by Daniel James Cabrillo
(11/10/99)

The house is empty, never been lived in. Custom-built, no expense spared, by an investment banker recently indicted for fraud and attacked by his heart. Dead at forty-four.

The real estate agent knows me by now, knows she's going to sell me something -- if not this house at two million dollars, then another at two million dollars.

She unlocks the door for me.

"Look around," she says. "Take pictures, take your time."

"When you go," she says, "just close the door and make sure it's locked."

I nod; the real estate agent leaves me alone.

I tend to be impulsive, but I know it, and so in this instance I'm being very careful. I want the house, my wife wants the house, we will probably buy the house, but we're slowing ourselves down, forcing ourselves to look around at what else is available.

I keep coming back here, though -- two, three, four times.

The house is Spanish in style, with white walls and terra cotta floors, two stories, U-shaped in layout and built around a cloistered garden. Each room affords vistas through arches into adjacent rooms and across the garden. It has never looked better than it does now, in the late afternoon sun. I'm already comfortable in it; it already feels as if it were mine. Photographing it, I feel the same familiarity with it that I feel when I take family pictures.

I step outside into the garden, cross to the open side, and turn back to take a picture of the house across the cloister.

A woman steps into the doorway just as the shutter snaps. She is as surprised to see me as I am to see her.

"Oh," she says. "Sorry."

"That's all right," I say. "Makes a better picture."

It does make a better picture: the woman is a pretty ashblonde, willowy and tan; her summer yellow dress splashes bright against the white stucco and terra cotta tile. She holds in her nervous hands a big-brimmed straw hat with a colorfully printed silk scarf rolled up and tied at the base of the crown.

"Are you looking for the agent?" I ask as I cross the garden to join her.

"Just saw the for sale sign on the lawn and the door open," she says.

"Good. Look around," I say. "Maybe the competition will make me bid."

"I'm not competition," she says. "I'm just looking."

"Well, help yourself; it's not mine yet."

The woman nods and goes back inside the house. She has a long, athletic, purposeful stride. Sexy.

I take a few more pictures of the exterior, then re-enter the house, stroll from room to room. Now and then I take a picture, but I guess I'm really looking for the woman.

I find her upstairs in the big empty master suite, which extends the whole width of the house. I see her from the hall; she's standing at the window, her back to me, looking out at the view. I can't resist and take her picture.

The sound of the shutter alerts her to my presence. She turns to face me.

"You don't mind, I hope," I say.

She shrugs, leans back on the windowsill and stretches her legs straight out, studies me for a moment, then pushes herself away from the window and enters the bathroom. I step into the bedroom and snap a few shots of her as she appears through the portal, investigating the huge marble bathroom.

"You're a terrific subject," I tell her when she rejoins me. I mean it but feel a little silly saying it. "I mean," I add, "you and that yellow dress in this empty house . . ."

She accepts that without comment, goes into the hallway, then down the stairs. I follow, remaining a room away, photographing her through the arched portals as she moves from room to room, exploring, touching surfaces, leaning, bending, turning. She's got a knack for modeling. As the sun sinks lower, she intuitively finds the light pouring through windows and steps into it, strikes poses that don't look like poses; her bearing is dancerlike, natural and spontaneous.

The sun sets and bathes the house gold.

I reload my camera with fast film. When I'm done I have to search for her. I find her seated on the living room floor, her skirt pulled up across her thighs, her hands folded in her lap. I take a picture through an arch, then step into the room, cross to her, stand above her looking down.

I don't know where this is going. I am, I should explain to those who care about such things, a faithful husband -- in practice, never in thought. I flirt too much and do like the test limits. So far I haven't crossed line. But I've never said never.

Here was a test I might, if all went well, fail.

She knows I'm there but doesn't look up right away; when finally she does we lock eyes. I don't smile; neither does she, at first, but then the almost tangible sexuality within the room embarrasses her, and she smiles, blushes, and looks down at her hands in her lap.

