by Sadie Rabbit
∞
Olivia rang her friend’s doorbell. Almost as soon as she did, Charlotte was there grabbing her wrist and pulling her inside. Her friend looked giddy.
“First of all, let me just say that your husband’s email password is ‘Lovelyboy69,’” Charlotte said.
“Gross,” Olivia said.
“I know, right?”
They sat side-by-side on the couch, Charlotte with her computer splayed out on her lap.
“Mike’s not going to be able to tell we’re snooping around his inbox, is he?” Olivia asked.
“What sort of spy would I be if I got us caught that easily?” Charlotte asked. “I’ve only been looking at messages he’s already opened. And, I really wanted to find something damning that happened before the Hawaii trip, so I was looking at older messages. I was about to give up when I found this.”
Olivia watched as Charlotte clicked on Mike’s “work” folder. Then, she clicked the “appointments” subfolder and the “business archive” folder below that.
“He buried everything in here,” Charlotte said.
Olivia covered her mouth when she saw the subject line on one of the messages: “Can’t wait to put my mouth on your prick,” it read.
“It’s from last summer, and it’s from a guy,” Charlotte said.
Olivia couldn’t breathe. She crossed her arms over her chest and tucked her hands in her armpits to hide her shaking hands.
“I found more than 40 ‘appointments’ that Mike set with this guy Jude last year,” Charlotte said, handing a manila folder to Olivia. “I printed them out. Your attorney should have a field day with them.”
Olivia couldn’t say anything. That bastard, she kept thinking. That son of a bitch. She tried to count all the times she’d had sex with her husband over the past year, and she shuddered to think they may have done it on the same night he was out with another man — another man!
“He was holding an email exchange and some MP3s over my head, and the whole time he was cheating on me,” Olivia said. “I’m going to kill him.”
“No you’re not,” Charlotte said. “You’re going to get a fair divorce.”
∞
Twelve sleepless hours later, the sun rose over Oakwood, and Thomas had finally finished a new sex whisper for Olivia. I’ve got to get this to her, he thought. There was just one problem: he didn’t know where she lived anymore. He did know a way to find out, though. He’d been a reporter once, and reporters know how to dig up information.
He stood and peered through a slit in the blinds. A Lincoln Towncar with black-tinted windows sat there waiting. I really am being followed.
Thomas put on a jacket and slipped out the back door of his apartment. He grabbed his bicycle and jogged beside it in the grass. Once he reached an adjacent street, he hopped on the bike and started pedaling toward the Post Office.
“I’d like to open a P.O. Box,” he told the clerk.
She was a chunky woman with long brown hair that hung past her belt. She handed him a form and pointed to a nearby counter. He filled out the information, paid for the box and noted his new mailing address. Thomas couldn’t risk sending a letter to Olivia at her old address and hoping it got forwarded. They might send it to her old house anyway, and her husband might see it. He could, however, send her a fake postcard from some random person with his P.O. Box as the return address. So long as he wrote “Address Service Request” on the postcard, the post office would forward him Olivia’s new address. Address Service Requests cost money, but the fee is minimal.
He stamped the postcard, scribbled out a thank you message and signed it with an unreadable signature. Then, he tossed it in the outgoing mailbox. I’ll find you eventually, he thought.
∞
Mr. Albion’s eyes opened wide and his moustache twitched as he read through the first of the emails in Olivia’s manila folder. The attorney closed the folder.
“First, might I inquire how these printouts entered your possession?” he asked.
Olivia had practiced the lie several times with Charlotte.
“I’ve actually known Mike’s email password for a while,” Olivia said, “but it never occurred to me to do any snooping in his messages. One of my friends talked me into it, and we found those messages buried in one of his folders.”
“This is most interesting and quite unorthodox,” Mr. Albion said. “Were you already separated from your husband at the time you accessed these messages?”
“Yes,” Olivia said. “I had no idea he was having an affair — especially not one with another man. Although, looking back, it’s starting to feel like the signs were there all along.”
“I see,” Mr. Albion said. “Yes, indeed, I see. And I must regretfully inform you that we can’t use these particular messages in a court of law.”
Olivia felt a tightness in her chest.
“However,” he said, “I don’t see any reason why we can’t intimate that we have certain information about an inappropriate male relationship in your husband’s past. Of course, they’ll request proof, but we’ll get the wheels turning, so to speak, in your husband’s mind. And, in the meantime, we can pass this information to our private detective who might be able to dig up some more concrete, legally permissible evidence of their relationship.”
“Do you think it’ll be enough to get me a fair divorce?” Olivia asked.
Mr. Albion shifted in his chair.
“I’m not in the business of giving forecasts or predictions,” he said, “but I’d say you’ve improved your chances considerably. There are numerous factors involved in judicial decisions, not the least of which...”
Mr. Albion droned on, but Olivia wasn’t listening. It wasn’t the money she wanted anymore — hell, she wouldn’t even need it if her gallery opening went well — it was the fact that Mike had made her live a lie, and then tried to leave her without a penny to her name. Charlotte was right: he needed to pay.
