White Slip

I see you once or twice a year, not often enough to call you lover, and in between the business meetings where we trip into each other in a Houston or Minneapolis hotel, I drop the kids off at school, drive the station wagon to the office park, run the kids to soccer practice, ladle pasta onto dinner plates, suck my husband's cock. You have a clean-shaven face, brown velvet hair, a tall, muscular physique and a cock several shades darker than your cinnamon skin that, smooth and elegant when erect, looks as if it has been dipped in Port wine. Still, the months pass, and details of you - the lines on your face, the part in your hair - fade.

But I never forget your voice. Every few weeks the phone rings and I pick it up without a glance at the caller ID, tone all workaday, to encounter a conversation that's "How was your day?" meets "What are you wearing?"

This morning, I answered, annoyed at the interruption. I had a meeting in an hour for which I was still preparing.

"Hello," you said, liquid gold. My nipples tightened against my silk camisole. We rambled. An off-white thong, I offered. Going to Los Angeles next week, you said. The conversation rolled, and when I hung up all I could make out was your voice, melting me as if I were butter and you the heat, the tone that turns my clit on as if it were a switch and never clicks it off. I checked my watch. If I moved fast I could get myself off in the private bathroom and fake it through the meeting.

I locked the door, clicked on the light, kicked off my shoes and looked at my reflection in the mirror hanging over the sink. My blond hair, curly and wild, was pulled back in a clip, wisps escaping. I hiked my skirt above the rim of my thigh-high sheers, the tops of which peek out when I sit, and shimmied out of my thong and white slip, which fluttered to the floor. White slips feel childishly virginal. Every fall, when school was about to start, my mother took me shopping for new clothes: Carter's cotton underpants, plaid wool kilts with an oversized pin to hold the leg closed, saddle shoes, a new white slip.

The fluorescent light flickered like a strobe. Have to call Maintenance, I thought, I looked back to the mirror. I wanted to see what you see when I cum.

I lifted my skirt again, placed a foot on the sink, and raised myself on the other foot so I could see my reflection as I opened. I could see the handful that is my outer lips, fair hair partly shaven. The furrows as I widen my thighs, every one of which tells its own story. The tawny skin that gives way to a ruddy pink, glistening, even in the fluttering light. The clit popping outward as if to say, Please hurry.

I parted my lips, then brought my hand to my face and sniffed. I remembered the mustiness in the folds of your balls, the salt pungency of the cum you squirt, moaning, on my belly and breasts. I deposited a mouthful of cum-like spit in my hand, reached past my ass and rubbed my asshole.

I stared at the mirror. What do you see as I become aroused? Even in the vague light I could make out the flush that rose from my chest, up my neck and across my face. The short, shallow breaths. The tongue circling my lips. The dry mouth that craved the moistening of your tongue.

I started circling my clit with my other hand, slow, then fast, then slow again, but hard and rough. Once I'd teased my asshole enough, I plunged three fingers into my pussy. I could have let them slide, but instead I widened them, so I could feel the scrape of my fingernails and their changing shape as I flexed and extended my fingers, an animal running wild.

My little finger stayed outside, but I wanted more. I remembered that I had sliced its tip with a knife a few days before. It was deep enough that I could have gotten sutures, but I chose to bandage it myself. It was taking awhile to close, and I liked the idea that on some small scale I was flirting with danger. I pulled my hands away and removed the Bandaid: a pink, open wound. The wetness of my pussy would sting the cut, I knew. I plunged all four fingers in and opened myself wider. I felt the nails inside my pussy and the burning cut, and I remembered how your thick cock hurts when you fuck me hard.

I could no longer keep my eyes open. I imagined us in a hotel room, several floors above some city, any city. It is late afternoon and the curtains are flung open. Natural light has painted the space goldenrod. The comforter fell to the floor hours ago and most of the pillows soon followed.

Later there will be a dinner reservation, an expensive Merlot, my wild-as-a-storm hair contained in a girl's ponytail, sandals and a short skirt with no panties, slacks with no boxers, tight enough so I can watch the muscle of your ass, the ridge I have run my tongue along, as I follow you to the darkened corner table, yet loose enough so that, as I agitate my stem glass, sniff the wine's bouquet and feel you tease my thighs with your fingers, there is room for me to massage your balls, which seem to float in the fabric.

I will take my first sip of the blood-stained drink as your fingers dip in, a quill in an inkpot, and the warmth will spread from my mouth to my stomach, my pussy to my belly, reigniting the hunger that won't be sated until morning.

But right now I am spent, rent, as I lie on my back and look up at you fucking me. I am almost a rag doll. You tell me to roll on my stomach, and I move as if under water. All fours, you say. I want to see that asshole of yours.

You rub the plug along my asshole, bigger than the last one, and I tense up, afraid, but when you whisper, I trust you. You run your tongue around my rim like you have done before and because this is familiar, I open enough for you to slide a finger, wet with spit, inside. You probe and I push toward you, crying out. It hurts but I do not resist.

You withdraw your finger and move away. I hear the sound of lube squirting from a bottle. It is wet, with a squishy pop, and it reminds me of how my pussy sounds when you massage it with your fingers. Again, I know this sensation, so I relax.

I feel your weight resettle on the mattress. You hold onto my ass as I bury my face in the one pillow that has survived our fucking. You speak softly to me, your voice warm honey, but I cannot make out what you are saying, I can only feel you opening me and slowly advancing, I feel my whole body opening until you have reached the point of my resistance, then your words sing through my brain and I open even more. I arch my back like a cat. I think I am moaning but I can no longer recognize the sound of my own voice.

You push your cock into my pussy with a suddenness that makes me gasp and you grab hold of me and fuck, fast and hard. I have forgotten where I am. With every thrust you jab my cervix and ram against the buttplug, until I feel as if you are fucking me all the way up to my breasts. I can do nothing but hang on. I know I will want to cum with you, but I am afraid to cum excoriated, so I wait. I wait.

Something changes. Your breathing deepens, hollows, and you plunge less from your cock and more from your pelvis. I grow lightheaded, and I imagine you are lightheaded too. Your cock seems to swell, as if it were possible for it to become any larger, so that I am full, full of you.

I sense an urgency, as if you are losing control, then I lose control, and I no longer know if it is your cock in my pussy or your cock in my asshole and I open my mouth and wish for something, anything, your fingers, your cock, a gag, in my mouth, so you are filling everything that needs to be filled.

I reach for my clit as I feel a moan begin deep in your belly, it grazes my spine and your balls slap the wetness that is dripping from my pussy, the walls of my pussy begin to contract around your cock as it shudders, as if my contracting is causing your shuddering in an endless cycle that makes me contract faster, I no longer know where my pussy ends and your cock begins, then you burst into me as the waves overtake me and I am under, under, under.

I opened my eyes, surprised that I was still standing. I removed my hand from my pussy, placed my foot on the floor, and flexed the leg that had kept me upright. It was shaky but sure. As I slid on my thong, I imagined you rolling me over and nuzzling my lips.

You wrap your tongue around my tender clit and I jump, pull away, but you follow me. It is too intense, I want to say, too raw, but I will let you do anything. You sip from my pussy, long and slow, then you move your body up, lie on top of me, thigh to thigh, nipple to breast, and slip your tongue in my mouth. We taste ourselves and each other and we kiss until our chins are wet.

I pulled my white slip on, smoothed my skirt, opened the door, flicked off the light. I walked toward my office and heard the phone ring. It was time for my meeting.

I did not wash my hands.