Camille Ch. 02

Friday came, as I knew it would.

Even before my eyes were open the thought came.

"You don't have to do this," I thought.

But I knew I did.

So I rolled out of bed quickly. For the first time in months, hell, for the first time since we got married, I did not want David to join me in the shower. I needed to cry and I did not want to explain why.

Since David came into my life I have taken to enjoying my body. Even when I showered alone, which was rare, I tended to, well, okay, I'll say it. I tended to play with myself a bit. Okay, sometimes I'd even masturbate in the shower, something I allowed myself since he had broken down so many inhibitions.

But this morning I just washed and cried.

Finally, cried out, and thinking my fingers and toes might be getting pruny, I turned off the water dried, and got ready for work.

Dressed and ready I packed my little overnight case. David knew my "Girl's night outs" were really "Girl's overnight outs," so it's not like I had to hide anything. The little retro train case was a Christmas gift from him, a Samsonite piece that probably dated to the 1950s. I slipped my "special dress" into the bottom of the case and covered it with fresh underwear, socks, a pair of high heels, and some makeup. I didn't think David would ever look, but if he did, the only thing that would be hard to explain, okay, impossible to explain, was the dress but I honestly didn't imagine he ever would.

Downstairs he greeted me with a bagel heavily loaded with cream cheese, and coffee, kissed me, and said, "See you Saturday. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I smiled, said, "Ace your test," and watched him out the door. I heard his little motorcycle start up and then screamed in my mind, "Oh, Honey, I'm going to do things you'd never DREAM of doing."

I ate my bagel with Fox and Friends blathering on the television, and talking to myself.

"Just tell him," I told myself, "tell him and go back on the meds. He'll understand."

"Would he? Do you really believe that?" I asked myself."

"He loves you, you know that," I assured myself.

"I know THAT," I yelled at myself, "but is it enough?"

But I knew that none of it mattered.

The URGE was too much a part of me to be denied.

So I took a deep breath, huffed it out, picked up my little bag, and went out to face my day and the night to come.

I made it until noon, putting the finishing touches on the damn grant application. I knew I'd need to review everything on Monday. I was distracted. So I stuck my head in the boss's office and said, Hey, Tom, I'm calling it a day. See you Monday."

He just grinned and waved me away.

That's one of the perks of being very good at what you do. They don't mind if you extend your weekend sometimes.

I let myself into Arlene's big ranch-style house in one of those suburbs where homes sat on acre lots. I chuckled, as I always did, remembering Arlene telling me, after crying for an hour in my arms, how she was going to make damn sure the fucking her divorce lawyer gave Ron, the ex who traded her in on a blonde half her age and about two-thirds her size, was going to be better than anything that blonde ball of fluff would ever give him.

I went into the spare bedroom, a room in which I would not sleep tonight, stripped off my clothes, picked up my cell phone, and then padded naked through the house, picking up the Diamond Mastercard Arlene always left in her kitchen drawer, and out the back door to the pool. I leaned back on one of her heavy redwood chaise lounges and started doing the necessary research.

On the Convention Bureau website, I checked and found what I was looking for. Something called the "Association of Western Water Engineers" was holding their annual convention at the downtown le Meridien hotel which tickled me silly. That meant I'd do my pickup at 54Thirty, the wonderful open-air rooftop bar with its amazing views.

I called the hotel and booked a room for the night.

I didn't feel any guilt about using Arlene's card. First, I knew this card was billed directly to her ex. Second, what the hell, she'd be using the room too.

The details taken care of, and my conscience shoved deliberately down to the bottom of my mind, I'd deal with it later, I jumped into the swimming pool, kept at a nice blood temperature, another bill sent directly to the ex, and ripped of a quick 10 laps. Arlene and I had been assigned as dormitory roommates initially as Freshmen since we were both on the swim team. Arlene, with a better specific gravity given her well-padded size, swam the distances measured in miles. I did sprints, fast but my lean-to-fat ratio let me sink if I didn't keep moving.

Then I laid back, just a towel between my body and the warm concrete, and, much to my surprise, I dozed.

"Stay here with me, tonight," her words were soft, her lips so close to my ear I could feel little puffs of air as she spoke them, "You don't have to do this."

