by Maria Mentis
(01/18/06)

This is what the heroine must have felt like, I thought, slogging through the snow to her beloved, hoping to find him still waiting after all this time. It was Sunday, and late, and the kind of blister-cold night that made me want to turn back and take cover, but here I was, putting one foot ahead of the other in the crackling, dark snow, coming to you.

The journey wasn't easy, mind. The streets were deserted, my car's transmission was acting up, the one lone open florist made sure to call me crazy before handing over his last batch of daisies and refusing my money. In the end, I managed parallel parking. I climbed through oily, sooty slush. I destroyed the bottom of my jeans, and trailed the end of my scarf through a muddy ditch for a half-block before noticing. I took an hour to get to you.

When I reached your building, the door was slightly ajar, the lock propped open by a rolled-up paper that read, I'm stuck in the kitchen, let yourself in! Nothing more. Well, maybe the hint of a heart in the exclamation mark, but I wasn't about to go assuming anything, mind. I was good. I was being good. So I gathered up the scattered mail at the bottom of the stairs, and slowly made my way up the sixty-two steps to your door. This I thought appropriate and entirely in keeping with the journey so far. It was important, somehow, that it take work to get to you.

You and I, we met on a Saturday after my noon-time photography course and before the time of day I would be missed at home, far away in the suburbs. That first Saturday, I decided to wander in the city awhile and ended up in your store, an antiquarian shop of some repute as it turned out, specializing in early Italian manuscripts and odd poetry chapbooks. I tried to look at all the precious bindings that first time, really I tried.

But then I wandered to the back and found the shelves full of first-edition science fiction paperbacks, and so I took off my coat and slumped to the floor, happily. You smiled to me from behind the counter that first time, in that way I would come to adore -- a bare hint of approval gathered at the corner of your mouth that slowly moved across your lips and outward, making your nose scrunch and your eyes light up beneath your crazy, flame-red curls. You were resting your elbows on the counter, chin in hands, studying me in your cheerful, fluttery blouse and your purple sparkling shopgirl glasses. I could do nothing but smile back. I was hooked.

That first Saturday, I thought I'd have sixteen Saturdays with you, a winter session's worth, sixteen attempts to make a new friend. When it was time for me to leave, I took my Deathbird Stories to the counter and commended you on the quality of the science fiction offerings. They'd been your father's guilty pleasures, you told me so wistfully that I had to look at you for a sign of a passing sadness or regret, but I saw nothing, another smile, small and private; love, I knew. Then I watched you rest slow, slender fingers over the cover and pat it once, twice, reaching for a small paper bag and tenderly placing the book inside. Afternoon light glimmered off the myriad, slender little rings on your fingers. Ellison was his favorite too, you told me.

When you named the price, I was too mesmerized to think, and so I gave you a bill much too large. You didn't have enough change, you said. I searched my pockets for long moments then thought better of it. Next time, I announced. I'd be back after my class next Saturday, and maybe you've have the change then, or maybe you could run me a tab, surely I'd have more books to buy by then.

And there it was again, that slow, budding smile and yes, of course you'd save the change and you hoped to see me again, and if I'd like to stay a while longer next time perhaps you could point out some of the rarer pieces to me. Maybe you could even make some tea. At that, you cocked your head at me just slightly, lips barely pursed, perfectly plucked left eyebrow raised in the barest hint of a question mark.

I think I hummed to myself all the way home.

The second time, you had tea ready, fresh and hot. I took mine plain; you loaded yours with honey and milk.

After you took your first sip, you set your cup down suddenly, reached out with that hand and grabbed me by the wrist. "Hot, hot, hot," you whispered through your teeth and held on. I felt the heat from your palms seep into me until I couldn't tell anymore where my skin ended and yours began. "There, that's better," you grinned, let go and headed for the stacks. I followed. You pointed out all the signed first editions, all your favorites. I liked strangeness, it seemed, while you preferred grandeur. I loved my Ellison. You confessed a penchant for Asimov. Had you looked into the darker side of the genre, I wondered? Yes, you said, you had. You'd grown up with these books. You still preferred the epics. Frank Herbert, too, then? Yes, Herbert too.

