Old and New

Peter stood from the stool in front of the computer and went to the window. He slightly smiled. Rain was still falling, though not so heavily as in the morning. Across the mountains on the paramount, sun was setting somewhere, tracing the sky with some orange light.

After a winter of snow, rain and cloudy sky, spring was about to come. Not that rain was not falling any more; but days were ostensibly growing longer and in the air you could smell the jasmine flourishing, an unmistakable sign that spring was coming.

Peter had never been influenced by the weather. He liked rain. As an asthmatic, he needed rain to clear the atmosphere from all those particles which make him breath badly. But what is spring if you don't have anyone to share it.

From the outside, everyone would have thought Peter was leading an accomplished life. The company he had a relevant share in was on the rise, despite the economic crisis still hampering the whole nation; he owned two houses, one in town and the other on a ski resort; he had a beautiful wife; but most of all, it was the style he owned, a special intensity looming over him while he walked. He could have been a perfect model for those magazines, whose covers always sport some well-tanned faces who have reached the peak of their careers at an outrageously young age.

But Peter knew that reality is much different from what other people see. Though revenues were still high, projections were not so good for his company. Nothing serious, but something that should need a swift, proper and immediate overhaul, something his partners were not keen on. He didn't bother about his properties, mostly because at the end he could not enjoy any of them. And his wife, well, if you had to write the balance sheet of their relationship, maybe he could assess it with a chance to break even, not more.

Nonetheless, he was smiling. He had just read a mail from Clare, a friend and former school-mate who was living abroad. She confirmed that she would meet him next week, when Peter was to fly abroad for a business meeting to the town where she had been living.

He had not seen her for years.

After they went to the same school without even noticing it, they casually met up at the university they both attended in another town. Since they had grown up in a not so little country village, both of them had found themselves in awe of the big town. The fact that someone each of them knew (and didn't dislike) pulled them together – though it never evolved in anything more than friendship. But when you spend four years together, mostly the years a brand new world opens in front of your eyes, you'll never forget who was by your side in those moments.

Not that she wasn't pretty (she was, especially at that time it was Peter who looked nerdy in some fashion); but simply the spark never lit up.

Well, they had been a few times on the verge of it; but at the end they exchanged only a single passionate kiss. It was right before the start of their last year at the university; they spent the day on the beach with other friends (the ones you part company when the motive that brought you together fades away) and at noon they sat in the shade under the same umbrella. Peter couldn't still realise what happened then. They were chatting, they were joking and at a certain moment he stopped. He looked into her eyes and froze. She stopped laughing. They both turned their eyes away for a while, before getting back to chatting to nonsense. Then he decided to take a walk to buy some refreshments; after a while she followed him. When they reached the bar a hundred yards away and no friend was in sight, she pulled his arm and put her lips on his lips. She later said she was afraid she would have been rejected. But Peter didn't reject her.

The very next day she left for a trip across Europe with some university friends, and when she came back they both acted like nothing had happened. Well, during the summer Peter acted like he was engaged (in Greece a gorgeous French girl offered herself to him, he couldn't recall where he drew the strength not to fall'when she put her hands on his thigh), but he never told Clare.

So they were very cautious in not being alone for too long – and their friendship stood.

Their lives took different turns (they both married, though Clare had already divorced three years before; she went to teach abroad, while he moved to the big town where they attended university); but they managed to meet a few times each year. Most of all, the coming of internet allowed them to get in touch as frequently as they did during the university years. And it seemed to Peter that he had been talking to Clare more than he did with his wife.

So he was smiling. He just peeked once again at the picture she had sent him, her slender figure and her nice derrière, the chestnut hair and that kind of smile he had always loved. She had always thought she had bad teeth, so she showed her teeth very seldom. The fact that she was actually smiling was a thing Peter was one of the very few to know (it happens when the right side of her lips turns upwards).

After they went to the same school without even noticing it, they casually met up at the university they both attended in another town. Since they had grown up in a not so little country village, both of them had found themselves in awe of the big town. The fact that someone each of them knew (and didn't dislike) pulled them together – though it never evolved in anything more than friendship. But when you spend four years together, mostly the years a brand new world opens in front of your eyes, you'll never forget who was by your side in those moments.

Not that she wasn't pretty (she was, especially at that time it was Peter who looked nerdy in some fashion); but simply the spark never lit up.

