Swallowtail Ch. 02

Swallowtail is a novel that traces the narrator's gradual acceptance of submission.

Previously: our narrator has met a mysterious goth girl at an art gallery. The girl seduces him and they engage in an anonymous coupling in the gallery's washroom.

***

The lunchroom is uncharacteristically empty. The writers and graphic artists are either snug in their cubicles or enjoying a late lunch. I take a moment, while the coffee machine burbles and farts, to survey my little domain. It used to be a lot smaller, this office in which we spin advertisements. Some modest success and a lot of good luck enabled us to expand into an adjacent vacant office. But back then, we had this lunchroom, two offices, and the "pit", a large open space that we imagined would soon be filled by young keeners with their fingers on the pulse of the fickle consumer.

But now I'm remembering the beginnings. When Sharon and I took over the lease from a defunct software company, we found among the discarded junk an array of laminated motivational posters. I've always hated them and have been suspicious of the blank-eyed corporate zealots who lived by their vacuous mantras and saccharine platitudes. It was telling to me that of all the stuff the previous tenants had taken, they'd left these posters behind. Evidently, they'd failed to motivate sufficiently.

I was about to take the posters to the dumpster when Sharon, by business partner, confiscated them.

"You're not going to hang them up, are you?" I asked, horrified.

"Not in this form."

A few days later, the posters decorated the walls of our little lunchroom. In place of the pithy sayings were blank, dry-erase panels and markers hanging from strings. And so started a trend of cynicism that I felt more comfortable with.

This afternoon's array of messages includes:

* Ambition is the shining light that is soon extinguished by indifferent management.

* Perseverance is the stupidity to try on the face of certain failure.

* Collaboration means sharing the glory with the backstabbing morons you work with.

* The difference between try and triumph is... Aw, fuck it.

Sharon was wise to limit the posters to the lunchroom. That said, the one time a prospective client insisted on a tour that included the lunchroom, she was so amused by the brutal sarcasm of the staff that we won the contract.

Business works in mysterious ways, sometimes.

I've gotten more than a few chuckles over the years. I've also gotten some warnings; the white boards sometimes point to some underlying grievance that I can address. Messages such as the ones I see today suggest to me a staff that is secure and confident, a staff that I can trust to speak plainly if I ask them to. It's the silence that I have to watch out for.

I walk back to my office. A few weeks ago, I suggested to Sharon that we invest in some real artwork, now that we were successful and all. Sharon's partner, a latter-day beatnik by the name of Rose, had just had her first show and I suggested that we hang some of her less erotically fraught material around the place. To my surprise, it turned out that most of the work had sold, and those pieces that hadn't were, by Sharon's estimate, too freakishly genitalia-centered for a genteel office such as ours. Having seen those particular pieces, I had to agree.

"So she sold most of them?" I asked.

"One person even bought two," said Sharon.

"Go figure."

The art world works in mysterious ways, sometimes.

I have just closed the door to my office when the receptionist calls, telling me that I have a visitor. I'm not expecting anyone.

"She gives her name as Dex," says the receptionist.

It takes a moment for the statement to sink in. Dex? Here?

After twice calling the number that Dex had scrawled on my chest in lipstick several weeks before, I'd heard nothing in return. I classified her as some kind of dark, nymphomaniac crank who had given me a good story to tell. She was a story with which to regale my poker-playing pals when inebriation bred indifference to the wagering, replaced by forgettable conversation and boasting. After my tryst with Dex in the bathroom of the art gallery, I had congratulated myself for being the kind of guy for whom sexual favors occasionally fell from the heavens like blessings from a strange and inscrutable god. Anonymous and unnegotiated sex didn't happen often, but if and when it did, it seemed entirely appropriate that it should happen to me. I prided myself on a healthy succession of bedmates who bestowed upon me carnal relations with no strings attached, so when Dex failed to respond to my half-hearted attempts at contacting her, I was okay with it. No strings. An interesting story. Perfect.

She wasn't my type anyway.

Now here she is in my office looking like she has just stomped off the steampunk express.

"What are you doing here?"

I close the office door behind us.

"You called," says Dex.

I look at her. I might shake my head. I'm irritated that she has come to my workplace unannounced. It suggests disrespect for the niceties of commerce and an overestimation of what our little moment meant to me. Our one moment together, I think, doesn't give her the right to barge into my life whenever the whim takes her. "I left my number. You could have called back." There's just the right edge to my voice.

Dex shrugs, indifferent to my tone. "I don't like phones."

I'm growing increasingly impatient. I stalk around to the business end of my desk, sit down, and perch my hands over the keyboard of my laptop. I have around twenty minutes before a meeting in which we're to discuss a sales presentation that we're about to deliver to what might just be our biggest client ever. I have some ideas and I've set aside this time to review them. I'm not in the mood for an unexpected visitor.

Again Dex is heavily made up and looks not unlike a raccoon, but one with dark red pillow lips. She's wearing a tight black blouse that reveals her curves to advantage. A black skirt with an uneven hem extends to mid-thigh. Black boots with dangerous looking stilettos are laced up to just below the knee and add a good four inches to her height. She looks more formidable than her stature. Taking it all in, I momentarily forget my annoyance. "Look, Dex, I'm really busy..."