I kept returning. The third Saturday, you brought out mugs of soup: fresh, you said, tomato with just a hint of basil. You pinched the air and scrunched up your nose, green eyes glimmering sweetly, your porcelain skin flushed with pride. That third week, I was no longer just hooked -- I was lost. On the fourth, you told me of your widowed mother's heartbreak and your recently acquired taste for the family business; I, of my youngest departing soon for a year in Europe, and college, and life, and me a little older, more tired but happier, I said. Happier. You nodded, as if you knew. Maybe you did.

On the fifth Saturday we were back in the books, bonding suddenly over Ursula LeGuin; on the sixth, Dick's paranoia, and Wolfe's lyricism, and my theory of the thoroughly morbid Moorcock, to which you vehemently disagreed.

The week after that, you started telling me of your life; you were wearing black combat boots that day, and a red peasant skirt that fanned out all around you on the floor. When you spoke of your last love, of her passion for musical theatre and film noir and late, late nights, your cheeks flushed just so, and I decided I loved freckles, right then and there, more than anything, ever.

Another week passed, and you showed me the vinyl collection hidden behind the science fiction stacks. You brought out the dusty player then, and we ran through the lot of them, five minutes here, ten here. Listen, you said, listen this is the best Beethoven's 9th ever recorded, you told me. It was a radio broadcast you know, you whispered conspiratorially.

On the ninth Saturday, we ran through the operas -- Madame Butterfly? Sad...Tosca? Sad too...Othello? Traviata? Sad, sad, sad all of them...you have to look to operettas for some joy, you smirked. Carmen, then? Too festive. You made a face. What about this, I said. Lakme, I pointed. Perfect! You perked up, and we leaned in to listen.

This is what evil geniuses must feel like, I remember thinking, right before plotting to take over the world.

On the tenth Saturday, I found you frowning and I longed to ask why but I managed only to ask after the business, and so you shrugged and excused yourself while I would browse. Doing the books, you said, and then you donned a pair of headphones, and I became confused but I stayed, and when it was time for me to go you stopped me and handed me a small, wrinkled slip of paper. You would be going back to North Carolina on Monday morning, to prepare for the spring session and new classes to teach, so you wouldn't be minding the store anymore, you said, but then I looked down at the paper, and it was an address in the city and when I looked up at you the universe brightened again. Would I like to come for dinner, perhaps the following night, Sunday, around nine o'clock? It would be late, yes, but would I come anyway, please, and yes, of course I would. Of course I would.

So here I was at your door, it was Sunday, and I had teetered for hours. I'd told Mark and the boys that I'd be going into the city to visit a friend, I may come home late, and they'd looked at me with some dismay but then shrugged, the way they'd shrugged about the photography class, and the jewelry sculpting class before, and more before that. They could take care of themselves. Today, I had spent five hours laying out the perfect slacks and the perfect shirt, only to get stuck on the shoes. Mark found me trying to choose between sensible and downright dangerous, and tried to help but only made matters worse until he stopped and looked at me more closely. It's to be one of those kinds of outings then, he commented. I just stared. I didn't know, I told him. "Do you hope it is?" he prodded gently. Maybe. Yes. Maybe. I didn't know. We'd been here before once, he and I, long before, and we'd talked of it many times since. He sized me up and smiled, suggesting I do away with the fussy slacks, and go for something roomy and accessible instead. I kicked him out, smirking, and opted for jeans and boots. It was good, I was being good.

I didn't know what I was doing.

So when I finally climbed the mountain to your door, and found that open as well, and pushed my way in, you could say I was prepared or you could say I was lost.

Your flat was cold, and narrow, and tall, tall. I found myself staring at the medallion in your ceiling. "Tin ceilings!" I blurted out and then heard you from somewhere off to my right.

"What's that?" you asked.

"Tin ceilings!" I repeated, "You don't see these much anymore."

"Oh!" You appeared around the corner. "Hi! Yes! This place is old."