She knows I want her to be sexy for my camera, but she's too self-conscious.

"Put on the hat," I say, reading her mind.

"What?"

"The hat. Put it on."

She puts on the hat, drops her head. I can no longer see her face, and she can't see me, but that's okay, that's the point: with the hat to hide behind she can pose less self-consciously. It seems to work, but slowly. Anonymous under the hat, she gradually forgets my presence, though not the camera's; the rhythm of her movements and her poses are directly related to the sound of the shutter.

She puts her hands on the floor behind her, rests her weight on them, thrusts her bosom upward, extends her legs and crosses them at the ankle.

I take her picture.

She lies flat on her back, extends her arms straight out and spreads her legs, as if trying to fit inside one of Leonardo's circles.

I take her picture.

She turns onto her side and draws up fetal, her crossed arms between her legs.

I take the picture.

She unfolds, sits again, bends forward at the waist, her wrists still between her legs. She draws her hands upward, slowly running her fingertips along her lower belly.

Snap.

She stands up, runs her hands up her dressfront, over her breasts to her neck, then takes the brim of the hat in both her hands, holds it as she twists away from me in one direction, then the other.

Every time I snap she changes her position; every time she changes her position I snap. It's hard to tell who's responding to whom.

Abruptly and without acknowledging me, she strides into the powder room and closes the door.

While she's in the powder room I check the film in my camera and look in my bag to see how much more I have. Three rolls of the very fast film I'll need in the fading light. I wish I had more but I'll make do.

The door to the powder room opens; the woman strides out and disappears into the next room, the dining room.

As I go after her, I glance into the powder room: the woman has left her bra, panties, and stockings behind, draped over the sink.

I continue on my way.

There is, it almost goes without saying, an excitement building in me, but it is an unfamiliar excitement -- sexual of course, but more than merely sexual -- it is an excitement churning with curiosity and danger and guilt and charged by a magnetic energy that not only overcomes any trepidation I may have, but bullies it and mashes it into insignificance. There is no way, I know, for me to resist the impulses driving me.

From the dining room I can see into the room beyond, a den or family room, and beyond that, through an open door, I can see outside to the swimming pool. The woman has gone around the pool and sits on its edge, her feet in the water, facing me. She's very far away, but she makes a pretty picture from where I am, and I take it.

I take another picture from the family room, then step outside, aim my camera again....

She unbuttons the buttons on her dress, first from the top down to the waist, then from the bottom up; when she's done only one button at her waist remains buttoned.

Slowly swishing her feet in the water, she slips one hand under the unbuttoned top of the dress and touches one of her breasts; she slides her other hand up between her legs and very gently strokes herself.

I step up to the edge of the pool, take a picture across it; the picture includes the woman and the reflection of the woman in the water.

I walk around the pool, stand beside her, looming over her, point my camera down and snap a picture from above -- it's almost an abstract, dominated by the round hatbrim and colorful scarf, her hands disappearing behind yellow fabric.

I crouch down; she tilts her head to make sure the brim still conceals her face; I take another picture, this one more clearly defining what her hands are doing.

I lower my camera, take a breath. I know what I'm going to do, and though it should surprise me, it doesn't, under the circumstances. I reach out and unbutton the one buttoned button on her dress.

The dress falls open, reveals her naked body -- her breasts, smallish but plump and pretty, her gently rounded belly, her tuft of ashblonde pubic hair. As the dress opens she clamps her legs together and extends them straight out over the water and places her hands over her breasts, fingers apart, letting the pink nipples show through.

I remain crouching and take more pictures.

She lies back -- the hat brim falls over her face -- and lifts her legs upward, squeezes her breasts, then releases them and slides her fingertips down her belly; when they reach her center she spreads her legs and drops her feet back into the water. With the fingers of one hand she separates her plump pussy lips and with the index and middle finger of the other hand turns little circles around her pink button.