Chapter XVIII: Whisper 7: Business + Pleasure
The days were a whirlwind of unpacking, dealing with contractors and driving to Ikea. And, somehow in the process, the Cat Lady’s House started to feel like home. Olivia sat on the couch, laptop in lap, reading the Cincinnati Contemporary Arts Center’s description of her exhibit. The other Olivia wanted to call the show The Doors of Deception, but Olivia couldn’t get over how hokey that sounded. In the end, they agreed on Deceit, and the hotel was christened Hotel California. Fitting, right?
The description was grandiose:
Installation artist and photographer Olivia Hampton transforms the belly of the Cincinnati Contemporary Arts Center into a mysterious hotel; one that offers guests an evening at the Hotel California in her latest show, Deceit. One at a time, each hotel visitor will sign in at the front desk, get a key and be shuttled to a secret passageway where they can peer into private rooms to see what other guests are doing under the watchful eye of Ms. Hampton’s photographs.
“To be honest, we’ve never done anything like this before,” museum director Olivia Earnest says. “The experience is so visceral, so jarring that I don’t think you can leave without literally being changed in some small way.”
Altogether, the exhibit employs more than 30 performers and took 12 contractors 6 weeks to build. Admission is $18.
Olivia was forwarding the link to Charlotte when she heard a scratching noise in the kitchen. She froze, fingers hovering over her keyboard. After a few moments of silence, she stood and grabbed a heavy bookend off the shelf. It was a sculpture of Atlas holding a globe. Olivia tiptoed into the kitchen, the bookend out in front of her like a weapon.
She took a deep breath and flipped on the light. There was nothing there. Just an envelope on the floor that had been pushed under the back door.
What the hell?
She ran to the back door and cupped her hands around her eyes, peering through the glass. Nothing moved outside. She bent down to pick up the letter. Her name was written on the front in handwriting she did
n’t recognize. Shaken, she turned out the light, checked all the locks on the doors and tiptoed back to the living room to open the letter.
There wasn’t a return address. She tore the letter open carefully, and a handwritten note fell out.
Dear Olivia,
I’ve thought of little else but you these past few weeks. I know I’m not supposed to communicate with you, but that somehow makes it all the sweeter, doesn’t it? I wasn’t followed. I made sure of that.
I need to tell you two things:
First: I couldn’t go without writing you another whisper. I’ll print it out and tuck it in this envelope.
Second: about the package you retrieved for me. It came from my grandfather. He died when I was boy, but before he passed away, he told me I couldn’t open the package until I’d found my one true love. I know we don’t know each other well, but I also know I’ve never been so taken by a woman. With you going to Hawaii and staying so close to my grandmother, it felt like a sign, so I asked you to pick up the package. I wish I could solve the mystery for you; tell you what was inside, but unfortunately, it was just another unanswered question. The package contained a key to a safe deposit box. My grandfather said I should open it with my one true love at my side. Someday, perhaps that woman will be you?
Your Faithful Servant,
Thomas
Olivia smiled.
One true love? She definitely wasn’t ready to call Thomas that, but she had to admit she’d thought about him more than her divorce. The thought of being with Thomas had kept her moving forward when others might have dwelled on their pasts. It kept the pain of the divorce at bay. It dulled Mike’s infidelity, his betrayals, and it filled her with a hope she hadn’t felt in years.
She unfolded Thomas’s whisper and began to read. She could hear his voice in her mind as she read the words:
I know that I can’t contact you.
But what if I contact you under the guise of someone else? Since you’re a photographer, I decide I’ll pose as a potential client. I create a fake email address: [email protected]. I send you an email, tell you that I need a portrait taken at my Dayton office. I offer to pay well, and you agree.
Of course, I’m not an executive. I’m a former reporter scraping by writing stories, sex whispers, poetry and freelance articles. I don’t even have an office. So I find a place in Beavercreek where I can rent a room. It’s a shared office building. Lots of small business owners rent space there. They share printers, phones and wi-fi connections.
I reserve an office in the corner for an hour; a room with a view. I buy myself a suit. I shave, gel my hair and put on cologne. Even I don’t recognize myself in the mirror.
When you arrive, I have trouble breathing. You’re stunning. A smart beige skirt. A white blouse. Your hair in a bun held up with chopsticks. You carry your equipment in rolling crates.
“Thomas,” you whisper.
“Trouble recognizing me?” I ask, smiling.
“You look delectable,” you say. Then, a dark cloud passes over your face. “Were you followed?”
“I made sure I wasn’t,” I say. “I snuck out my window and hailed a cab.” I shut the door behind you.
“I’m not sure we should be meeting like this,” you say. “What if my husband finds out? There are people everywhere in this building.”
“You’re a photographer. I’m a businessman. Why should they suspect anything strange? Besides, I’ve booked you for an hour. I don’t think you have a choice in the matter.”
You smile wickedly.
I point at your equipment.
“Are you going to get to work?” I ask.
You move to your camera case, and begin unloading lenses, camera bodies and flashes. I take off my jacket. Already, I can feel myself stiffening in my trousers. I sit on the front of the desk, and you photograph me from near the door. At first, I leave my jacket slung over my shoulder. Click.
I lay it on the chair beside me and begin to loosen my tie. Click.
