Companion

The youth and innocence was looking at me through wide eyes when it was over, looking to evaluate how I would react, with shame, like before, or something else, something more adult?

I have always been a coil of tension. But not here, not here on this bed with my mouth open to her mouth, my legs open to her fingers, my senses open to her assault. I had surrendered to the youth and innocence I feared; by letting go I had given in and my doubts had vanished.

I didn't cover up, I lay there lewdly. There was a gleam in her eye now. Things had changed, she could see it, I could feel it. The great power dynamic had shifted. I was lying now, not with youth and innocence but with a woman, a wily woman who knew precisely what she wanted and was utterly convincing me she knew how to get it.

There can be enormous freedom in letting go. I reached for her and pulled her in and we lay there as one, both with our own thoughts.

I knew I could never understand this.

But she wanted me to.

She has an impish, mischievous smile that glowed even in her eyes when she got up on her knees and put the second pillow under my head. I was going to ask her what she doing but in a moment I didn't have to.

"Maria."

"We're partners now." She got between my legs pushing them further open with a grin.

I was seeing a determined woman now, not a vulnerable girl, that was a big part of it but the feeling of surrender was still with me. I tried for a smile of approval but knew it came off as a grimace, I knew it because she laughed at me then lay down and nuzzled into me, her hands going up my hips before finding my breasts which had spilled over my sides.

My husband had done this a few times to me after we married. I hated it; I think that's why he did it before he finally stopped doing anything to me. So I was prepared to hate it. But I didn't. It was her broad, playful grin. "You taste great ... here, Angie told me to do this to you, she says it feels great. Turn over." She twisted my leg so I did, I turned over onto my side not knowing what she was about. But she was right, I did love the feeling as she licked and bit my cheeks and I loved her giggles and loved the shocking intimacy — I was trying to deal with how I could surrender this far this fast when she spread my cheeks and I could feel her tongue against my anus. Immediately I started to pull away but she slapped me hard on the cheek. "Stay still." I did, not to surrender but because that first touch of her tongue felt so absolutely, so unbelievably exquisite. The surrender now was not to her but to the sensations, the pleasures, pleasure heightened when I slid my fingers down my body and into me. This was sex, raunchy, invasive sex that was nothing but wanton and unbridled pleasure.

When I turned on my belly I pulled a pillow down, to go under my hand, to elevate my ass, to make it easy for her, to make it easy for her to lick and suck me, to assault my borders, to open my horizons.

She is an adult, a willing adult. I lay there with her lips against my anus and my fingers in my pussy and I was lost in a million sensations and one thought. I want this.

We didn't talk about it, we didn't have to. We had been to a place where only the very, very intimate go, a daring place, a secret place.

We bathed together afterwards. She lay back against me and I brought my hand up to her breasts. She has shocking long nipples that can become very stiff, very fast. I flicked at one with my thumb. She tried to look back at me but couldn't so laughed instead.

The power shift that had happened while we were lying down became oh so evident when we were standing. It was her confidence: she just needed a hint of my acquiescence, my acceptance and her naturally assertive, confident self would commandeer her youthful, vibrant body and I knew who was going to be boss around here, I think I even wanted it that way.

But she was quiet about it, even sophisticated. She didn't say anything about what happened or, god forbid, replayed anything in words, she just poured me a rewarding glass of wine and I watched as she went about her duties cooking supper. But with a confidence now, an assertive confidence knowing that the probation was over; she had passed; she was now the companion she wanted to be and I was the partner.

It was that confidence that inspired her pronouncement when she sat down, "This was the perfect day for me. We're going to repeat everything we did today," she smiled, "most everything, tomorrow." She looked at me cooly like she was daring me to object.

"It was the perfect day for me, too," I said obediently but I think I meant it. She was about to re-fill my glass when I shook my head.

I touched her when we were cleaning up, nothing provocative, on the shoulder, I wanted to see how it felt and I wanted to see her reaction. It's all it took.

She was up well before me on Monday, my first day back to work. I had told her my routine, she was keen to play her part in it.

"Well, you look well rested."

My sister was leaning against my office door in her usual attire, anything to show off how fit and ripped she is.

