by Jessica Winter
(03/25/09)

It started with a cherry pie.

Bought as an afterthought, an amused acceptance of the fresh dessert offered by the pastry-faced baker. She laughs as the baker boxes the pie, which she then tucks under her arm on the way to the wine section of the store. She smiles as she checks out and darts across the shimmering asphalt towards her shiny, dust-sprinkled car, cheeks flushed as red as the warm fruit filling.

When he lets her in, he notices the whimsy in her eyes, the suppressed smile.

Pie, really, he intones.

It was completely unexpected! Pushing past him to set the pie on the counter, its crust flaking and crumbling where it had cooled unevenly in transit. Where's your corkscrew?

I will civilize you yet -- declared boldly as she reaches across the spotless counter for a knife. She deftly unpeels the metallic covering on the wine bottle and skewers the cork. Arms flexing, she pushes, twists and pulls until the fleshy plug is out and she sets the bottle down, raising nimble fingers to her lips to casually lick blood-red liquid from her hand.

They put slices of pie on sparkling plates and sit on the couch in front of his flat-screen TV. She'd been meaning to see this movie forever, and when she'd mentioned this he offered his copy and an invitation to watch it at his house. The invitation unexpectedly roused her from persistent ennui; she accepted before taking much time to think about it.

They walk across his living room; it's stark and unlived-in with minimalist furniture and shining wood floors; a mise-en-scène from a Crate and Barrel ad. She almost expects to see modernist architecture catalogs on the gleaming granite kitchen counter. She fears she will say something wrong and spoil the scene, but he is the one who drops the fork, shattering the ambiance and the unnamable tension. He yelps as cherry filling spills onto the new leather couch. There is a pause before they both reach for the offending berries, he with a concerned look and she with a giggle.

They both touch the cherry filling at the same time, fingers brushing the stickiness of the swollen fruit. The futility of picking up warm pie filling with bare fingers strikes them both at once and they laugh, their fingers pushing through the sticky pulp.

How am I going to clean this up, he wonders aloud.

She is quick in her response: Well, it¹s pie.

Eat it. Lick it off.

He looks at her, amused, but her expression is serious. She leans forward. I told you to lick it off.

He breathes a bit quicker, and they both have a flush in their cheeks from the infusion of wine or the escalation of tension that both of them feel burning in the air, on their skin, in their thoughts.

Don't make me tell you again. She wraps her fingers tight around her red-tinged fork, its silver glitter reflected in her eyes. Unsure and uncomfortable but surprisingly willing, he leans and pushes his tongue into the warm, too-sweet fruit.

No! Start slowly. Her voice is deep, rich, commanding.

He bristles under the rebuke, but quickly recovers and leans forward again. Slowly and deliberately he traces a sure line with his tongue, drinking in the sweet syrup. He barely touches the skin-soft leather with his tongue until he comes to a full, round cherry, which he slowly takes between his lips and sucks, pressing hard with his tongue as warm filling smears lips and chin. She lets out a barely controlled, shuddering exhalation as she watches him work the berry with his tongue.

Later that evening, after she has left, he will lie on the couch and turn his face to the well-scrubbed cushion where she sat. He imagines he can smell sweat, fear, want, excitement, shame, and desire; his own emotions build toward release he touches his cheek, his tongue, to the still-damp spot on the couch. It tastes like fresh cherries.

She thinks of him later, at home, sitting idly in front of the computer. She imagines a glowing candle-lit room, airy curtains, soft flesh bent over and pushed against a hard wooden stool. But the distracting beginnings of imaginative fantasy, the mood-setting playlist and the warm cat curled purring in her lap, vibrating against her lace-and-bow panties, are entirely too distracting; she cannot think anymore, cannot focus. She leans back further, pressing into the chair and pushing her chest out into the cold air.