I press the camera button but it doesn't snap; I'm out of film. Still crouching, I look dumbly at the camera, then at the woman's hands displaying her cunt and caressing her clit; I glide my glance upward over her stomach and tits to her enshadowed face.

Her eyes peek out from under the hatbrim; she's watching my eyes.

For the first time I am aware that I am in pain. My swollen cock Is rockhard but confined, squeezed flat against my belly by my trousers; the fabric creases my scrotum, squeezing and separating my balls.

I drop a knee to the ground, changing my crouch to a kneel, and feel better at once: the fabric imprisoning my cock loosens and gives freedom. My cock calls the shots now, pushing at the pants, pitching a tent.

I lay the camera aside and look at the woman's face again. As soon as I do she removes her hat and puts it on top of the camera.

Then she fixes her eyes on my crotch and resumes masturbating.

Her self-love stirs and inspires me; her steady glare is my command. I unbuckle my belt and unzip my fly, and my pants fall to the ground at my knees; I push my shorts down, too. I am totally focused on this woman. There is no muscle in me that does not ache with desire, no idea in my head that is not sexual; there is certainly no thought of possible consequences. I am all anticipation and expectation and greed. I want to attack, penetrate, envelop and be enveloped by her. And yet, though I am governed purely by lust, something inside of me slows me down, tells me to take my time, hold back. I know that whatever happens with her will happen once and never again; the restraining impulse is my brain's way of telling my body not to blow it, to make the most of it.

When my cock bobs into view, stiff and a little shiny-sticky at the tip, the woman subtly alters the pace of her pussy play: she slows the rotation of her fingertips but presses them harder against her clit.

Somewhere deep, deep down I know I have already crossed the line, and that probably, there is no going back.

I rise to my feet and step out of the puddle of my pants and undershorts.

This is definitely wrong, but with a superhuman effort I might still save myself. Get dressed and get out of here...

I unbutton my shirt and pull it off; For a moment I'm not sure what to do next, what she wants me to do, what I want to do; so I simply stand in place, looking down at her, down past my own hard cock bobbing in my sight line, down to her hands in her pussy as she slips two fingers into her cunt, then slides them back out, her fingers flanking and caressing her clit in both directions. A moment later she arches her back and my attention is drawn to her puckered nipples atop her lovely tits, and then to her face, which expresses enthralled thoughts behind her closed eyes.

I don't know how I know it, but I know that I am not part of her thoughts, not really; and yet I know, too, that my presence is essential to her, is her catalyst; I know, finally, that we are living separate fantasies, that mine is her and hers is something I can't imagine.

She begins to heave herself up, arching her back so that only her shoulders and ass touch the concrete; her heels slap in the pool water.

I step over her, straddle her, one foot on either side of her waist, my bobbing cock hovering over her navel and pointing up toward her face. She opens her eyes and looks at my cockhead and the bead of moisture just forming there. I get down to my knees, kneeling. She sips a breath of air, holds it in her mouth. I put one hand on either side of her head and on all fours rock forward, aiming my cock at her face; she lifts her head and exhales, her breath a warm minibreeze on my cock and through my pubic hair.

Suddenly, serpentlike, she darts her tongue forward and licks the moist bead from the tip of my cock. I am about to slide the shaft into her mouth when she tenses, tosses her head back and cries out.

I straighten my back and look at her face for a moment. She's tensing, heaving, straining, beginning to come.

When she tosses her head back and shuts her eyes, I put my hands on the cement on either side of her head and rest my weight on my extended arms. I hold myself over her and look back down under my torso and see her hips thrashing and bucking up to meet her hands in her cunt. And as I on my hands and knees watch her coming and listen to her choking, squealing, sighing, coming sounds, I am momentarily paralyzed; I know what I want but I know I can't have it. I want to penetrate and participate, to be with her when she comes. But how? I want my cock in her mouth. I want my cock in her cunt. I want to taste her sweet pussy. It isn't a matter of choosing which. I want it all.