You waved at me with a wooden spoon covered in white. White tank top, short ruffled skirt, bare legs, bare feet, red toenails in winter to match the curls cascading around your perfect cheeks. The glasses were gone.

"I have to be back here, come around," you motioned and smiled warmly, then tucked back halfway into the other room. For a moment I could still see a perfectly arched foot pointing, tapping restlessly on tiptoe, turned barely inward and sliding out of view.

I shivered.

The apartment was half-living room, half-kitchen, with barely a hint of a closet and bathroom in between, one of those old Victorian row-houses, narrow and deep. I took my coat off in the living room and immediately regretted it. The windows were wide open, and the room was freezing cold. When I walked around to meet you, I noticed the same arctic air in the kitchen. "Hot?" I teased, and you smiled, reached out and put your arms around me in welcome.

I froze.

You giggled and whispered in my ear. "I burned something. I was hoping you wouldn't notice," then backed away and made a show of sniffing the air. "Can you still smell anything?"

I shook my head.

"Do you mind closing the windows then? I can't, I'm not taking any more chances." You motioned to the stove and then I noticed, finally, the saucepan, and the spoon, and the bubbling and stirring and bubbly, floury, cheesy, milky aroma. "Plan B, pasta," you declared, and then conspiratorially whispered "Alfredo. Creamy, but finicky! I'm still stuck."

"Sure," I said, and rushed to close the windows, then came back, shivering, to the warm stove. "Do you need a coat? A sweater?" No, you shook your head, no, you were fine, and would I open some wine please, and I did, found glasses and poured it, and barely remembered to retrieve the flowers from where I'd left them in the living room.

You smiled, oh, and I loved that smile. "Daisies! Where'd you find daisies?"

I wasn't sure what to say so I didn't, I extended a glass of wine instead but then was forced to negotiate. You had a spoon in one hand, the panhandle in the other.

"Do you want me to do that for a bit? Hold it for you?" I pointed to the pan and no, you said, shaking your curls, no just give me some. You motioned with your chin to the glass I held in my left hand. I brought it up to your lips, and tried steadying you, ever so slightly, my palm flat against the small of your back, and you sipped once, twice, breathing in between like a small child learning how to gulp. I took the glass away just for a moment, and my hand backed away from your waist, just a little.

"More?" I offered and you turned to look at me, your head cocked slightly to the side, that little smile building at the corner of your mouth. For a moment, you had stopped stirring and instead pushed yourself slightly away from the stove, just enough, just enough for your skirt to touch the palm of my hand again. I thought, silly. I thought, maybe I was crowding you so I took my hand away again but again you backed into me, this time leaning up against the stove, elbows locked, smiling, your back arched, pressing against my hand.

"Yes?" you answered, asked, and I gave you more, and you gulped this time and then eyes closed you moaned when you were finished, when I set down the glass, when you put the spoon back in the sauce and started stirring again, slowly, slowly around the milky frothy sauce. "I'm stuck here, see?" you turned to look at me again, searching this time, and now, now I knew what to do. I leaned in to kiss you, lips brushing barely, barely there against the corner of your mouth, the tip of my tongue tracing back over your top lip, tasting the wine, the wine, and you, and your teeth, and your tongue, your mouth open and warm and deep like a well full of secrets just waiting. And I knew what to do, my hand down your back, brushing over the back of your skirt to your gorgeous, milky, soft thighs, cold now, so cold against my warm, warm skin.

You broke away from the kiss. "Are you expected back soon?" you asked softly, suddenly concentrating on the sauce. You cleared your throat.

"No," I said. "I'm not sure I'm expected at all, actually."

You cocked your head to the side just slightly, resting your temple against my forehead and let out a long, quiet breath. "Your hand's so warm," you told me. "I like it," you said.

When I reached between your thighs and up, my fingers found wetness and warmth, a slick flood of juices and flesh and I did, I felt you shiver and tense against my fingers so I pulled them away, bringing them up to my nose, the scent heady, musky, sweet...