She reaches up to pull the scoopneck shirt down an inch to expose one breast and pinches the hardened nipple. She traces the perfect round outline of the small areola and gasps as she squeezes. The pain from the squeezed nipple, hardening around the tiny black-titanium barbell piercing its center, makes her squeeze harder because the pain is so good: It makes her skin tingle and throb and she reactively frees her other hand from its tight grip on the chair's armrest and plunges it into her panties.

She is so wet that the black-and-pink lace has soaked through onto the webbed microfiber executive chair; she moans, almost forgetting to breathe as she rubs the sparkling gem embedded in her pierced hood against her throbbing clit. The building tension leaves her almost crying out in ecstasy.

She rubs harder, thought near-disintegrating, and wishes for more hands so to pinch her nipples and rub her clitoris and plunge into her aching, waiting cunt without having to resort to the thumb-on-clit and the insufficient middle finger in her hole -- and maybe another hand to pinch her labia, to make her flush with red pain and push into her asshole so that she feels completely full -- all holes filled to bursting with pleasure, muscles clenching and squeezing at the fingers grabbing poking probing her lips her pussy her ass her mouth pressing on her tongue and into her throat and she cries out in a choked voice.

She wishes he were in there with her, tall and light-skinned and deft, and she would grab whatever is nearby and make him use it: the USB drive in her vagina, mousepad stuffed into her mouth, long-length flexible Ethernet cable roped around her, restraining her arms and pushing her breasts out in a perfect Shinju, with a tight knot over the clitoris pressing her, moving as she writhes against the bonds.

She knows she should be submissive, but the air is cold on her nipples and the knot keeps rubbing, rubbing and soon she is crying out, coming on the chair against slippery plastic, her nipples hurt, needing to be fucked: first with a big curved dildo to hit the right spot so she can keep coming and coming and before the cock is removed from her mouth and thrust hotly into her, hips grinding against his as she comes and screams, incoherent and breathless; eyes rolling back under sweating strands of hair before she finally rolls back off his hips where she sat and rocked her pelvis forward and gripped onto his thighs as she rode till she came and now she is in a fetal position on the bed, on the floor, in the chair. Wracked with pain and exhaustion, she still throbs but she cannot take anymore...though this does not stop her from wanting.

She sits bleary-eyed at work, the familiar ennui and listlessness returned as she slowly drowns in her inbox. Her jaw tightens as she grabs at her PDA, the incessant blinking light on the top unsuppressed no matter how many sticky notes she presses onto it. The newest message is not work, but him, and her pulse quickens as she scans the quick text, I just downloaded the sequel. What are you doing Friday night? She decides to wait a moment before responding; she doesn't want to look too desperate.

She turns back to her computer, but her work suddenly seems pointless and irrelevant. She feels herself growing wet as she undocks her laptop and heads for the door, fingers flying over the PDA keyboard. How about 7pm?

She is uncharacteristically nervous as she preens in front of the mirror. She cannot remember the last time someone made her feel like a giddy teenager. The anxiety makes her younger, somehow. She reaches for glittery body powder, but reconsiders. She doesn't want to look like a stripper. They are, after all, still just friends. And this is just a movie night. Casual.

She exhales quickly and pulls the dress over her head; returns to the closet. She reaches for a pair of designer jeans, not miniskirt-naughty but dangerously low, enough to give him access without undoing any buttons. She breathes faster as the inside seam rubs against her already-swollen clit. She cannot resist dipping a finger behind the fly to touch herself.

She forces herself to disengage; she does not want to be late. She lets her bra fall to the floor and pulls on a black halter-top with just enough stretch to keep her breasts from moving freely, but the material stretches tight and sheer over her pert nipples. In daylight the top would be indecent, but in a darkened living room it will provide just the right allure. She dabs a touch of vanilla inside her elbows and applies shining, berry-flavored lip gloss. She grabs her purse and heads towards the door.

She stops short and swears as the doorbell rings. She wants nothing to do with whoever is on the other side; she'll have to wait until they leave before she can dash out. She aches with impatience as she steps quietly into the entry and peers out the peephole.

She is taken aback to see him there, when she should be on the way to his place. She fumbles for the lock and pulls the door open. What are you doing here?