This was a conversation we had dozens of times in the past, but not for the last three years. Not since David swept me off my feet and I thought the URGE was gone.

"I have to," I said, my eyes still closed, "I'm sorry, Leen, but I have to."

"Fight it," she said, and her kiss sent a rush that started at my scalp and left the soles of my feet tingling, and my toes curling.

"I CAN'T Arlene," I yelled, "don't you wish I could."

"I'm sorry, Cammie," she said, the only person in the world who called me that. She wrapped me in big strong soft arms, pulling me to her, and I realized she was as naked as I was.

But it wasn't sexual. Oh, it was sensual as hell. She enfolded me, hell, she engulfed me, in her warmth.

And I was crying. Oh, hell, I was bawling. I was wailing. I loved her and I loved my husband and I hated myself and I hated what I would do tonight and I just screamed my pain while she held me, stroking my hair.

I don't know how long that went on before I wound down. I know when I pulled away, finally, those magnificent boobs of hers were slick and shiny with my tears and snot and drool and I giggled softly and managed to say, "Thank you."

She smiled, kissed me, a soft, snotty kiss, and said, "All right, Cocksucker, come on. We'll get you ready."

We showered together. We giggled a lot. She teased me about being flat-chested and I accused her of having udders and asked her to moo for me. She told me I looked like a beanpole. I told her she hadn't missed any meals. She washed my face and I washed hers. She shampooed my hair, an easy job since I wear it short, just a curly cap. I shampooed her hair, a much harder job for me since she's one of those natural blondes with about a bazillion hairs per square inch and she wore it in a great mane about halfway down her back. She washed my body, almost making me cum when she did between my legs and then making me squeal and squirm when she did my ass including deep into my gluteal cleft, my asscrack, and sudsed up my asshole. I washed her body, fascinated by the very fine, almost downy hair that covered her body, a price she told me she paid for that mass of blonde hair that made men look since we were freshmen.

We dried each other the same way, with lots of giggling.

"All right, Sluterella," she said, giggling, "let Auntie Arlene make you look obvious so you'll have plenty to choose from."

And she did.

She started at my hair, drying it and then using a hair pick and blow dryer until it was a very cute, if I do say so myself, cap with just a few little streaks of grey showing. Every time I suggested to David that I have my hair colored he would tell me how sexy the grey was. So there it was.

She did my face next. This time, unlike my hair, she overdid it dramatically. A pale foundation with dark tan highlights applied artfully with a soft brush gave me a very stark, exotic look. The eyeliner with points at the corners gave me a slightly oriental look. Very arched eyebrows gave me a big-eyed, oil painting waif look. The scarlet lipstick gave me a definite whore look.

"Did you bring The Dress," she asked, and the way she said it made the capitalization obvious. It was something I bought back when we were still in college and, honestly, I'm pretty damn proud I can still fit in it.

"Of course," I said, "you know where."

She went to the train case, rummaged, and pulled it out.

"All right, Sluterella," she said, "arms up."

I lifted my arms straight up and then giggled as she drug her fingers through the hair in my armpits.

"You know," she said, "I think I'll throw away my razor for a while then next time you come over you can see what a gorilla I would be."

I giggled and said, "Come on, Auntie Leeny, dress me."

She rolled the dress into a donut and then dropped it over my head.

The fine material fell easily to cover me from throat to ankles. It was black, with side panels of a material so sheer you could read a newspaper through them. There was no doubt at all that there was nothing but me under the material.

"And shoes," she said, easing to her knees and putting my shoes on me, buckling the "fuck me" ankle straps.

She took a couple of steps back and smiled, wanly.

She moved back to me and put both hands on my shoulders.

"Stay with me tonight?" she said, a tear welling and rolling down a cheek.

"I can't," I said.

She sighed, one of her big, theatrical sighs.

"Okay then," she said and walked into the bathroom.

"My special sauce," she said, showing me a little glass bottle. She unscrewed the cap, dipped the little glass rod in, drawing it out with a small drop of clear liquid, and touched behind my ear. "Arm up," she said and put another tiny drop of the liquid on the skin I exposed.

"This stuff is dangerous," she said, "pure pheromones and about $500 an ounce."

She giggled and said, "Use your new superpower carefully, Cammie."

She held my eyes for a long ten count.

"All right, Slut, let's go then," she said.

