempted to rush, to come quickly, but don't. I won't be happy. I'll have to punish you.”
Using words like that while I'm touching myself is guaranteed to bring about the opposite of what she demands, but I suspect this is why she's said it. She wants to make it difficult for me, wants me to be driven crazy by my need to climax.
“I want you so wet I'll be able to hear you over the phone,” she murmurs. “Dripping all over yourself. That's how I like you. And keep that finger moving.”
I go at that pace until I can't any longer, and speed up without her permission. I'm glad she isn't here to reprimand me, or to do this herself, otherwise she would string me along forever, until I'm begging for my release.
“How does your bean feel now?”
I'm panting now, biting my bottom lip to hush my moans. “It feels great.”
“I bet it does. You can go a bit faster now. But I still don't want you to come. I'm not done with you yet. Not by a long shot.”
She doesn't know that I'm halfway there, and that if she keeps speaking, no matter what she says, I'm going to expire whether she permits it or not.
“Hearing you moan has made me wet now. Do you know where my hand is? Do you know what I'm doing?”
“You're touching yourself.”
“No, you're touching me. It's your hand gliding through this river between my legs. It's your fingers hitting and stroking my stiff nub.”
My moans are louder. I'm reaching the point of no return.
She lets out a husky, sex-filled little chuckle. “I think someone's about to come. What have I done?”
On her last word, I hit my peak with a loud groan. My body flops, the energy zapped from me, a huge weight seemingly lifted from my shoulders. I collapse back against the toilet cistern, the shower still running in the background.
“That was fun, wasn't it?” she says gleefully. “Hopefully you can sleep peacefully now that you got that out of your system.”
“I won't be able to sleep peacefully until I get you out of my system, for good.”
“You know that's never going to happen, right? And as fun as this was, it won't be enough. For me or for you. You'll want the real thing. So what are we going to do about that?”
“I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going back to bed, to curl up beside my wife and forget this ever happened.”
“Ouch! Now I just feel used.” She laughs, proving that she means none of that.
“Goodnight, goodbye, and good riddance.
”
“I prefer see you soon, because we both know I'll be seeing you very soon. Your own fingers won't suffice.”
I ring off because I'm tired of hearing the smirk in her tone. She's always fucking right. And she's right about this, too. My fingers won't suffice; neither will Faye's.
EIGHT
It might all be in my head, but since the day of the county fair, and the revelation that Angel is actually Angelique, Sandra has been side-eying me a lot more than usual lately. That was six weeks ago. I suppose I can't really blame her. It's what I deserve.
“You talked to your father yet?” she says one afternoon. It's her favorite question, asked at least twice a week, sometimes three times if I'm lucky.
“No.” I don't even look up from my papers. It's been a busy few weeks, and there seems to be more paperwork than ever all of a sudden. Business is booming, though, so I can't complain. “Don't you ever get tired of asking me that?”
“I'll stop asking when you tell me something I want to hear. The wedding's just around the corner. What are you waiting for, their honeymoon?”
I ignore her like I usually do when she gets on my back about Angel. She can be so judgmental sometimes.
“I get the whole not wanting to hurt his feelings and everything, but this is pretty sick.”
She doesn't know the half of it.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Nope.”
“That's 'cause you know you're in the wrong by keeping shtum. You go all silent like that when you're up to no good.”
I'm relieved when my phone buzzes and a new text comes through. I've been eagerly awaiting it, and waste no time opening it. Usually she sends them around eleven, so that I'm ready by lunchtime. Today's one is late.
“You're blushing. What does it say today?” Sandra tries to lean over the desk and read, but to no avail. She's too far away, and I move the phone anyway. I could never risk her seeing this; could never risk anyone seeing it. Or any of the two dozen others, which I promptly deleted several minutes after they came in.
“Do I ask to read your messages?” I say, acting coy.
“That's because mine don't make me blush like that, and smile like someone's just promised to do naughty things to me.”
She's so spot on it's as if she can read my mind, can see the text in all its naughty glory.
“It's nothing like that.” It's everything like that! I'm getting so used to this lying thing that it's getting easier and easier to sound truthful. And for the past six weeks it's been one lie after another; new lies to cover up old ones. I'm starting to forget what the truth is.
“Then show me, if it's all innocent.”
I shake my head. “I don't think my wife would approve of you reading her private message to me.”
She narrows her eyes at me, folds her arms but says nothing. She doesn't buy it, and she's right not to. If she were to read it she would see the unsaved number, and the explicit nature of the message, which could never come from someone has classy as Faye.
I read the message once more, smile to myself, each word thrilling me. Thus far she's used a different word for my vagina in every message for the last six weeks, no repeats. I thought she would have run out by now; some of them I've never heard before, and only know what they are from the context. Each message details what she's going to do to me, and it, when she sees me. That's my cue.
I reach for my car keys. Before I can open my mouth to speak, Sandra cuts in. “Eating out again for lunch?” she asks, giving me a dubious look.
She doesn't know how right she is! “Yes. I'll be back in an hour.”
“Sure. Whatever.” She waves me away dismissively.
This is how it's been the past few weeks. I get the text, pretend that it means nothing, then five minutes later take off for “lunch”, acting like my exit isn't connected to the message.