"It's the surf and sand."

"Ya, but you look good enough where you just might have had the sex, too."

"Do ya think?" I grimaced like she would expect me to.

"No, I don't."

She sat down, brought me up to speed on the work I'd missed then gave me my week's assignments, that's the way we do things around here: she's great at planning and vision; I'm all about the plodding process and we both know it.

It was a fast somewhat discombobulating week. I become a different person when I split my time between work and home. At work I put my head down and get it done. I never quite relax at home, my head is usually elsewhere, my emotional and psychic energy are usually depleted.

Right away Maria recognized this discombobulation in me and cut me considerable slack. I found out why. Her friend Angie had discovered and relayed that when you move into someone else's life you have to know your place; you aren't in fact an equal; you have to carefully read the atmosphere. "I'm going to be good at that," she said with a smile that first night of our new routine as she picked up the book I had given her, Turgenev's Sportsman Sketches, Russian Lit in easy, bit-size pieces.

She surprised me on Friday after work. She was waiting for me outside my office building, not immediately outside but a respectful distance away. But not far enough away. She had never met my sister, of course, didn't know that it was my sister just a few feet behind me, that it was my sister who stopped stunned when Maria came up and bumped into me playfully. I had no way of knowing my sister was there. Had I, I wouldn't have given Maria the one-armed hug and propelled her onward.

"What is that?"

I knew the voice, God knows, I know the voice. My heart sank to my shoes as I turned around to face her. I had nothing ... but guilt.

"Who's she?"

"A friend."

"Ya, I can see that."

I was conscious of Maria now standing beside me. "This is my sister, Janet," I said, not hiding the apology in my voice. "This is my friend Maria."

Maria had her hand out. Janet would have none of that. "Who are you?"

"Why don't you come over to dinner tomorrow night and we can fill you in."

"Dinner where? Her place?" she said pointing at me.

I could feel Maria nod. "About seven?"

My sister looked at me. "Is she serious?"

"Come and find out." I took Maria by the arm, turned and headed way.

"Sorry," Maria said, "I didn't mean for anyone to see me."

I shrugged but I sure wasn't feeling indifferent and I sure didn't like it that she would ask someone, anyone to dinner without first talking to me. But. "Had to happen."

In a few more strides she deliberately bumped into me again; I could tell she was excited, I think I noticed the excitement when I first spotted her a few minutes ago. "I have my plan," she said.

I had forgotten about her plan ... actually, I didn't really believe that she was working on one; I thought the plan was just some kind of mis-direct to get me to take her more seriously.

"You'll going to need a drink." She suggested a bar but I wanted home; I wanted to relax, I wanted a bath and, ya, I wanted that drink.

I was in the tub when she came in with the drink, wine, she wouldn't allow Scotch. She handed it to me. "Can I come in?"

"If you save the plan until later, I just want to relax."

She stripped quickly and climbed in across from me. She was grinning when she lay back. I knew why: her nipples told me what she was feeling. I brought my foot up and kicked her breast lightly. "You're beautiful and you're really fucking sexy ... I wish mine did that." No, actually I didn't.

"No you don't, they can be embarrassing ... especially the way I'm feeling, the way I've been feeling all day. I came home at noon, I couldn't stand it. I put on your underwear from yesterday and your bra; I was imagining I was sucking your breasts, I did it for about an hour."

"What was I doing to you?"

She laughed. "Whatever you wanted."

I brought the glass slowly to my lips and felt the sting of the alcohol weaken me.

She took the glass from my hand. "I'll get you another."

"Wash first then put on your yoga pants, the yellow ones and that white top."

The glass was on the table by my chair when I came in. When I sat down I knew she was anxious for me to ask about the plan but I didn't, I did what I had imagined often during the day. "Stand here." I pointed in front of me.

She did, obediently, innocently, but excitedly. My hands went to her hips, I ran my fingers up and down the smooth, slick material.

"Turn around."