He smiles, disarmingly, and gestures towards the hallway. I tried to cook dinner. It, ah, didn't work out as well as I'd liked. I thought I'd come pick you up and take you out first. Give the place a chance to air out. I'm glad you haven't left yet.

She feels a thrill as he lets her into his sleek, sporty car; she lets out a gasp as the cool leather seat strokes bare flesh as she eases in, low pants sliding dangerously down as she settles into the seat. She smiles up at him as he holds the door open, looking to see if he is enjoying the view. Her nipples grow hard as he looks at her, and she realizes the sheer shirt that was passably indiscreet in the darkened apartment is much less so under the overhead streetlight.

They stumble back towards the car after dinner, having first drunk to break the ice and then to melt apprehension. You're not driving, she murmurs into his ear as he reaches for the door handle.

I'm not letting you drive my car, he responds, laughing.

I'm not driving it either... She smiles slyly as she pushes him out of the way. I just want to sit in the driver's seat.

She runs quick fingers over his smooth head and eases into the driver's seat, making no effort to hold her low pants up as she slides against the soft leather. She gestures for him to go around to the passenger side.

Now, she says as he settles in. What do I do from here?

Well, he replies, sotto voice. Obviously, you'd check the mirrors. The switch is here. And he leans over her, reaching for a button near the front of the door. She gasps as his arm brushes against her tender nipples. She wants to lick his neck.

The seat... She whispers. How do I move the seat forward.

It's down here, at the bottom. He glances up at her before reaching between her legs and jerking the seat forward, pulling her exposed mound to his lips and giving her the briefest of kisses before pulling the front of her pants down to expose her wet, aching pussy.

She cries out as his tongue dips between her lips, nuzzling her clit just as she'd made him do the first time with the berry. When he pauses to grin wickedly at her, she nudges him back towards the passenger seat, pushes her sex-soaked pants to the floor, and climbs over the center console.

She digs her knees into the seat and straddles him. He reaches forward to pull her in as they share a hungry kiss. She leans back from him. She holds a silencing finger to her lips, then lets herself sink into his hard-pricked lap. Shhhh, she whispers. The screaming comes later.

Her fingers are quick as she deftly undoes the first few buttons of his shirt, pausing to lean in and taste his salty skin. Her tongue is hot against his small nipples as she slowly, infuriatingly, pries the rest of his buttons open and reaches to touch warm flesh, running one finger slowly behind the waistband of his pants.

He moans and thrusts his cock hard against her; she exhales as the rugged seam of his jeans rubs against her trembling clit. He runs his hands over her thighs, letting them travel her hips and under her shirt. He keeps moving his fingers up, peeling the tight layer away from her, leaning in and touching her lightly with his tongue as he uncovers the curve of her breasts. He runs his tongue under the rounded underside of one breast before he slowly pulls the shirt over her hard nipples. She cries out when he takes one in his mouth; he pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it into the backseat. Nude now, she almost glows under the sparse outside light.

She bites his lip as she pushes herself up and guides his hands towards his pants. Take them off. I can't reach.

He is quick to comply, relieved as his throbbing cock is set free from his jeans. She lowers onto him, rubbing his cock against her clit. He arches his hips and pulls her down onto his lap, thrusting deep inside her. She cries out, one hand reaching to rub her red, pulsing clit. She meets his rhythm, pushing and pulling against him, gasping for breath as his cock slides between her lips.

He closes his eyes, head back, and she grabs the base of his cock, letting her fingers slip into her own soaking cunt as she squeezes him, running her fingers down its throbbing vein. She arches her back, drives him all the way in, and reaches back with one hand to cup his contracting balls in her palm. She presses the small spot beneath them, and then they are both crying out, grabbing tightly to one another, shuddering and sweating as they come. She comes again and again, her fluids soaking their naked flesh and the soft leather car seat.

Every weekend, they decide. As their sweat chills in the night air, they agree to plan for a movie night every weekend.

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