A Wind Blew Through Me Pt. 03

Chapter 5 -- The Right Path

I've always hated packing. Even though I made a detailed list and kept to it methodically, I always felt as if I were forgetting something important. It didn't help that this feeling usually proved to be justified.

But, if packing was the cost of the adventure before me, I was more than happy to pay up. Aglow with the memories of what transpired earlier, the fear and shame I felt before Amy came over was gone, replaced with an irrational optimism fueled by the endorphins surging through my brain. Sex was a hell of a drug, and an impending vacation with a beautiful, kind, generous, sexy woman was enough to make me forget about all of my problems.

Did I really even have problems at the moment? I was free from the terrible burden of my job. I was flying high on the best sex I've ever had, and I was about to go on an incredible adventure with a mysterious woman.

The nature of my relationship with Amy felt uncomfortably complicated, but that situation seemed out of my hands. She is the one who is deciding where this is going. I was content to let it play out.

I finished packing before too long, and right about then the wine started to hit me pretty hard. A voice somewhere in my head told me that I should tell someone in my life what was happening so nobody files a missing person report while I'm gone.

I didn't really have anyone to tell except my parents, but I didn't want to deal with their reaction to this craziness, soI decided email was the way to go.

I pulled out my phone and composed an email to my mom and dad which read:

Mom and Dad,

I've quit my job suddenly. I've been unhappy for a long time. I met a girl at a coffee shop last week, and she helped me realize that I need to find a way to enjoy my life as best I can. She is taking me to New Zealand for 2 weeks. We are leaving tomorrow. I do not want you to be worried about me. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I am on the right path.

Sincerely,

Greg

By the time I sent it, I was so tired I could barely make it to my bed. I fumbled to set an alarm for the morning, and crashed into a deep and vivid sleep.

--

Chapter 6 -- Sir Greggory

I dreamed about Amy. I saw her dancing again, staring at me with deadly seriousness. At times, she was far away and I could barely see her. Other times, she was closer than my skin. At last, I settled right next to her. I could feel her close to me, that familiar warmth to which I had become addicted. When I looked into her eyes, I knew that emotionally she was on an entirely different planet. The realization made me cry, and as my tears fell, she began falling away too, her warmth disappearing from me, and she didn't stop falling until I could see her no more. I cried alone in that void, hungry for her touch to return.

That was how I woke up, alarm blaring and panicking in my still half-asleep mind that I had lost her. It took a few minutes to remember myself, and what was set to transpire today. None of it felt real, which made the confusion of the vivid dream all the more powerful.

I finally looked down at my phone and a jolt of anxiety shot through my body as I realized the alarm had been going off for quite a while. Amy was going to be here in 23 minutes. I raced into the shower and began an abbreviated morning routine. I skipped breakfast but managed to get all the rest done in time, finding myself lacing up my shoes just as a limo pulled up outside.

I guess this is what 'sending a car' means. I rushed to gather my suitcase and backpack, performed a final check in hopes of remembering that thing I must have forgotten, and opened my door just as the driver was about to knock.

The look on his face was shock, which was not appreciated. He was wearing a tuxedo, improbably shiny black shoes, and immaculate white gloves. When he recovered himself a few seconds later he greeted me, "Mister Greg, I presume?"

He had the lilt of an English butler, straight out of a movie. The way he said my name made it clear he was not accustomed to enunciating such common nomenclature. It was an effort to avoid laughing out loud at him.

"Yes," I mirrored his cadence with my best attempt at seriousness, "Though I daresay you will deem to call me 'Sir Greggory'"

His face was inscrutable, and I was certain my composure lacked his impressive polish.

"Quite..." was his response after a moment of silence between us. "May I take your bag, Sir?"

I supposed I'd given this man a hard enough time, so I passed him my suitcase and turned to lock the door. He waited with unobtrusive patience for me to head toward the car, and he walked a couple of paces behind me until we reached the limo. He seemed to appear at the back door before I could get there, opening it with his right hand and holding out his left hand patiently.

In the car, I could see Amy looking up at me intently, amusement lighting her eyes. I froze for an awkward moment, unable to work out the meaning behind the driver's extended left hand.

