by Неизвестный
I didn’t want to look like a Real Housewife.
I didn’t want to look obvious.
I didn’t consciously process at least one of those things.
In an effort not to startle her, I heaved on the sliding glass door with more effort than usual, letting the bang when it opened alert her to my presence.
She turned, smiled. Oh, thank goodness, she really wasn’t a Hollywood cliché. Perfectionism is boring. She had a slight overbite (which made me want to suck on her upper lip) and small, unenhanced breasts (unlike me, she didn’t need to wear a bra, mmm) and curvy hips (okay, I’d noticed those before) to go along with her athletic thighs.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Annette. The homeowner.” I stuck out my hand.
“Oh, hi!” she said, closing my fingers in a firm grip. “I’m Star. I’m—Joe’s my dad.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, mostly. He’s having a hip replacement.” Star leaned casually on the pool skimmer. “He’s been talking about passing on the business, so I’ve been taking on more of his jobs. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all,” I said, in a way that I hoped wasn’t at all lascivious.
“He said you mostly kept to yourself, so I just let myself in.”
“Actually, it was your dad who never seemed to want conversation,” I said.
She threw back her head, her laugh hearty and unselfconscious. “That’s Dad for you. Get in, do the job, get out.”
“Like bad sex,” I said before I could stop myself. But Star laughed even longer and heartier, long enough that I could admire the length of her neck and fantasize about sucking a hickey there while she moaned and shifted restlessly beneath me.
Bisexual cliché that I am.
“Well,” she said finally, “Dad and I aren’t much alike. I’m all about getting to know people and doing the job right.”
Was she flirting with me? Was I just projecting things? My head whirled. I didn’t know.
I left her to her job, though…and when she was done, I was waiting with an icy glass of lemonade.
This all happened in the first week of one of Trent’s trips, a particularly long one of six weeks. Pool cleaning happened once a week, and by week three, we had progressed to a shared pitcher of lemonade (I was the last house on her rounds) and I knew her full name was Starshine (Joe, it turned out, was a closet hippie) and that she liked ’70s prog rock (again, her dad), had a master’s in business and brewed her own beer.
We were sharing one of those beers on week four, out-nerding each other with movie quotes, although she was winning because I was kind of distracted by her cute little overbite, when she stopped suddenly and said, “You know, Annette, I’m really glad I met you. I’ve been so busy running the business with Dad that I don’t get out much, and most of my clients end up having lecherous husbands who would rather leer at me than find out I have a brain.”
I know I flushed. I clinked the neck of my bottle against the one she was holding out, and before I could stop myself (I blame the afternoon alcohol), I said, “What about the lecherous, leering wives?”
Star laughed and said, “Oh, I have those, too. They—” and just as I decided to fling myself into the pool and drown myself in my embarrassment, she gasped, “Oh, Annette, not you! You’re not lecherous at all! You…” She bit her lip, looking down in an adorable mixture of cute and coy. “You don’t leer.” She looked back up at me. “You admire.”
“Well,” I said when I got my voice back, gesturing with my beer, “what’s not to admire?”
She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Why Annette, are you flirting with me?”
I leaned forward as well. Our faces were quite close. “It depends on whether you want me to be.”
She cocked her head. “You’re married.”
So I explained the arrangement that Trent and I had. How we could have flings, as it were, with prearranged discussion and agreement.
Star pondered that. “Have you told him about me?” she asked.
“I haven’t,” I admitted. “Until now, you’ve been…just a fantasy. I guess I wanted to keep that fantasy between me and my vibrator until he got home. I didn’t…want to get my hopes up, you know?”
She laughed softly, her breath scented with hoppy beer. There was a sheen of sweat on her nose. “Oh, I know,” she said, in a tone that made it very clear that she’d been having similar naughty thoughts.
My stomach tightened and my pussy clenched.