Well, they had been a few times on the verge of it; but at the end they exchanged only a single passionate kiss. It was right before the start of their last year at the university; they spent the day on the beach with other friends (the ones you part company when the motive that brought you together fades away) and at noon they sat in the shade under the same umbrella. Peter couldn't still realise what happened then. They were chatting, they were joking and at a certain moment he stopped. He looked into her eyes and froze. She stopped laughing. They both turned their eyes away for a while, before getting back to chatting to nonsense. Then he decided to take a walk to buy some refreshments; after a while she followed him. When they reached the bar a hundred yards away and no friend was in sight, she pulled his arm and put her lips on his lips. She later said she was afraid she would have been rejected. But Peter didn't reject her.

The very next day she left for a trip across Europe with some university friends, and when she came back they both acted like nothing had happened. Well, during the summer Peter acted like he was engaged (in Greece a gorgeous French girl offered herself to him, he couldn't recall where he drew the strength not to fall when she put her hands on his thigh), but he never told Clare.

So they were very cautious in not being alone for too long – and their friendship stood.

Their lives took different turns (they both married, though Clare had already divorced three years before; she went to teach abroad, while he moved to the big town where they attended university); but they managed to meet a few times each year. Most of all, the coming of internet allowed them to get in touch as frequently as they did during the university years. And it seemed to Peter that he had been talking to Clare than he did with his wife.

So he was smiling. He just peeked once again at the picture she had sent him, her slender figure and her nice derrière, the chestnut hair and that kind of smile he had always loved. She had always thought she had bad teeth, so she showed her teeth very seldom. The fact that she was actually smiling was a thing Peter was one of the very few to know (it happens when the right side of her lips turns upwards).

He hadn't seen her for two years; in a week he would have met her.

*****

Peter looked around in the airport lobby. When you were born in the Sixties, you were brought up to believe that airports are places full of charm. Trains and ships were the main means of transport way back then, while only rich people travelled by plane. Now it depends on which airport you are – the one Peter was waiting for Clare is hub for one of the high-flying low-cost companies, so you can see mostly cheaply clothed people with lots of uneven pairs of memories in their 22-for-16-for-8 trolley bags. He recalled the first times he went into an airport lobby, how sexy most of the girls liked, with their big town accents. Now he could hardly find two women looking pretty, but the way one of them gestured, and the language the other spoke, made them look trivial.

Clare hadn't arrived yet. She had texted she was late, so he didn't worry. She has always been late since he knew her. But he knew she would arrive. And then Clare finally popped up. Dressed in blue, trousers and jacket with cotton white shirt, her eyes brilliant as he remembered. And her smile – she looked very happy.

"Hi Peter!"

They swapped kisses on their cheeks.

Watching from close range, some wrinkles had emerged under her eyes. Peter was lucky to look younger every day passed by.

"So welcome to Paris – well, sort of. Are you ready to make a big deal?"

"J'espère. Hopefully I won't have to rely on my French too much."

They swiftly made it to her car and then they left for Paris.

They chatted for the hour-plus ride to his hotel. He realised how relaxed he was in her company. He didn't like to travel, but he felt completely at ease there, with her. He was better to focus to the meeting that lied ahead the day after, but he was sipping the excitement of travelling with a long time friend, who was a gorgeous woman as well.

His nostrils took all her fragrances he could take, while his ears got familiar again with her voice. He noticed he was speaking faster, a sign he was excited. So he realised that the morning meeting would only be a necessary stop before next evening's dinner with Clare.

*****

Peter was amazed at how at ease Clare was in that town. She acted as she was born there, though she was actually born in another country. And it wasn't how she was dressed, she looked just like one of his compatriot forty-something women, maybe one who doesn't waste too much time and money on brands, but surely dresses attractively and effectively.

He had a clue on what he ordered at the restaurant, but he could barely understand what the waiter and Clare traded; learning languages was not his forte, and there he could lean on Clare.

But as soon as the waiter left, she spoke in her native language like she wasn't ever been abroad for more than two weeks. Typically Clare: she could be away from his life for years, but when she came back, it was like she had never left.

Dinner was light though tasty, brilliantly marked by a single glass of wine. Then they went walking along the river; a light rain was falling, and she had a small umbrella in her bag. She looked so simple, but she was always ready for everything.

They walked clumsily close, trying to get shielded by the little umbrella; so they both got drenched. He loved being so close to her, feeling her breath and smelling her perfume. They were so close. A traffic light showed red. They stopped. With no one in sight, Clare turned and stamped her lips on Peter's.

Green light. She walked on, leaving him one step back.

He wanted that moment to last longer, though the rain kept falling, slightly heavier. They walked without talking. Until she stopped.

"Here we are. That's where I live".