She wasn't all the way around when my face went down to her cheek, when my mouth brushed against her, kissing, trying to bite when my fingers gripped the front of her hips. I kissed and bit into her crack as my fingers felt into her groins. I was coming alive, just like I had been in the office when I imagined this, it was the ownership there, the possession ... here it is the willingness, her hands pressing over mine, her little moans encouraging. My fingers went up to her waistband and pulled. She helped. The material was coming down ... I was going down to the floor, sitting down, pulling them down, pulling her down until she was sitting on my chest, wrestling with her pants. When they were off I pulled at her ... she got to her knees, straddling, my hands guided her down and she was in my face and I gave in to my hunger, my mouth grinding between her youthful, swollen lips, her early juices seeping into my mouth, my moans muffled as my tongue swirled and my fingers went under my pants.

A companion, a partner ... for a hundred dollars a day I could be transported back — a high-speed rewind through all those awful years to a time when I was full of life, full of promise, full of desires, desires that were never as strong as they are right now as I waited for her to get my pants fully off; as I waited for her to lie on me, my arms around her narrow hips pulling her into me, her juices flowing now as she coaxed excitement from my once-barren nothingness.

It should have been over when my last cry stopped. It wasn't. Instead, she muscled me onto my back and gave full vent to her youthful exuberance.

We laughed for ten minutes. Joy. My natural conservatism flowed from me like my cum. It was sex, sex of the body, sex of the mind, sex of the spirit, a nourishment that felt more rejuvenating than a month of spas.

"The plan?" I asked fully confident I could now deal with anything she could lay on me — the way I was feeling anything life could throw at me. We were curling on the couch after putting on clothes over our wonderfully sex-stinking bodies.

She had been busy, very busy all week, imaginatively busy.

Right from the beginning she had been clear that she had few opportunities, no good ones. I could change that. But to do what? She got her answer after spending time talking to people at the local Filipino club. She decided she wanted to be a grade school teacher. That was basically her plan. People at the club told her there was an urgent need for teachers who could speak Filipino, teachers who could help ease the transition for newly arrived students to English and the Canadian culture. The association would sponsor her application to the university, but it couldn't financially contribute. She had talked to the university, given them her high school transcripts and was accepted for the second semester. That all came out in a burst of excitement, then she just sat there looking at me but looking at me like she was waiting to explode.

She didn't say it but I gathered I was expected to approve and pay, a reasonable expectation. It would be churlish of me not to. But this also implied at least a three year relationship. That was serious.

I had waited too long to react. "You're not happy about this?" Her disappointment was written all over her face. "I thought you would be."

This would be disruptive, that was my first thought, our life together would have to work around her studies. "That's a fairly long-term plan, are you sure you want to make it right now?"

Her eyes narrowed in confusion. "Of course I'm sure, I've already told you that — you don't expect me to just wait around here for when you come home. I want you to be proud of me, I want to be proud of myself."

"And you aren't now?"

"You think I should be ashamed of myself for being here? I'm not, not for a minute. You didn't just happen. I made it happen. You are my accomplishment. It took guts and determination to go after you. OK, I admit it, I'm proud of myself. But that isn't enough for me, not nearly enough. Now we're together but are you proud of me? No. That's next."

She is not a very pretty girl, her mouth is way too wide for one, her face is curiously flat and her bottom lip protrudes too much giving her, I thought this when I first saw her, a slightly brooding look which I don't see now. I see a sensible, serious face and intelligent eyes, eyes that are constantly aware. I got the impression at that restaurant in Florida that she is focussed and determined — her body helps with that: it's spare, trim and proper and now, I knew, playful. But she has ambition, too, a lot of it. I am only an opportunity to her, a resource but, it was occurring to me, an opportunity not for her to live a better, fuller, richer life, but an opportunity for her to make something of herself. A grade school teacher. Hardly the ambition of a crass opportunist.

"You're wrong, I am proud of you and I think you'll make a terrific teacher, you have my full support."

But the moment was missed; I had waited too long. There was doubt now where there had been only joy. She needed an explanation for my indecision, I could see that.

"I don't want to share you. That was my first thought ... it was selfish of me, stupid. I'm sorry. I am proud of you and proud of you that you would make this decision."

That wasn't quite enough for her. "You're sure?"