As first kisses go, it might have been slow, but it was anything but sweet or tender. There were teeth involved, gently tugging (my fantasy about her upper lip, and apparently her fantasy about my lower lip), and tongues, and it went on for what seemed like forever (ugh, cliché), and my head was swimming by the time we pulled apart.
“Are you going to tell your husband about me now?” she asked.
“Oh, hell yes!”
* * *
All I had to say was “Hot new pool girl,” and Trent was all “Jesus fucking Christ, yes, as long as you tell me all about it in excruciating detail afterward.”
I did him one better. After talking about it with Star, who agreed enthusiastically, I simply Skyped Trent and set up the laptop before Star and I went after each other like lust-crazed, vampire, shape-shifting zombies (or whatever it is the moms pretend their teens are into these days for an excuse to be into it themselves).
We weren’t putting on a show for Trent, and we all knew it. Star and I wanted each other—badly—and after one brief moment of wondering how much Trent could actually see (I imagined it was a flash of naked thigh here, the sweet curve of the side of a breast there and other random body parts), I concentrated on the luscious delights before me.
We dove right into some enthusiastic kissing, with all the nibbling that the previous encounter had entailed, but this wasn’t slow or exploratory. This was drinking each other up, tongues dancing and teeth knocking together while our hands roamed restlessly.
Neither of us had dressed up for the encounter, and for me, at least, that added to the deliciousness. I indulged in my fantasy of swirling my tongue behind Star’s ear before trailing down to the spot where her neck met her shoulder and branding her with my teeth and lips. Then I helped her peel off her T-shirt so I could feast on her small, unfettered breasts.
She gave a throaty moan when I fastened on to one rosy, plump nipple, and the sound sent electric shocks down to my groin. My own nipples hardened in response, and her wandering hands found them and pinched. Not enough pressure thanks to my shirt and bra being in the way, but enough to make me squirm and suckle her harder.
It’s always a delight to discover what a new lover likes. Star’s breasts were sensitive—not too much pressure for her, but when I got it right, her hips started a grinding dance beneath me.
So I slid those little shorts right down her lightly tanned legs, pausing only long enough to admire her cute purple thong before tugging it off as well.
“You’re overdressed,” she murmured, reaching for me. We sat up long enough to divest me of my clothes, and then I found myself on my back while she feasted on my finally, blissfully free breasts. Her teeth scraped against my sensitive flesh and a steady, pounding rhythm started in my clit.
I reached down beneath my legs—no surprise to find myself drenched—and reached back up to coat my nipples and give her a taste. She sucked my fingers and my breasts together, pausing only to squeal when I found my way between her legs, through the trimmed blonde curls, to dip in and learn what she tasted like.
Summer and sunshine and a tartness like oranges.
I wanted more.
I knelt between her legs and danced my tongue around her fat clit, while she wound her hands in my hair and throatily gave me gasped praise. “God—yes—circles—oh, that’s perfect—yes—”
I pushed two fingers inside her tight, wet warmth, wishing I’d thought to buy a new dildo, and then forgetting that wish when my fingers proved to be
enough. There’s nothing like the feel of a woman’s pussy pulsing against your fingers as she comes.
My own cunt shivered in response, empathy shivers, not quite an orgasm.
She didn’t make me wait long, though. She paused to flick her tongue at my navel ring and discover that made my hips buck. My clit hummed with need the closer she got to it. Then it was her turn between my thighs, and I’m not a talker when it comes to that. I urged her on with increased panting and moaning, not able to stop even if I’d wanted to, as she drove me closer and closer to release.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the feel of her very talented tongue against my very needy clit and her fingers inside me, and I vaguely remembered she had small hands, and holy mother of—how many fingers was that?—and I went off like a rocket.
When you’re coming, you don’t worry about clichés.
She slid up my body, a grin on her face, her lips and chin sheened with my juices. What was a girl to do but lick them off? And then we were kissing again, and rubbing against each other, and at some point I know I screamed.
It’s a good thing the neighbors know what not to do when they hear me scream. If the police showed up, it would be a like a bad porno.