"Naughty girl, not wearing panties," I whispered and looked straight into your eyes. Then watching your lips part, the tip of your tongue emerge for a moment before you bent down to take my fingertips into your mouth to lick them off, slowly, expertly. I could do nothing but watch, my own insides now squirming and waiting to burst, your tongue grazing at my fingertips, your eyes steadily on me, into me, through me until I couldn't stand it and leaned against the warm stove, exhaling now.

You slowly guided my hand back to the small of your back with your left hand and whispered back, bending into my ear, "Naughty I am, sometimes." and backed off, giggling quietly.

I began to really feel the heat radiating from the stove, the frozen air still everywhere else around me, your back still cold, cold, and I shivered again, teetering, watching your sauce bubble, bubble...I couldn't move away.

"You'd better take care of that," I motioned to the stove, securing my footing. You dutifully began stirring again, not taking your eyes off me for a moment, searching, searching, then smiling when I raised an eyebrow in return. I bit my lower lip, waiting.

"You'd better take care of that, then," you suddenly spoke out, crisply, and you smiled, and you wiggled your hips against my hand behind you and yes, there, finally, that was that. I had to dig into you. And so, my mouth buried itself below your ear, tasting your skin, and that heady musk scent of yours, the sweetness and the salt mixing in with the pepper from the stove, and my hand behind you, oh, my hand knew where it wanted to be, back to the warm, wet place.

I slid my palm downward again, over the top of your skirt and under, and between the warm folds of you, sliding one finger, then two forward, slowly, deliberately, up over your eager, wet opening, forward slightly, pushing in against the skin until I found the small shaft of your clit and there I stopped, kept up the slight pressure but stopped moving, stopped my hand, and my breathing, and tried...I'd have stopped time if I could, right there.

But, oh, yes, there you were in the palm of my hand now all slick with the want of you and yes, I felt you then, the slight shiver, and twitch of your muscles against the tip of my two fingers, your hips bucking backward slowly now, you rubbing yourself against my finger tips, your clit passing between my fingers then back, forward one more time and this time I stopped and felt it grow hard in my hand and this time I heard you moan. I curled my fingers and began running the knuckles back and forth, small motions now but yes now, definitely in rhythm, you moving with my hand and against it all at once.

When I saw you let go of the pan and reach up to hold on to the hood of the stove, I knew I had you. I wrapped my left arm around you, reaching up under your top to cup your soft, soft breasts in my hand, feeling one nipple grow hard, insistent against my skin. You parted your legs slightly. I stepped in with one foot and found leverage. You closed your eyes and relaxed against your upraised arm. I moved in, slipped one finger into the hot opening and felt you melt back into me. I added another finger, then when I felt you shimmy your feet apart an inch more, I added a third, twirling them around, twisting inside you, sweeping against your hot, moist walls, feeling for that spot and finding it, pumping slightly into you, my thumb upraised and pinching, from behind.

This is what cellists must feel, I thought, right before you began to curl up against the stove, this is what they must feel when playing the most beautiful instrument they've ever known. I took you in then, whole, your hands up, your pretty toes curling against the cold linoleum floor, your skin everywhere shimmering with sweat, and I moved my fingers inside you one more time, two three, and you let out your breath, all, with a quiet growl and then a moan, one, two counts more and then I heard you scream and felt you, suddenly, stop, bursting, bursting against my hand. You reached then, suddenly, around with your right hand and took hold of my arm, held it steady there, and breathed in, gulping for air.

I held on. I started counting in my head, smiling, and I think I got past thirty before you began to soften in my arms, before you moaned and moved to separate from me, and turned to look at me again, a whole different look in your eyes, now glazed and lazy and wide-eyed, your forehead glimmering with sweat.

This is what applause must feel like, I thought, right before you reached to turn off the stove, smiling, too late, it had burned again, never mind, giggling. Holding your spoon in one hand, and my wrist in the other, you led me through the cold rooms and then, yes, turned a corner and there was the big, warm bed with the proper crisp white linens and feathers and suitcases and pretty clothes everywhere. You swept everything off the bed in one smooth motion, then grabbed only the covers again and pulled them back over everything.

This is what an encore must feel like, I thought, right before your spoon clattered to the floor.

Our permanent collection of erotic stories