I unbutton my shirt and toss it aside. Soon, I’m sitting before you in a muscle tee. Click. I kick off my shoes and unbuckle my pants. My cock thickens in my boxer briefs. I pull down my pants. I’m in my underwear now, my hardness bulging for the camera. I feel more vulnerable than I thought I would, but part of me loves showing myself to you.
I pull up one of the leg holes on my boxer briefs. Then, I reach in with my other hand and pull out my balls. They hang there heavily beside my thigh. Click. Get closer, I say. You approach and kneel in front of me, camera near my crotch. Click. You skirt is bunched up, and I can see your thighs. Click. My cock gets even harder.
I tuck my balls back in my boxer shorts and take off my muscle shirt. It’s cold in the office, but I hardly notice. You photograph my chest. I pull you close, and slide a hand up your skirt. I pull off your panties and you step aside, leaving them on the floor.
Sitting there on the edge of the desk, I reach through the hole in my boxer briefs and pull out my cock and balls. Click. You keep taking pictures. You zoom in on my cock. It moves with each beat of my heart. Click.
You photograph all of me: the thick, folded skin of my balls. I grab your left hand and place it on the base of my cock. Click. You’re still shooting pictures with your right hand. I wrap my hand around yours, then I squeeze hard. The shaft and head of my cock above swell up and darken.
I let out a soft, low moan of desire. Click. Then, I squeeze your hand even harder, and my cock grows bigger yet. Impossibly big.
“Stroke me,” I say.
You start moving up and down with your hand. I already feel like I could come, so I stop you. I want to be inside of you. I want to fill you up.
“Set your camera up on your tripod,” I say.
You do what I say. You point the camera at me, then use a remote-controlled shutter. It lets you take pictures with a click of a button even when you’re ten feet from the camera.
When you reach me, I spin you around so your back is to me, your face toward the camera. I pull your skirt up over your hips and lift you onto my lap. I’m not inside you yet. I want to touch you first. I spread your legs apart and press my palm against your sex. Click.
I can feel your dampness. Click.
I push my middle finger inside your sex. You shift your hips, so I can go deeper inside. My cock throbs against your back. Click.
You begin to moan softly. I slip a finger from my other hand into your mouth, and you suck it. Click. “I want you,” I whisper.
I reach down between your legs and pull my cock out so that it’s standing hard in front of your sex. Click. Then, I grab my dick at the base and gently slap the shaft and head against your clit. Click.
I slap myself against you again and again until you moan softly. Then, you reach down and guide me toward your opening. We hold our breath as I work my way slowly inside you. Click.
I reach down to your sex and spread it open with my hand. Then, I’m in as deep as I can go. Click. You’re so warm and soft. I like the feel of your ass cheeks on the tops of my thighs. You begin sliding back and forth on top of me. Click. We’re moving slow and deep. I can feel my cock bending to go inside of you. Your sex feels like a tight fist, squeezing me, refusing to let me go. Click.
With your free hand, you reach down and grab my balls. You yank on them hard, pulling them up toward your sex. Click. The feeling makes me hornier. I grab you by the hips and pull you onto me faster and faster.
You moan more loudly now. I take one hand off your hip and reach for your sex. I slip a finger inside of you so it’s there beside my cock. Click. You squeeze your eyes shut and open your mouth wide. I can tell you’re about to come. Click.
I grab your thighs and pull them together, so you’re squeezing your sex even tighter around my cock. You let out a loud, long moan. I cover your mouth with my hand, afraid for the first time that someone will hear us. But I don’t stop pushing myself into you.
Your body begins to quiver, and I’m overcome with
passion. I thrust myself forward faster and faster. You drop the clicker for the camera and reach one hand around to my balls. You squeeze them together and hold onto them like a handle as I go into you again and again.
Then, you release my balls and squeeze the base of my cock. I can feel myself get bigger inside of you. You keep a grip on me even as I go faster and faster.
“Come,” you whisper into my ear. “Come, baby.”
It starts softly at first, a burning in my thighs. Then, it erupts forth and I kick my legs out straight, my hips spasm as I fill your sex with my desire. There’s so much of it that it slides out and down onto my balls and my thighs, but I just push myself deeper in and hold you there.
We kiss passionately. I don’t know how long — only that it’s not long enough.
When you stand, it’s on unsteady legs. You grab a lens-cleaning cloth from your bag. Then, you kneel in front of me and use it to clean my cock, balls and thighs. When you’re done, you kiss me, first at the base of my cock, then the shaft. Then, you put my head in your mouth and suck so hard it hurts. You pull your mouth off my cock with a loud sucking sound.
“Your hour’s up, Romeo,” you say.
I smile. “I think I’d like to schedule another.”
Chapter XIX: An Equitable End
Olivia wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but she reread Thomas’s latest whisper alone in the bathtub — and it was more than just a normal bath. She was relaxing, eyes closed with her head against a waterproof pillow, when her cellphone rang on the vanity.
Dammit, she thought as she scurried out the tub, wrapping a towel around herself.
“Olivia,” her attorney said on the other end, “it’s Mr. Albion, your attorney.”