Also at some point, we discovered my laptop had died because I’d forgotten to plug it in.
Star and I laughed and laughed. “Poor Trent,” I said. “I wonder how much he got to see?”
As if in answer, my phone chimed to let me know I had a text:
Aaaaargh! I love you! Call me if you ever finish.
“I think I heard it first ding an hour ago,” Star said.
Which got us laughing again, of course.
To cool off, we went out and dove into the pool, of course. We have a private backyard, walls and greenery shielding us from prying eyes, and Trent and I never wear suits unless we have company.
What they say about cold showers doesn’t extend to cool pools. We did swim a bit, yes, but somehow I found myself on the shallow steps, Star’s hands on my ass and my hips in the air so she could taste me again. It was all I could do to keep my head above water.
And then we repaired to the hot tub, where I turned on the jets and turned her to face them, pressing my lips to the mole on her shoulder. My fingers traced and tickled her wonderfully sensitive nipples while the water spurted over her clit until she shuddered and came again.
By contrast, when we showered the chlorine off ourselves, we were almost sedate.
Almost.
Dried off and dressed, we kissed good-bye. She had to go home and let her dog out; I had ten pages to write before I could call my workday over.
“My legs are so weak, I’m not sure I can drive,” she said with a laugh. “Damn, that was a workout. I’m glad I have tomorrow off.”
“But you’ll be here Thursday to clean the pool…”
She kissed me on my nose. “Of course.”
She turned back before I closed the door, winked, and added, “I’m looking forward to meeting Trent next week, too.”
Bow-chicka-wow-wow.
With a grin, I went inside to call my husband and tell him all about the pool girl in excruciating detail.
Sometimes, life is not just fair, it’s pretty damn good.
RULE OF THUMB
Laila Blake
My eyes moved from the glittering display of a mobile phone company to the life-size pictures of half-naked orange women in the covered-up windows of a tanning salon. The shop between them did not only look out of place—it was hardly visible at all: a relic from a different time, a different cultural attention span. The small window displayed old folios with cracked spines and yellowed pages, next to them restored versions of the same, crisp and beautiful. A sign read: BOOKBINDING AND RESTORATION. GRAHAM WINTER. A telephone number and scanty open hours were nestled in tiny writing at the bottom. Customers not welcome, apparently. Even the font felt outdated—and not in a way that would send art and design students into paroxysms of vintage typography joy.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit to a degree of apprehension. The carefully designed deterring mechanisms were working and for a moment, I considered finding my way back to my car. There had to be other bookbinders not too far away—a short Internet search had never let me down in this regard. On the other hand, I felt a hint of spite swelling in my chest. Graham Winter had thrown down his grim gauntlet and I wanted to pick it up and hand it back to him with a smile on my face.
I clutched my handbag closer to my chest and pushed the door open. It creaked, and a jingle of tiny brass bells announced my arrival in the small, dimly lit customer area. It featured a dark wooden counter that had seen better days and an old-fashioned chandelier to the side. It wasn’t lit. There were little notes spread over the counter and tacked to a board behind it and I turned around to see if this was all. I finally spied a lonely little display case full of artistically bound diaries—and I found myself wondering when they had been touched last. A month ago? Or probably longer?
I stepped closer to the counter, running my fingers over the polished wood. Coughing a little, I tried to announce my presence to whoever was walking around in the next room. I could hear the footsteps creaking on floorboards, but I wasn’t sure the same was true for him. I coughed again. Louder.
An old folio lay there, just a few inches to the side. Its spine was ripped away and missing but the hard leather cover was intricate and beautiful, with a few remaining hints of gold leaf ornaments around the illegible title. Carefully, I traced the unfamiliar word with my fingertips—was it a different language? Greek maybe?
“Please don’t touch that.”
The voice had appeared suddenly and bodiless. Where I had heard the man move around in the other room, I hadn’t been aware of his approach at all and my hand snapped back like a chided schoolgirl’s.