She drove, the big Yukon moving through traffic like a damn tank. I always worried when she pulled into an underground parking lot. We sat so high I was certain we'd scrape the roof, but we never did.

She checked us in and we took the elevator up and found 813.

"I'll be around, you know what to do," she said.

I dialed her number and when she answered I left the connection open, just plugged my phone into the charger and laid it on the bedside table. If something went wrong, later, I knew I could count on Arlene to come to my rescue. It had only happened once, but I had been damn glad to see her come blasting into the room like a force of nature, that gym sock with about twenty dollars worth of quarters in the toe swinging hard enough to break bones as she went after the guy who wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

I didn't say anything, I just walked out the door and headed to the elevator to do what I HAD to do.

I rode up the elevator and stepped out into one of the most spectacular views in a city full of spectacular views.

I felt the eyes of every man in the place on me as I walked in, all five-foot nothin' of me, exuding sex.

I hopped up onto a barstool and ordered a Piña Colada. I kind of like the drink but mostly I wanted something with a straw. I can look VERY sexy when I suck a drink through a straw.

I didn't look around, but I knew Arlene would be somewhere in the room.

I sucked on my drink and watched some of the basketball game that was on the television, understanding none of it.

The first approach was about ten minutes after I sat. It was pitiful, really. I wondered if the bartender had carded this guy. He was blonde and young. I guessed him at 21 tops, and wondered if the ink on his diploma was even dry. I thought he might be an intern rather than one of the "water engineers," whatever that might be.

"How you doin'," he said and I almost laughed at the way this blonde surfer was trying to sound like someone black who had grown up on Chicago's southside.

"I'm well," I said, "and you?"

That simple reply seemed to leave him speechless.

"Buy you a drink?" he asked, pulling up the oldest line in the book.

I smiled, patted him on the cheek, and decided to be nice.

"I'm flattered, Sugar," I said, "but I'm waiting for someone."

Which, I suppose, was true, "from a certain point of view," as Obi-Wan might put it. I would feel that weird little "click" when the right guy came along and I wasn't feeling it with this guy.

He had the good grace to take rejection gracefully.

"Lucky guy," he said as he dismounted the barstool and went in search of a night's companionship. I wished him luck and returned to the game on TV.

The second approach gave me a little tingle, but not quite a "click." He was black, with skin the color of freshly ground coffee beans, and with those ridiculous good looks you expect to see on television, not in a rooftop bar in Denver. He was tall and muscular and something about him made you picture him naked with about a foot of heavy cock hanging soft between his thighs.

And his approach was much better too.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked, his voice a soothing tenor and I wondered if he sang.

"Sure," I said turning to face him and a bit disappointed that I didn't feel that "click."

"Does a beautiful woman know the effect she has on the men around her?" he asked, holding my eyes as if this was the most serious question in the world.

I giggled softly.

"If I meet one, I'll ask her," I said.

"Oh, now," he said, his hand moving to brush my shoulder.

I rolled my shoulder and shifted away enough to make it clear the attention was unwanted and he had the good grace to take his hand back.

"Sugar," I said, trying for a voice that suggested Southern, "I could ask you the same question. Well, it would be 'does a beautiful man,' but you get the picture. And I am truly sorry, you beautiful man, but I'm waiting for someone."

He grinned the grin that I'm sure made the panties fall off of cheerleaders since he had been playing Pop Warner football or city league basketball, and said, "I'm better."

I giggled, patted his cheek, and said, "I wouldn't be surprised, but no."

He sighed theatrically, and said, "Alas," in a voice that made me wonder if he had done plays in school as well as shoot baskets or run footballs.

I sighed and mirrored him. "Alas," and smiled as he moved away.

I watched, curious, as he approached a woman I guessed nearing retirement age. She had silver hair done in what I guessed was a $500 cut, but her age was unmistakable in the lines around her eyes and the soft bag, the "wattle" I thought, under her chin that can't be hidden. And I thought, "Say 'Yes,' and let your husband try to understand that smile on your face when you get back to Cleveland or Memphis or wherever you're from."

"Are you local?" the voice snapped me back.

I turned to look and there was the "click," although with this one it was more a "KLANG."