Finally, I heard Amy crack up laughing in the back of the car, and when she recovered enough to speak she told me, "He's waiting for your backpack, you idiot!"

I looked back at the man, face still incurable and form as still as a statue. I chuckled quietly to myself and removed my backpack, placing the strap in his outstretched hand, disappearing into the car as quickly as I could.

Amy was doubled over laughing at me at this point and I just sat next to her quietly, shaking my head. I heard the driver stow my luggage in the trunk and walk toward his seat. Amy finally looked up at me, now barely containing her laughter.

"I told him to call me 'Sir Greggory'." I told her flatly, suspecting it would precipitate a renewed peal of laughter.

I was right. She laughed even harder, so much so she began to struggle with breathing. She pulled herself together, pulling the tears back into her eyes to save her makeup, and looked back at me with a barely contained grin. I took pity on her expertly applied mascara and granted her several deep breaths of silence to compose herself. Her laugh was really adorable. It didn't matter if she was laughing at me.

"Chauffeurs are a rare breed." She began, answering my unvoiced question. "Most of us do not get the chance to become accustomed to their mysterious ways." She was half-mocking, half-sympathizing.

She chuckled again softly to herself. "Sir Greggory. That's pretty good." She sighed with deep contentment, and I began to survey the space we found ourselves in.

It was very odd to my eyes. Amy and I shared an overstuffed bench seat in the back. To her right was an odd sort of compact bar with some glasses and bottles rattling around. There was a large open floor in the middle with a mirrored bench toward the front. An interior window separated us from the driver, and the exterior windows were tinted to an extreme that made me think we could do pretty much anything back here and nobody would see a thing.

She watched me taking it in with an interested smirk. She seemed to know where my mind was going before I did.

"You look like you rushed through getting ready," she said, brushing some of my hair back to a more natural position. "Did you eat?" she asked with genuine concern on her face.

"No, I didn't eat. I woke up late to my alarm blaring. I had a weird dream. A nightmare I suppose." I lookedinto her eyes, remembering the dream, "About you."

"You had a nightmare about me?" She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I guess wine's not your drink, is it?"

"I guess not. I was so sad and confused when I woke up, and I missed you so much..."

"Do you want to tell me about it?" She pulled me closer to her, and put her hand on my neck, rubbing it gently.

I thought about it for a long moment and began to recite what I remembered to her.

"At first, you were dancing..."

"That's not a bad start," she interjected, "was I hot?"

"Of course you were hot." I replied, faintly incredulous.

She giggled softly, "Sorry... go on."

"So you were dancing, and I was moving, sometimes closer, sometimes further away. Sometimes it felt like you were inside of me, other times you were so far away I could not see you. Finally, I settled down right next to you, and I could feel your body next to me."

"I'm not hearing any nightmare material, Greg." She said flatly, continuing to rub my neck.

"It was when I looked into your eyes..." I trailed off, remembering the horror I felt. "You were so far away. Emotionally, I mean. You were next to me, but also somewhere else."

She didn't say anything. I tried to steel myself to recount the final act without blubbering like an idiot.

"Then I began to cry, and as my tears fell, so did you. You fell until I could see you no more, and I knew in my heart I would never feel your touch again."

I was, barely, holding back the tears. She drew my gaze to hers with her other hand, tears fighting to escape from my eyes. "That does sound pretty awful, I'm so sorry." She looked at me compassionately and offered a little smile.

"But you know, as crazy real as that felt in your head, it was just a stupid dream." A widening smile spread across her lips and she began to get that look she adopts when she's about to do something crafty.

"You can still touch me, however you want, and I can touch you too." She put her palm under my shirt and touched the bare skin of my chest. Her hand felt wonderful, and I closed my eyes to enjoy it.

"And here's something I bet you didn't know. The great thing about limos, the reason rich guys wheel girls like me around in them, is we have space to spread out, and privacy if we want it."

She pushed a switch on the roof above her head, and a black divider closed over the window to the drivers' area.

"We're almost to the airport, so we don't really have time to do anything that exciting... but..." she peeled her shirt off, "I bet we can figure something out..."

