Allure Ch. 02

"Allure" chronicles a true story. No names are used to avoid any possibility of identifying the participants and causing hurt where no hurt has been intended. The story unfolds simply, but the complexity builds beyond the moments enjoyed. What the future brings come as uncertain as each moment the man and the woman enjoyed. A slice of life cannot be altered, cannot be reduced to body parts, for the parts become merely a means to an end--if an end can ever occur.

A Journey Properly Begun

He carves space for them in the swirling dissonance of his other life. The things that quantify this house--the decor a fragile personality has arranged, the kitchen his other life claims for herself, the bedroom a wife defends with spiteful threats of death--exist mostly as background noise for the red-haired woman who arrives with certainty.

It must be here she comes, for few other possibilities exist for them. His car would be too awkward. Her van would be too noticeable. Renting a motel to use for only ninety minutes would seem too seedy. And they certainly cannot be whole within the structure of her other life--too many people, too many responsibilities, too many ways to be discovered.

In his house, they have little to fear. The raging tempest of his life has withdrawn. Unable to cope with the intensity of her own accusations, unable to detect any clues to confirm her suspicions, unable to shake the thoughts of his betrayal, the wife retreats into self-absorbing anxiety. In the solitude of her absence, he creates the reality of her self-fulfilling prophecy.

To invite this new woman risks little. For her to accept risks little. He does not know his neighbors; she knows no one living nearby. Night has fallen deeply dark over them. Still, when she arrives, she parks her van around the corner and walks wary until inside the safety of his solitude. Only after he locks and bolts and chains the door do they acknowledge the sense of each other with a warm kiss of greeting and a passionate embrace of auras and the building of the arousal over what they know will occur without hesitancy.

She drops her purse on the nearby chair. The jeans she wears mold tight around her and the boots she prefers give her height so they can see blue eyes to hazel eyes as they kiss. She wanders tranquil into his space. She claims it as she had the bedroom that first morning between them. Nothing from her other life can intrude in this place. Nothing from his life can intrude either, but he keeps the windows sharply covered and, to avoid telltale shadows wavering lustful on the drapes, he turns off the lights until only the bold blue glow of the stereo clock cloaks them softly.

Some might say this man and this woman retreat from fear they will be caught; others might believe they merely lock the world out so they might enjoy each other in solitude. Some truth exists in both thoughts or maybe no truth exists. If anything must be explained about their choice of place, let it be that this man and this woman see this darkened setting as sanctuary, as something only they create, as a realm in which the passion growing between them can flow without fear, as the arena in which their auras mingle as they sit close on the sofa, words tumbling forth in this dimness, words warmed with wine and cognac and nearness.

The words do not matter, only the outcome they portend. Bonds form even if they do not understand. Tentacles entwine in intricate patterns they do not yet see. Lust reigns--it must--but it becomes a pathway along which they rush without looking, the pathway friends and lovers alike take, and, occasionally, a path those destined to love might take.

Friends exist mostly in sober dawn. The brightness of day brings light too revealing. Touches then must come casually, embraces merely greeting, fingers brushing in accident, postures wishing to entwine held painfully erect. The way of the world dictates how friends interact.

As lovers, friends walk strangely dreamlike landscapes, touches soft as silk, colors bold as brass, smells pungent as ripened earth. Visions blur. Senses sharpen. Feelings mingle. Lovers blend the friendship into physical contact because it comes so naturally and night provides a sense of the hidden and the forbidden, even if they feel neither describes them. Yet, he would gladly bring what they enjoy in solitude into daylight and would not mind if others understand the implications of their touches, the closeness of their auras, the headiness of their words. They might yet careen more fully down that path, but to do so would be as a couple and, from that, love would grow.

Two people integrating the feel of pleasure into their friendship do not look beyond the intensity of the moment, do not wonder what exists tomorrow, or next week, or next year. The lust emanating from each blinds them to all but the present. They revel in the presence of each other and in the moment to be shared and the orgasms that will surely follow.

Lovers they become, but they do not arrive together this night as lovers in the sense of loving. Blame the language for the failure to have a word to describe that stage when two people step beyond friendship but do not become lovers in the sense of loving. But, with no other descriptive phrase--aside from "adulterers," which doesn't quite fit except as a moral judgment neither makes--they can only be called "lovers."

Tonight, the man sits relaxed on the couch with a cognac in hand. His long legs stretch onto the coffee table. The woman sits leaning her flowing form into the crook of his arm, her cognac on the coffee table near his knees.

"I'm tired of rules." He states it plain.

"I only have one." She states it certain. "Nothing anal."

"A rule or a request?" He kisses her cheek.

"I don't like rules either." She traces his hard square chin. "Let's call it a request."

He stretches eager and she flows wet beneath their clothes of social convention. They shed them easily, each trying to undress the other, but urgency demand they finish undressing themselves until they have nothing left between them except the open indulgences of each other. They fall expectant to the floor, she on her back, he kneeling astride her legs. He relishes the form of this woman he will soon enter, letting her see the full form of the man about to enter her. He does not mind she can see him risen strong, hard flesh for her to enjoy, and she does not mind that he can look between her legs to see her glossy in the night, soft flesh for him to enjoy.