She heaves herself up as she continues her climb; my cock strikes the top of her wrists. I look at her face, contorted with pleasure; she opens her eyes, winces briefly, looks into mine. She recloses her eyes, but she's not shutting me out because at the same time she takes her hands out of her cunt, runs them up between our bodies, squeezes her tits, then quickly flings her arms around me, grabs onto my buttocks. I have to act now; she's not done coming and she expects me to finish for her.

I lower my head to her tits and suck -- one, then the other -- as I crawl backward along her length. She releases my buttocks, thinking I'm going to reposition myself to fuck her, but that's not what I do: I'm not ready yet. My feet, then my legs, enter the swimming pool -- I tremble from the cold of the water but keep kissing her tits, then stomach. I slide into the pool, feet and legs first, then hips and cock -- the cold water shocks my cock and retards my climb toward climax. When I am immersed to my chest, with my weight resting on my arms on the edge of the pool, I slide my hands under her buttocks, lift her hips, lower my face, and breathe on her cuntlips. As softly as I can, with just the barest contact, I tickle her clit with the tip of my tongue. At the moment of contact she jerks as if stunned by an electrical charge; she writhes; I try to keep caressing, my tongue tip following her clit as her ass dances in my hands, this way and that, this way and that.

I feast, in part tasting, in part testing, wanting to please her, trying to find what pleases her. I flatten my tongue, separate her pussylips, press my tongue inward; she tastes the way I hoped she would -- sweet and salty. Before long, however, she reaches down and with her fingers holds her lips open, exposing her clit to me, her way of letting me know that she prefers the gentle clitoral tongues to this lapping. I resume my tongue-flicking, from time to time sucking the button between my lips while licking its end with my tongue. Again she begins to thrash, bouncing her asscheeks in my hands, turning her head from side to side, and when she resumes her climactic climb she removes her hands from her cunt and takes hold of my head, lifts, telling me that she wants me up.

I slide back up out of the pool, dripping over her as I move upward into position, on my knees between her outstretched legs. I lower my hips; the dome of my cock bobs, seeks, finds, nestles in her nook. I push: for a moment her matted hair bars the way, but not for long: she's so wet and I'm so hard that we won't be denied. After a brief tug, I enter... slide... in... in... in... into the slippery-wet warmth of her magic tunnel until my hairs mesh with hers...

And as soon as I am all the way in she heaves her hips up, presses her pelvis hard against mine, then drops her hips back to begin fucking, but I press downward against her and hold myself pressed there, motionless, resisting her upward thrusting. Almost desperately I want to slide my cock in and out of this fabulous warm tunnel, but I don't because I know that I'll come with the first thrust, and then it will be over. I don't want it to be over, and so I hold still. The woman wants to buck, to thrash, to squirm and fuck, but I won't have it; I remain glued against her, all my weight pressing down against her. She's reaching the climax of her climax now, though, and her spasms have to spasm someplace, so with her body thus imprisoned, she turns her spasms inward: I can feel them in the walls of her hot cunt surrounding my fully implanted shaft. Her muscle spasms feel like gripping goo, embracing my cock, enveloping it, squeezing it. The impulse to slide, actively to fuck, is almost irresistible, but I fight it; I hold myself buried but immobile until, at last, with her fingers gripping my ass, she flings her heels up out of the water and down onto the backs of my thighs, spasms, spasms again, and again, then deflates beneath me, spent.

We lie quietly for awhile, my cock still hard and implanted, until her pulse slows and her breathing returns to normal. Then she pushes gently at my shoulders; I lift off of her, sliding my cock out slowly. When it emerges it makes an audible pop and the woman trembles. She gets to her knees, rolls me over onto my back, and leaves me there, flat on my back with my calves and feet in the water and my cock pointing straight up at the stars while she dives into the water.