Her semi-bare chest looked so comforting in that moment. She must have seen where I was looking, and she reached back and removed her bra as well. She pulled my face into her breasts and I cried, deeply and uncontrollably. She hugged me and I sobbed into her bare chest.

After a few minutes, I could feel the car stop. My instinct was to panic, worrying that someone was going to open the door and find us in this bizarre position, but she didn't move. I took a deep calming breath and looked up at her.

She smiled, grabbed the box of tissues next to her, and asked "Feel better?"

I took a couple tissues and attempted to clean myself off. "Much." I said amongst the sniffles.

She did her best to clean my tears and mucus from her skin and then set to work redressing herself. I could hear the chauffeur removing our luggage from the trunk, but he made no move to open the doors. I supposed discretion was one of his most sacred duties, and it was not hard to imagine the kinds of things that go on when a man gets into a limo with a woman as spectacular as Amy. The latest moment we shared was probably among the more tame things Amy has found herself performing in the back of Limos.

With her shirt replaced and properly adjusted, she looked at me with a tinge of excitement and asked, "You ready?"

"Yeah, let's go." Is what I managed by way of reply, and she gave three firm knocks on the window.

The door opened immediately on her side, the chauffeur positioned to usher her out of the car. She alighted with characteristic grace, and I nearly fell out of the car behind her into a world of sights and sounds I was not expecting.

I startled the poor man again, "Are you quite alright, Sir Greggory?' He placed his hand on my back and attempted to help me up.

Amy was looking at us both, again on the verge of laughter.

"Yes... thank you." I looked at the man, this time with genuine gratitude. I offered him my right hand, cleared my throat and said, "I appreciate your help..."

He took my hand in a firm shake and answered my unvoiced question, "Herchel."

"Of course..." I looked at him with wonder. "Thank you, Herchel." I stood there grasping his hand for much longer than I intended.

"Now, if the two of you are quite done..." Amy cut in with a formal, assertive tone that sounded foreign to my ears. "...I do believe we have a plane to catch."

"Quite right, Mademoiselle!" Herchel said, prying his hand from mine and taking up a position from which he could usher us toward the plane.

We were at the airport, I supposed, but not in the same way I had ever been there. The limo was parked perhaps 50 yards from a sleek-looking jet whose engines were already spinning up with an incredible racket. A loading ramp extended from the fuselage. Herchel led us toward the bottom of the ramp at a rapid pace, Amy walking in step behind him, and me admiring her from the rear.

At the top of the ramp, 2 men waited like statues, standing bolt upright as if they had just finished BASIC training. The one on the left was adorned in a pressed navy blue uniform with golden ropes encircling his shoulders and attaching to a pair of bright white epaulettes. His uniform was completed by a sharp captain's hat. It was no mystery who he was.

The man on the right was dressed in all white, bringing to mind a navy uniform. He was somewhat shorter than the captain, and his uniform, while impeccably clean and pressed, was not nearly as ornamental. The steward, I supposed.

We mounted the stairs up to the jet, Herchel departing with a curt nod at the base of the steps. With a sea of new and interesting sights and sounds before me, Amy mounting the stairs before me was still by far the most attractive sight to be found. Her version of travel clothes was a purple cotton shirt and a remarkable pair of teal leggings, which managed the awesome feat of making her legs and ass look even better than they did with nothing on at all.

I could see the envious gaze of both the captain and the steward when it became apparent to them how far superior my view on the ramp was to their own.

If I knew Amy at all, she was silently reveling in the attention, embracing her unanimous status as the most interesting thing contained by the skin of the plane.

--

Chapter 7 -- Commitment without Possession

Once we boarded the jet, the Captain greeted us and introduced himself as Captain Willmore. Meanwhile, the Steward he introduced as simply Tyson.

The jet's interior was impressively decorated with cream-colored leather and rich stained mahogany. The cockpit stood immediately to the left of the entrance, and the passenger cabin to the right. The entryway held a surprising array of amenities organized into a tight space- a bar, a kitchen, a storage closet, a pantry, and a compact seat, presumably intended for the steward.

The steward's workspace was divided from the passenger cabin with a lacquered mahogany door, a lock conspicuously present only on the passenger's side.