"I'm sorry. That was awful ... of course I'm sure." I took her in my arms and held her tight for a long time; when I released her I pushed her back so I could study her face. "Do you really think of me as your accomplishment?"

She put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me. "My accomplishment and my property, property I haven't been able to play with all week."

"Ahhh, work and play were never a good mix for me."

"Work's done," she grinned, "come on."

She was deliberately out in front of me on the way to our bedroom, shaking her yoga pants playfully.

Shamefully, I needed the visual, I knew I needed the visual, the visual that had so got to me in the store. I have aged during the week, my brief period of reawakening has been shutting down; I could feel this had to be untenable — reason isn't elastic, it can't be stretched out of shape..

The lips on mine were child's lips, the fingers a child's fingers, I could pretend but I couldn't delude.

I held her at bay on the bed, she wanted round two, I didn't have it in me. She talked about her dreams, I thought fleetingly of my future. The two couldn't possibly be reconciled.

I couldn't remember the last time I did this, stand naked in front of a mirror. Maybe never, why would I? I never cared. But I did now. Strangely, I did now. I had found a pulse — she had found a pulse in me. I was alive, or could be but how much time did I have left?

Time had already ravaged me, well, not time, I had actually done quite well with time, what filled the mirror was a respectable version of what once had been, it was the way I had treated that time. I had starved myself from within, starved myself of fun and joy and love — all the external nutrients that can make an old body vibrant. I was a shell of a woman, a loose skinned, slack breasted shell of a woman ... who had just caught a glimpse of another way. That explained the curiosity in my eyes, the wonder.

Janet was leaning against my office door just after I got in on Monday, like she does just about every day. "I suppose I'm supposed to say I'm sorry."

She should, she made a fool of herself on Saturday night; too much to drink, way too much and way too many opinions."You wouldn't mean it."

"I knew you're gay — I didn't know you knew or would ever find out but I was pretty sure I knew."

"No you didn't."

"No I didn't, you're right but I'm not surprised, you were pretty shitty at marriage."

"By that argument you'd be way gayer than me."

She came in and slouched on the seat in front of my desk. "Do I get the story?"

"I met her in Florida, she's Canadian, she was down there cleaning hotel rooms and looking for what she calls a companion; she came back with me."

"As?"

"A companion, we're trying to figure out what that means."

"She's after your money."

"Of course she's after my money and I want her to have some of my money."

"She's not very pretty."

"No."

"Nice body, look like nice tits."

I scowled or tried to.

"Is she a fling?"

"She matters to me."

"Sex any good?"

I scowled again.

"Because if sex isn't exceptional what's the point of being with her — you can find some girls here who can provide it." She stood up. "You're going to go through a lot of crap because of her ... all I'm saying is make sure you're getting full value out of her."

She was just about out the door when I said, "Am I embarrassing myself?" My voice echoed my guilt.

She looked back surprised. "Of course you're embarrassing yourself, you're an aging woman with a young girl ... but so what, if you're getting what you want out of it. But do you know what that is, that's all I'm saying or are you just lonely? Don't let it be that; you can buy company."

She was just about to leave. "Come here, close the door."

She did and sprawled in the chair as before.

"I don't know what I'm doing."

She laughed contemptuously. "Don't worry about it; you don't have to: she sure does."

"Does she?"

"Sure she does. I thought I'd scare her off with my drunken rants, I was sure trying to."

I thought it was just the drink; it seems it was a plan. "You were awful."

She waved me away like she could have cared less. "She could take it; nothing I said made the slightest difference to her. That girl is tough; she knows what she wants; there's not a chance I could scare her off."

"You didn't have to be so insulting."

"She's gay you know."

Ya, I think I did.

"I'm not saying there's anything sinister about her but you're pretty easy picking these days — a holiday alone, who does that? She read you, good for her. But is it good for you? That's what you have to decide ... rationally, pragmatically, selfishly. You're going to pay a pretty high price walking around with a much younger woman — I mean, there is obviously something sexual about it, that's the way people think. Is she worth all the bad press you'll get, that's all I'm saying." She was looking at me, obviously expecting an answer. "Well, is she?"