She swims a few laps, and as she does I'm afraid her postorgasmic calm will mean the end of the encounter -- and I'm not finished. I needn't have worried, though. Presently she gets out of the pool, dripping wet of course, crosses to me, kneels beside me. I look at her face and smile. She smiles, too -- a nice smile, sincere and even affectionate, but a little sad, too. I reach out to touch the side of her face. As soon as I do, she leans down, drips water on my belly, takes my cock in her hand, lowers her face, takes the head of my cock between her lips, then draws the whole shaft inward, inward, swirling her tongue around it as it slides deeper. I keep my eyes open throughout, for this woman understands the esthetic as well as the tactile aspects of cocksucking. She sucks, she releases; when my cock emerges from her mouth she holds it against her cheek and swirls her tongue around it. She lowers her breasts to it, kisses its tip with one nipple, then the other. She sucks it some more, releases it, holds it straight up in her hand, licks down to the balls, licks my balls, wetting them with pool water from her dripping wet hair and saliva from her mouth, gently squeezes the wet balls in her hand as she runs her tonguetip up the ridge of the cock to the head, around the headrim, sucks in the whole head, the whole cock. She makes love to the cock, and the cock loves it, and she makes it last -- skillfully altering her rhythms, now sucking, now licking, now merely caressing, until, alas, it starts to dance the jerky dance of imminent climax. When the woman feels it she stops sucking, holds the cock straight up, watches closely as a bead of white liquid appears at the tip, runs slowly down the head. She holds my cock at the root, squeezes to prevent further eruption, but she never takes her eye from the downrolling drop of thick liquid. When it reaches the rim of my cockhead she takes the white droplet onto the tip of her pointed tongue and shows it to me. Then, still holding my cock straight up, quick as a flash she flings a leg over me, straddles me, and lowers her cunt onto my cock. She drops down, down, and when she Is got me fully inside she lifts, then plunges, lifts, then plunges, making sure that this time we fuck in earnest. And we do. I put my arms around her, pull her down flat against me, grip her ass and pull her down as I thrust up; then I hold tightly as I roll her over, turn her onto her back beneath me. As we turn my cock pops free but she grabs hold and pushes it back into her cunt. I lift her legs up, her feet on my shoulders, and plunge deep, but there's no stalling now; with the very first plunge my cock continues the process started in her mouth; it shoots... and shoots... and keeps shooting with each spastic plunge. I am growling like an animal, and she, too, is crying out with unexpected pleasure -- unexpected because it comes so soon after her prior climax. When I feel I have little left I release her legs; she drops them down; I flop between them and she wraps them around my legs as I fall on top of her and lie still, then jerk and jerk again with a series of frantic little aftershocks that keep this precious coupling alive and exciting until, finally, I collapse, utterly spent.

When we recover we start to dress. She simply slips into her dress and doesn't bother with her undergarments so she's dressed first. I start to say something to her but she puts her fingertip on my lips to hush me. Fair enough. Then she takes her finger away, kisses me there, and goes into the house.

By the time I get my shoes on and follow, she's gone.

I buy the house.

When my wife and I move in, the real estate agent gives us a portfolio of papers pertaining to the sale and to the house: the usual thing, inspection certificates, loan documents, etc. Also in the folder are tearsheets from a Sunday supplement article about the late, disgraced investment banker who had built the house. My wife reads the article and frowns.

"I feel sorry for the wife," says my wife.

"What?"

"Well, it was her house; you can tell by the picture."

I take a look. The picture shows the banker with his wife on the steps inside the house when it was still under construction. The banker strikes an arms-folded, nondescript camera pose, but his wife rests one arm on the banister railing. Her smile is obviously sincere, and the way she touches the railing is almost a caress.

"What an asshole," my wife says. "He builds her the house, doesn't even insure it, and dies. She gets nothing."

The woman in the picture wears a yellow dress, and in her hands she holds a wide-brimmed hat with a colorful scarf for a hatband.

Funny, I recognize the dress and hat first, then the face.