The passenger cabin itself was as beautiful as it was luxurious. Three oversized recliners ran along the port side of the vehicle, each with all the amenities you might find in a first-class seat of a commercial airliner. Along the starboard side, a couch occupied the forward half, with a beautiful coffee table set before it and a large television set into the forward wall. The rear half sported a full-sized bed with an ornate headboard.

Along the aft of the cabin was a well-stocked bar, compressed into a relatively small space, but burgeoning with many gleaming bottles, glasses, and instruments of mixology.

Amy seated herself on the couch, legs crossed casually while I took in the surroundings.

By the time I had explored the space to my satisfaction, the jet had begun to taxi toward the runway. I took a seat on the couch next to Amy.

We listened to the sound of the engines spinning up for a moment, and then I broke the silence with, "I've never seen anything like this, Amy. Thank you again for all of this."

"You just wait..." she smiled with muted excitement. "This is just the ride we are taking to get there..."

I looked down for a bit, shaking my head in disbelief again, and when I looked back up at her, that look of melancholy in her eyes was creeping back in.

Before I could say anything, she started, "Listen, Greg, let me tell you something before we get too far from home." She began with that serious edge that told me I needed to heed her words carefully.

"I care about you. You are my friend, and I will be your friend as long as I am able. You can cry on my..." she paused, smiling, "...whatever part of me you want. And I'll stick to crying on your shoulder." She ran her fingers through my hair and looked a little sad. "But I'm not your girlfriend. That's just not me. I don't do girlfriend. Not for anybody, not even for you."

It was as if she were sharing the part of herself she knew was going to hurt me, not at all uncertain of herself, but melancholy in the knowledge she was might bring me pain.

I wasn't exactly surprised to hear her say it, but it was hard not to feel anxious about it. What does this mean? What if I fall in love with this girl? Have I already fallen in love with this girl? Is she going to break my heart? Am I going to break hers?

I was willing to accept that the romance in which we found ourselves was distinctly alternative. I did not feel a drive to possess this woman, or an entitlement to her exclusive attention. I was deeply, genuinely grateful for each moment I found myself sharing with her.

But surely it is a trick of human nature to desire to consume that which need not be consumed? To want more than what we need? To push a thing of beauty so far that it begins to turn rancid?

I cared for her, too. I loved her, hopelessly. A dream of her loss brought me to my knees. I knew with relative certainty that, for the next 2 weeks, girlfriend or no, Amy would turn most of her attention and affections toward me. Could I recover from the loss of her focus once it turned elsewhere? Would it turn elsewhere?

There was enormous uncertainty between us, mingled with a powerful bond. I was utterly powerless to reject her advances and had little choice but to trust she would not crush me with her withdrawal.

I don't know how long I stared into space pondering her and I, but she waited silently, lost in her own contemplation.

"I have no qualms with the idea that you are not mine." I started softly, looking into her eyes. She looked back at me with an edge of fear for what I was about to say. "I respect and accept your agency to pursue and enjoy the attention and affections of whomever else you please." Tears welling up in her now. Clearly not what she was expecting.

"But just because I can accept the thought of my not being your only lover does not mean I can bear the thought of losing your love altogether." My turn to cry. A hot tear slid down my cheek as I looked at her solemnly.

"Is it ok for me to hope for commitment without possession?" Finally, I was able to give words to the fears consuming my mind.

She smiled with that beautiful kindness she radiated. "Oh, Greg. You see so far past what is on the surface of me, but you didn't hear the meaning of the words I just told you. Please, do not let your anxiety about the unknown come between us." She smiled again and pulled me into a hug before repeating her earlier words gently in my ear.

"I care about you." I began to cry in earnest. "You are my friend." The anxiety began to wash away. "I will be your friend as long as I am able." I finally understood. This was her version of commitment. This was as close as this woman would ever get to reciting marriage vows. A simple statement of her word. It was no more, or less, than all she had to give me.

She waited patiently for me to recover myself, rubbing my back gently. When I sat up, she handed me a tissue and waited for me to clean my face. When I looked up, that wonderful, wicked smile had returned to her face and she looked me straight in the eye and said, "And I already told you, I fuck all of my friends."