"And I'm not?"

I'm not sure.

She picks up her bag. "Should have trusted my first impressions."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She moves to the door.

I should let her go. The meeting and my time is more important than some pierced stray with a fear of telephones. Instead, I move around my desk and head her off at the door.

Now, close to her, I'm reminded again how foreign to me this girl is, how completely outside of my realm of experience. She's surly when I prefer vivacious. Rough when I prefer trim elegance. Too young by far. I'd have called her a kid if I hadn't already screwed her, or, if I was to be completely honest, been screwed by her. In either case, I'm afraid that I would implicate myself by calling her a kid.

She narrows her eyes at me. "You calling me suggested some kind of interest."

"It did. It does."

"But you have no time now, is that it? It took a lot for me to come here."

"Look, Dex. Let's start over okay?"

She eyes me, suspicious now.

"Lovely to see you, Dex. What brings you here?"

"I'm usually a better judge of character," she mutters, clearly disappointed with herself.

I wait a beat. "And?"

"I came to see if I was right about you."

"And are you?"

"I don't know yet."

I'm getting annoyed again and look at my watch. "Dex, it's great that you've been able to track me down to my place of work, but I have a meeting in fifteen minutes and I really need to prepare. Perhaps we can meet after work or something."

"Fifteen minutes."

I nod, reassured that she has understood at least that.

"Then that's how long you have."

"To do what?"

"Make me come."

The words hover there, as out of place in my office as a burlesque dancer in the Sistine Chapel.

"This is a place of work," I say, sounding stuffy and older than my years.

She purses her lips. I notice that they are full and plump. "Ooh," she mocks. "Then you have some work to do."

"Let's meet later," I try again. "I could take you out to dinner or something. Drinks, maybe."

"You were happy to fuck me the other night without the requisite dinner. Or drinks. I don't recall the men's bathroom being appropriate"—she does the finger quote thing that I hate—"either but you didn't seem to mind."

"But."

"You have fourteen minutes now."

Shit, I think. I should call her bluff and send her on her way. Nothing good can come of my acquiescence. Instead, I ask, "If I can't?"

"We'll never see each other again."

"And if I can?"

"We'll see. Might be interesting."

She says it in an off-handed way. There's just enough of promise in the statement that I pause.

My hesitation must signify assent because she steps to the center of the office and unfastens something on the side of her skirt. It falls to the carpeting with a soft, slow motion rustle and she steps out of it. She's wearing nothing but a black blouse and boots now and the sight of all that skin in my office is shocking and arousing.

"You might want to close the blinds," she suggests.

I fail to understand until she points to the door.

"Cripes," I mutter, realizing that there's a small window to the right of the door with open venetian blinds. I pull strings, creating an inarticulate semaphore until the sight of the hallway is blocked off. I then lock the door.

"You're a nut," I say, half angry and half admiring. She does look good.

"You have twelve minutes."

She perches herself on my desk, facing the door. She leans back and I'm reminded of a pinup girl. She lifts a boot onto the armrest of one of the guest chairs and leans an arm on her knee. She seems nonchalant as though she does this kind of thing all the time. Her legs part as she does so. Her eyes widen in challenge.

I approach her. My mouth is dry and my heart hammers in my chest. I feel led and part of me resents it. Another part is happy to go along. It's an unnerving feeling, this zombie slog to fulfillment. I place my hands on her knees and spread them. They yield easily. Why wouldn't they? She's getting what she came for. Her legs, I see, are muscular and smooth. She doesn't seem to be the gym-rat type, but who knows? She leans back. I can't quite believe that this is happening. I step into the vee of her legs and cup her face between my hands, angle it up and kiss her. She doesn't seem to expect this. Her response is hesitant. I'm glad that I've done this little thing at least to surprise her.

I unbutton her blouse and spread it to reveal her breasts. She's not wearing a bra and is young enough to pull it off. I cup one of her breasts and knead it. It fills my hand, soft, yielding, and warm. The nipple is hard and tight and the piecing tickles the palm of my hand.

All the while I'm thinking to myself about the stages of foreplay—the kissing and teasing and touching and claiming. The slow build-up. An engine spooling up. I consider the total time needed for it all and the relative time needed for each. It's a problem. Twelve minutes—probably less now. I ponder how I should approach it, allowing sufficient time for each to be able to accomplish it all satisfactorily within twelve minutes.

Fuck it. There's no time.

She smells of talcum powder and something else I can't place. I kneel before her and look at her pussy and I have to admit that it's perfect. It's breathtaking actually. If I had to advertise one, and I hope I never do, this is the exemplar I would use. It's simple and modest and beautiful without the vague meekness of an overpuffed slit or the boastful and wanton riot of untamed tissue. It's perfect. The hint of inner labia peeking out from the velvet bed that surrounds it. The enticing rumor of untold riches and delightful complexity beneath the surface. There's a neat symmetry and aesthetic spareness, as though the artist knew exactly when to stop. A shadow of hair graces the crown of her pussy but the rest is smooth. The flesh speaks of tight embraces and of promised intimacy.