Just as I'm about to head out, she stops me. “You know I have to ask you, Nikki. I don't want to, but you're being dodgy as hell lately, so I gotta.” She has a grave expression on her face, like she's about to tell me someone close to me has died. Instantly I know that she knows. Perhaps not the full story, but she knows I'm being unfaithful. Call it a best friend's intuition.
“Don't ask a question you're not going to like the answer to,” I warn.
She just stares at me, with a look that tells me I've gone down in her estimations. It's heartbreaking to see – to feel – but I'm on this journey now, in too deep, and I can't back out.
“I'm not okay with it, whatever it is. Just know that.” She turns away, back to her computer screen, and leaves me feeling like crap.
My head has been between Angel's soft, naturally tanned thighs for at least twenty minutes. My tongue has been working overtime and then some, and feels like it will fall off. Beneath me she writhes about, massaging at her own breasts over her T-shirt, while howling like a banshee. My feet keep kicking the door handle of the back passenger seat, and I'm afraid it will swing open and expose my bare butt to the underground parking lot.
It's cramped back here, and I'm aching all over. We've been meaning to get a bigger car, obviously not for these activities. I had to move Emily's booster seat to the trunk to make all of this possible.
“Oh, God, fuck!” she moans, her writhing becoming more violent. “Oh, right there, right fucking there!”
She's been screaming that pretty much since I started, but she still hasn't reached climax. I've never wanted someone to come so much in all my life, if only so I can relieve the strain on my back and neck. Cars were not designed for this sort of thing.
“That was wonderful,” she says when it's all over, and she's coming down from her high. I lie on top of her, both of us naked from the waist down.
“I think I've strained my neck. Ten years ago I could have lasted hours in that position. I'm not as young as I once was.”
She laughs tiredly. “You've gotten better with age.”
We lie this way for awhile without feeling the need to speak. It took two weeks to get to this point, where I could finally let down my walls and stop treating her like some enchantress who forced me into this. It feels so good to not hate her anymore, to enjoy her the way I used to.
Then I ruin the mood, bringing us both back to Earth. I glimpse the clock on the dashboard. “I have to head back. I said I would only be gone an hour. I'm already late.”
“You're your own boss. Stay awhile longer.”
“I can't.” I sit up so that I can see her. Her beauty is unreal; and looking at her below me, slightly flushed from sex, almost glowing, I want to kiss her and never cease. When I do kiss her I'm tempted to do as she says and stay longer. Pulling myself away from her was always my weak point. “I'm going to regret not staying.”
We collect our clothes up and dress awkwardly, hitting and kicking seats and doors. It's like being back in high school, senior year.
“I wanna see you this weekend,” she says. “I've found a nice, quiet little spa hotel an hour outside of town. I want you to come with me.”
The idea of spending a whole weekend with her, uninterrupted, scares me. Not that I don't long to be alone with her for more than an hour here and there, but because this would make it all real. A real affair, where everything's premeditated, and I have to lie to my wife about where I'm going.
“You know I can't do that, Angel.”
“I don't know that.”
She's going to make this as difficult as she can for me. I sigh. “Stealing away for an hour on my lunch break is one thing; going away with you for a weekend is another. That's...that's...”
“Cheating. It's still the same thing, just in a different setting.” She licks my neck before kissing it. “And we'll be undisturbed for forty-eight whole hours... Doesn't that sound nice?”
It sounds terrific, but that's not the point. So far I've been able to keep my untruths to a minimum with Faye; this would be stepping into new, dangerous territory. But I look at those soft, full
red lips, and those perfectly pert breasts that are screaming to be caressed, and I'm finding no valid reasons to say no to her.
“I'm not promising anything,” I say, dragging my eyes away from temptation. I'd agree to giving my soul to her at this point. I'm hardly in the best position to be making a big decision like this.
She rewards me with a kiss that is as sweet as it is sensual, and I never want it to end. But it has to, and so does our little rendezvous.
After I drop her back to the salon, I spend the remainder of the day mentally weighing up the pros and cons of the weekend getaway. I have to say, the pros far outweigh the cons...
All through dinner I'm quiet. My head isn't in it. Neither is my heart. I nod and say the right things when Faye tells me about her day. Emily sings the latest song she's learned in nursery, Old MacDonald, and I'm too distracted to correct her when she screws it up. Angel might not be there in person, but she's there in spirit, and she's occupying all of my thoughts.
“Where were you this evening?” Faye asks as she pulls the covers back and joins me in bed that night.
“What do you mean?” I climb out of my clothes while she watches me.
“You didn't say much at dinner, or since you came home from work. Is everything all right?”
“Sometimes I don't feel like talking, Faye. Doesn't mean there's anything wrong.” I regret my impatient tone as soon as I hear it. Stupid. If I snap like this, of course she'll think something's up.
“Sorry I asked,” she says, holding up both hands in mock surrender.
The silence is thick and loud in the room. I feel her eyes on me, though I'm not looking in her direction. If I look at her I won't have the balls to lie, and I'll end up fucking it up.
“This weekend, I'm going to meet a potential client out of town.” That's it, keep it simple and there will be less to remember.
“All weekend? You've never done that for any of your other clients. This must be a big fish.”
“Yeah, he is. Lots of interest in this product already. Bagging him would take our little company to a whole new level.”