He was big, not fat, but in that way of a college baseball player who was losing the fight with gravity and the calendar but still not ready to give up. His face had the honest lines of someone who spent a good bit of his time outdoors. This was no desk engineer. This guy would be out in the field, the image flashed into my mind quite clearly, of him in a tan work shirt with a rolled up set of blueprints in his hand, one of those hardhat things on his head and, for some reason, there was a big folding knife on his belt in a leather holster, I don't know why.

I smiled.

"Denverite, born and raised," I said.

He chuckled and said, "Now I was taught that horses were raised but children were reared."

I laughed and held my hand straight up in the classic "high five" position.

"God, we both had Mrs. O'neil for third-grade grammar," I said.

He laughed at that, a big booming belly laugh.

"Close," he said, touching my shoulder, "Mrs. O'Grady and it was fifth grade where I grew up."

He raised a finger, summoning the bartender, and said, "Beer, the darkest you have on tap, and whatever my new best girl is having," he met my eye raising an eyebrow.

I smiled, knowing he was the one, and said, "Camille. Millie to the world. Cam to a few."

He grinned, a pleasant grin showing ivory teeth, no bleaching, and said, "And whatever Arwen here is having."

I caught the reference and said, "I'm too short to be an elf, especially a tall one called Evenstar engaged to a Ranger."

"But you are beautiful enough," he said.

DAMN, this guy was good.

We kibbitzed at the television and exchanged small talk.

His name, it turned out, was Theodore, "Ted to the world, Teddy to a few, and T to you, Arwen," he added.

"Well, T," I said, holding his eyes and being serious now, "I would very much like to take you up to my room," and I held up my hand when he started to swing off of his stool.

"Hold on," I said, brushing his arm lightly, "let me finish."

"I would very much like to take you up to my room and suck your dick," I said, watching his eyes go wide, "but that is all. What's between my legs belongs to my husband."

I held my hand up again when he started to speak.

"No, T," I said, "hear me out."

He settled.

"I promise you I will give you the best blow job you ever had," I said, "but you have to understand that is all. When you're done, and I promise you'll be happy, you leave."

He held my eyes for a long moment.

"You're not a hooker?" he asked.

I laughed.

"No, Sweety, I won't charge you," I said, "I'm just a housewife with issues."

"Can I at least get your number?" he asked, "I get to Denver a couple of times a year."

"No, Sweety," I said again, "this will be strictly a one-time thing but you'll enjoy it, I promise you."

He looked at me thoughtfully for a long moment. I could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes.

Finally, he signaled the bartender, handed him a credit card, cleared his tab, and got off of the barstool.

He offered his hand and helped me down from my barstool.

"Don't do this," my grandmother's voice screamed in my ear, the voice of my conscience, "Go back on the meds."

But the URGE had me and I just told my conscience to shut the fuck up.

"Okay, Arwen," he said, "Show me what an elf can do."

We rode down the elevator in silence, not awkward, a companionable silence. I liked that he didn't try to get grabby.

In the room I turned to him, looking up to meet his eyes.

"What's your pleasure, Ted," I asked, "would you like to stand over me or lay back and relax."

Once again, I could see him thinking, evaluating,

"Well, I do love a woman on her knees," he said.

So I dropped to my knees, slowly, I thought gracefully, and started on his belt with no further preamble.

"That's right, you worthless cunt," my grandmother whispered in my ear, "stay on your knees, cocksucker. Use that mouth, just like your daddy taught you."

I had his belt undone then, and got the button of his slacks undone and the zipper down, before I started kissing his belly along the line of the elastic waistband of his boxers. He had a light layer of straight, coarse hair and I licked it before probing his bellybutton, a deep innie, making him squirm a little.

My fingers were in the waistband of the boxers now, and I was trying to fight the URGE, but I was helpless in its thrall. My breath caught as I worked the shorts down, exposing him.

My breath caught at the sight of that beautiful cock and I knew, in that instant, why I had been put on this Earth. This was my function, the only way I could feel truly alive. Seeing it, thick and beautiful and inviting, all doubts left me.

His pubic hair was shot with silver. It spread from his belly button down to a thick diamond that reached almost to the points of his hips. As I buried my face in that thick mat, inhaling his glorious manscent, feeling the warmth of him, feeling him responding already, getting hard against my cheek, I felt complete.