“Sorry…” I mumbled, momentarily annoyed that I was the one apologizing. He was tall, his brown hair graying around his temples and lines carefully etched into his features. Typical worry lines, I supposed, or lines of concentration: the deep vertical gashes above the root of his nose, the horizontal meridian lines on his forehead. Despite them, he was not unattractive—if intimidating. His eyes—they looked green in the gloom—were bright, expressive and intelligent and I found myself immediately evaluated by his gaze.
“I…would like to get a book bound?” I finally asked when instead of greeting me, he walked around to his side of the counter, gave me a short and vaguely questioning look and then concentrated on picking up the book. He could have done with a customer service handbook, I supposed, but I could see how his method had its merits: he retained all the power.
He didn’t answer immediately, handling the folio with infinite patience as he set it down on a protective piece of cloth and folded it over the cover. It was effectively pulled from my reach.
“What kind of book?” he finally asked when he looked up at me again.
“It’s not really a book yet, per se.” I fumbled around in my bag to unearth a plastic file. I pulled its contents—a good number of old and yellowed notebooks—out and onto the table and shrugged. “I found these among my grandmother’s things. Her mother was a poet—she also…she did these drawings.” I wasn’t sure why I felt nervous as I thumbed through the topmost notebook until I found a blurry pastel watercolor of a robin with tenderly etched childlike features.
“Family memories?” he asked and I wondered if that was derision I heard in his voice. Maybe.
“Something like that. I’d just like to have them all in one place—safe, you know. It would mean a lot to her.”
I was rambling, I knew that much. He made me feel uncomfortable and I was only slowly finding my grip again.
He only nodded though, and picked up the notebooks, leafing through them silently. He had the air of a judge or a bouncer—as though if her poems weren’t dressed in beautiful enough words, he wouldn’t let them anywhere near his precious bindings. I rolled my shoulders to show annoyance, but I
had a feeling he didn’t see it. Finally, he concluded his analysis with a shrug and then nodded to the back room.
“You will want to choose a binding, I assume?”
“I…yeah sure,” I answered, following him. There was that moment of hesitation again as though the building might swallow me whole if I ventured any farther inside of it.
Where the counter had smelled dusty and old, like a room that wasn’t lived in and rarely cleaned, the one we entered then was abundant with living smells. Paper everywhere, metals, heat, glue. I closed my eyes to let it soak in. When he coughed though, I blushed and looked at him standing by the enormous work-table. It was heavy and darkened wood, filled with a myriad of notches and other signs of use. Could one man deliver such a tapestry, such a story of craftsmanship into a table like this or had he taken it over from a previous owner?
“The obvious choice is leather,” he said in his oddly melodic and yet clipped speech. He pulled out a drawer and handed me a heavy sheet to touch. “These keep books safe. Others are softer to the touch.”
I let my fingers glide over the material and tried not to remind myself that it had once been skin. It smelled like my high school boyfriend’s jacket and I couldn’t help the nostalgic smile on my face.
“How much did you plan on spending? If the budget permits it”—this time I was sure of his sneer—“we could consider leather engravings and gold leaf titles.”
I let my eyes wander to the flimsy bits of gold still sticking to a machine next to him and found myself shrugging. I still didn’t know what only the simple edition cost but something about him made me afraid to ask. I wasn’t used to feeling shy like this.
Trying to appear to be pondering this question, I walked around the room, looking at his tools. He was a Luddite, clearly, preferring old craftsmen’s items over new technology. It took me a while to find the mp3 player in a dusty docking station on a shelf. It looked as out of place there as I was bound to look here in the shop.
On a console before me was another book, books everywhere: a bible, this time, black and opened to reveal a beautiful woodcut. I only realized I was reaching out to touch it when a sudden sharp pain on my knuckles caused me to pull my hand back and whirl around. There he was, suddenly so much closer, a long springy ruler in his hand.