He marvels at the pliancy of her lips when he leans to kiss her, how easily open they come to his, how greedily they nibble his. His fingers graze across the gentleness of her breasts and his tongue savors nipples rising bold. He lets his hardness trail along her thigh as his exploration of senses flows along her skin to her belly to between her legs.

In the cool blue light, his thumb finds her clit and circles it slowly. Above, her thickly pale pubic hair looks barely there, merely random lines that might be wispy shadows or surface veins intricately arranged or ripples of excitement beneath her skin. The newness of this in his life--these rust-colored shadings curling languidly between her legs--should be appreciated. He should study the hues cast along her skin and how the shape forms an inviting pathway to her cunt and note the similarity of tint to the shading of the artful folds into which his cock will slip.

But this comes as an evening of urgency. He barely samples her taste and the sensitive nub of her clit before he knows the moment of first joining must begin to allow some lingering after. He leaves his admiration of the subtleness between her legs for another day. Tonight, he basks in the slick feel of his fingers inside her damp fleshy folds before they give way to his hardness, and she compares how the feel of his cock stretching long inside her differs from the feel of it stretched long in her mouth.

Her hands slip softly along his hairy chest as the music plays them close together and sets the motion of their rhythm. The rug presses her deeply up to him. He moves slowly inside her, letting the wetness of her folds caress his hardness, letting his hardness test the wetness of her folds until the rhythm catches them up and they glide against and inside of and around each other as if they have been doing this for centuries.

Perhaps they have. Perhaps inside each reside the genes of previous lovers through the ages passed down in hopes of finding two new lovers who would bring the moment of sharing intimacy into the art of sharing love. Did he first plunge into her on the Hill of Tara, soft breezes brushing over them as they looked into each other's eyes? Did she pull him inside her in the Temple of Astarte, hot desert wind caressing them on the cool stone floor? Did they flow into each other not once, but thousands of times in thousands of places in thousands of configurations only to be separated by time and distance and circumstance? Have they been caught by jealous others before in passionate embrace? Punished for their sins? Banished from each other?

If so, they return to each other again in blissful ignorance. They feel only this night and only each other. It is the suppleness of wetness and the thrust of tautness that intoxicates, not the cognac they have drunk.

She accepts the urgency of his hands and lips and cock exploring. Each darts from lips to breast to cunt opening flowering beneath him. He accepts the tenderness of her hands and lips and cunt. Each flows from lips to chest to cock stretched taut. He glides easily around her, inside her, baring himself and his self. She slides up to feel him full, legs around his to feel him deeper, baring herself and her self. They are together giving and taking at once because there has not yet been enough time for first giving and then taking--time to explore the one while the other lies placid, receiving pleasure unrestrained, acceptance uninhibited, tasting the one on the lips of the other before the one gives way to the other.

She moves slowly across the rug that burrows into her back as he slides deeply with each fluid thrust.

They are too intense to get up and move to more comfort.

They surrender themselves, steely shadows from the clock's blue light drifting across their skin. The stretch of him inside her, the closing of her around him, the moist softness welcoming him plain, the blunt hardness--all these finding not merely a place in which to nestle, but a home to claim.

He coats his thumb in her and licks it clean, sucks like a baby her breasts beneath him, nipples up in wantonness, plunges deeply into her, softly strokes her cunt with his cock, feels her fingers caress his back and breeze along his sides and hold him tightly as the force of his climax flows deeply inside her.

There has been no measure of time entered or withdrawn except that it has not been enough and only the once when it should be two or three with softness breaks between. But those moments must be reserved for couples without other lives to contend with, or for lovers who can easily escape for a weekend. Perhaps they might. The thought comes eagerly to him, but it would take much planning and subterfuge.

Only barely begun, they sit huddled after in closeness, dressed again in their clothes of social convention because now comes the time other lives must intrude. She sits oozing him into her panties. He rests comfortably with her juices and scent lingering across his softness. Their words whisper softly around kisses tender, reminders of this first time he has entered her and she has taken him inside. This subtle shift from being two who have been friends, who have shared a moment of erotic pleasure, to two who have felt the depths of each other, who have joined not just the length and depth of each other but the breadth that surrounds them makes them linger. Time to go. Not just yet.

But no matter how long they delay the moment with soft kisses and whispered words and gentle caresses, leaving always seems so abrupt, no matter how necessary. They must allow themselves the separation of beds and of selves. If they did not, they would set off firestorms and angers and, not merely hurt, but intensely crushing pain. They must wait for more appropriate moments that bring them a day in a day only theirs to share. At this moment, they are an infinite wandering just beginning, savoring the pleasures of body and mind they bring to each other, not even concerned about the depth their presences together might create.

But the transformation must begin.

She walks slowly down the front walk, pensive. Does she feel the eyes follow her, wondering if they caress her still, lightly on the shoulder, demanding along her legs, triumphant over the wetness still oozing? Does this parting sadden him?

He watches, wondering if, in the slowness of her walk, she recalls the moment she leaves behind, the feel of him and her together, or does she begin to prepare for the return to her other life. Does she nudge the feel of him aside to bring forth the memory of the other, so that the closer she comes to her home, the more wifely she becomes? What of that moment when she is halfway between, when the strength of the two men in her life tugs at her equally: Is her expression then one of comfort returning or joy departing?

Next: Claiming the Night