A five-storey early XX century building, with a blue iron gate. She walked two steps, while Peter stood on the pavement.

"Hey, get in, you can't go back to the hotel without having a cognac, you are completely drenched."

He hadn't even started to worry about the moment she would have kissed goodbye, and now he was riding on the lift with her, just seconds away from entering her flat. He could hear her voice, but not what she was saying.

"Hey Peter, is everything alright with you?"

Sure, sure. I was thinking about how all these buildings are inside, and now I have the chance to see one of them!"

He followed her inside her flat. She turned the light on in the hallway, where she left her coat, then she sneaked into another room, leaving him alone for a while. After he took his coat off, he could see the living room through the public lights, a couple of plants and a sofa smeared in the contrast of light and shadow.

She got back without her shoes and with a wool sweater on.

"This way".

She led him in the living room. They sat on the sofa, each on a different corner, with a sitting place between them. He heatedly took part in the conversation, but he didn't care what was about. The most important thing was being there with her, both with a glass of cognac in their hands.

The warmth of the cognac gave him life. She moved towards an ash-trayer and he reached for her; she turned her head and he softly kissed her. Now it was her time to be frozen.

Not for too long.

"Peter, both of us knows this would be wonderful. But simply too wonderful. It would create troubles in each of our lives."

"We know how to deal with it. Why do you want to negate yourself something you desperately want?"

"This is not a fair way to put it down, Peter. And you know it."

He knew that when she used "you know it" it was the end of the story. So he walked back.

"Not that I don't desire you. You haven't the slightest idea, Peter. But how could I live without it after you have left?"

"So why did you kiss me?"

"So why are you so stupid to pose such stupid questions? Don't you know that sometime you do things without thinking about consequences?"

Once again, she was right.

"Clare, forgive me." He sighed.

"Hey, nothing to be forgiven. I have appreciated it." She leaned over and kissed him, her tongue sneaking slightly inside his lips.

He looked puzzled.

"Now, do you trust me, Peter?"

"Of course I do."

"I mean, do you trust me up to the point of letting me do a thing for you, while you promise you won't be doing anything I don't want you to?"

"Hey, that's complicated but... what the hell, yeah, I trust you, I will let you have your way."

"Good. But remember, if you do something I don't want, maybe you won't be seeing me again any more."

Peter felt uncomfortable.

"Sorry, Pete. Don't be scared, nothing to be scared of" and she posed a hand on his left knee. He gazed into her eyes and felt better. Her hand moved from the knee to the thigh... and there it halted. Peter's mouth stood half open, while he felt a warmth in her tummy.

"So, Pete, come sit here" and she indicated a simple chair a few yards away in front of the sofa.

After Peter sat, he walked away. He didn't turn, he could hear the metallic sound in another room, before her steps getting back to the living room.

She stood behind him; she whispered to his left ear "Don't be afraid, you won't get hurt" then she stepped in front of him and smiled. He smiled back and she turned behind him again.

"Won't you put your hands down behind you for a while, Pete?"

"Of course, Clare."

As soon as he put his hands down, she swiftly grabbed them and immediately locked in with a handcuff.

"Hey, what the hell?"

"Be quiet, honey. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes, but... where do those things come from?"

"Haven't you ever been to Amsterdam?"

She was now sitting on the sofa. She unzipped her gown... it fell to the ground.

Now Peter saw Clare standing with her silk white blouse, black panties and black stockings. And now she was undoing her blouse. Now he could see her bra.

He swallowed. The warmth in his tummy grew.

She sat. She spread her legs. He looked into her eyes and could see a different light. Her fingers were running slowly on the fabric of her panties.

"Do you want to see my pussy?"

"Yes, please"

She removed her panties. His eyes were fixed on what lies between her legs. She licked a finger; then she gently stroked around her labia. Her pussy was already wet; after seconds her finger got inside, making her moan.

"Do you like it?"

He didn't answer.

"I assume you do".

She slowly fingered herself for a while, then she stopped. She stood up and neared Peter. She stood the finger in front of his mouth; he bowed and his tongue reached out for it. She walked behind him and soon came back to the sofa.

From beneath the pillow she grabbed a dildo. She took it to her mouth and her tongue licked the tip, while her lips circled the top of it. Then she spread and put the dildo inside her.

Her eyes kept fixing his eyes. She could see his desire; he could see her lust.

She rode until she came – and he had no doubt over it. She made him lick her dildo, before sharing a deep, sweet kiss.

She quietly regrouped and dressed back. It was time to liberate him.

"Now I will call a taxi for you, Peter"