I remind myself that I have occupied this space and am ashamed that I did not at the time appreciate it fully. From my vantage point, it wouldn't have been difficult. Now that I can appreciate it, I have only a handful of minutes.

I place my thumbs on either side and pull the lips apart. The flower—I realize the metaphor is abused but applies better than any other I know—opens. The delicate pink within the fluted opening glistens.

I know the prize rests nestled within the apex of flesh at the crown but I hesitate to go there too soon despite the shortness of time. While it may not be wise time management, I take a deep breath and force myself to relax. Dex feels warm and slick beneath my fingers. I lower my face to her and trace the ridges of her with the tip of my tongue and marvel at the delicacy of this geography. My tongue meanders a languorous path, tasting the outer labia before circling to the inner. Her taste comes to me the deeper I go.

Dex leans back with a sigh. I can sense her relaxing now that the game has begun and the challenge accepted.

I insert my index finger and slide it up the slick corrugation that lies hidden on the other side of the pubic bone. I feel her pulse like a tiny living thing beneath my fingertip.

Her legs widen. I grow excited though (or perhaps because) there is nothing in this for me. There's pleasure in arousing her, in being the agent of that arousal.

"Eight minutes," she breathes.

Where has the time gone? I wonder. A third of my allotment is already up. I've lingered too long on the periphery, the outskirts that remind me of earth and vitality.

I feel a hand on my head. The touch is encouraging. A benediction.

I raise myself a little on my knees. My thumbs, on either side of the apex to her pussy, lift and separate. There, nestled in a pink bed of flesh, is my destination.

My tongue alights on it, this tiny pink ball that reminds me in this case of a pearl, and I quickly explore its surface, knowing that there is normally one spot above all others that will speed her toward the oblivion of release.

She adjusts herself on my desk. A hand leaves my head and slides down her torso until her index and middle fingers frame the area. "There," she whispers breathlessly.

Her legs widen. The hand leaves and cradles my head again, fingers buried in my hair while the other provides support as she leans back.

Her breathing deepens as I lave the spot she favors. My face is wet with a combination of her juices and my saliva.

She rests one booted foot on my shoulder but I'm past caring. The heel digs into my flesh painfully and I am spurred to renewed efforts.

Her pearl has grown harder as has her grasp on the back of my head. It is as though she would like nothing better than to possess me, press me deeply within her tight and warm confines.

There's a deep breath that is held. Fingers and tongue now work in furious counterpoint and she moves with it.

She hasn't bothered with a time-check recently but it doesn't matter. The time, my meeting, the risk of discovery—all of it has receded, drawn back from the place where tongue and clitoris dance.

She moves her hips in a dance that is as unconscious as it is elegant. Her breath comes in gasps now. I can keep her in this place forever, prolong the moment as long as I want. In this at least, I'm in control. She has tipped over the edge and the length and shape of her descent is entirely up to me.

She doesn't shriek her release. She's quiet, for which I'm grateful. The walls are thin. Her fingernails dig into the back of my head and her breath comes in shuddering gasps. There's an animal whimper and an increased wetness and a heady musk. I'm wet with her and painfully aroused. I commit the taste of her to memory.

At length she pants for mercy. "Please." Yet she does nothing to discourage me though. "Please...."

I unleash a flurry of lapping, shaping my tongue into a hard point that assaults her mercilessly.

"Please stop."

I slow down. How much time has passed? Are my colleagues wondering what has happened to me? Will they send someone to my office? My tongue is tired and raw and I can imagine that Dex feels much the same way.

I bring her down gently, thrilling at the aftershocks that shake her. I lift and spread her legs, opening her fully and thrust my tongue as far as it will go. I enjoy the taste of her, so different now than before.

***

"Wow," she says.

Considering the source, it's perhaps the biggest compliment I've ever received from the fairer sex. I grin stupidly for a while until I remember the meeting again. I glance at my watch. One minute after.

"Dex?"

"I know."

She's flushed, distracted, and weak on her legs as she carefully steps into her skirt. She supports herself on a chair and clumsily draws it up over her hips. In a moment she is once again transformed into that prickly gothic princess that entered my office.

"I'll walk you out."

She stops at the door and rises to her toes. She kisses me and runs her tongue over my lips. "I think..."

"What?"

"I think that maybe my first impressions were right after all."

I'd like to ask her about them but there's no time. The receptionist gives us a curious look when we enter the lobby. I wonder whether there's some telltale sign of what has just happened. "Thanks for coming," I say.

Dex doesn't crack a smile. "I'll be in touch," she says absently.

I want to say more but can't with the receptionist listening in. When will she be in touch? When will I see her again? These questions remain unspoken.

The elevator doors close on her and I detour to the washroom to rinse Dex off my face and to determine whether there are any signs that might give me away. There are none that I can see.

In the meeting room, I place my notes on the table and take in the assembled faces. I take a breath to begin my spiel and catch a whiff of talcum powder and something else. The something else, I know now, is simply the smell of Dex. I take another breath to savor it and then bring the meeting to order.

_________________

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