Reckless Abandon

I love the buzz of New York City. It's the kind of place that anything can happen and is most likely happening at this very moment. Not everyone loves the grit, grim, and hustle of this city, but I do. It's the contrast of power you can find in every square inch of this place that draws me in.

I flew here for a gallery show tonight. The artist's way of capturing the light and dark of this place captivates me. I make my way into the SoHo building, passing the socialites as they stop for pictures, and to say their practiced hellos to one another. And though I am recognized, I am left alone.

I am always so grateful for the champagne to find its way to me at these events. I've never felt like I belonged to this world, though I could. It gives me the same feeling that my designer shoes do- it's beautiful, but never quite fits right. I wonder if that's really why I come here- for the discomfort.

Weaving through the maze of the art pieces and I find my way to one towards the back that has caught my eye. It's captivating. Partly a photo printed on canvas, and partly an abstract painting. I am lost in the contrast of this piece. Blacks, whites, and greys with a shock of red. It's the marks on the painting that pull my eyes in. No brush could have made those marks. A fork? A knife? There's a current of anger and rage mixed in this piece that I can't quite put my finger on, but I can relate to. What emotion is it...? Then I almost choke on the champagne as I realize what it is.

A voice behind me says, "I have never seen someone almost start laughing at my work."

I stiffen. Thoughts race as I process that there is someone behind me and that someone is the artist. I continue to face the painting as I allow my eyes to glance towards him as he moves to my side. The heat of him being so close sends a chill over my exposed skin left from my strapless dress. "It's desire isn't it?" I ask.

"And you find that funny...?" he replies.

"No. Not at all. My word for the year is passion," I explain. "And I had been debating with myself whether or not desire was a better choice until I was getting ready tonight." I share.

"What kept you from changing your mind?" he asks.

"Desire is about longing. And as your work conveys, it leaves me, more than anything else, angry." I share.

"Interesting. Why is that?" He presses.

"I am done not getting what I want," I say and look over at him with a wry smile and excuse myself to continue exploring his work.

I set the empty champagne glass down and allow my eyes to wander over each piece, seeing the story that he is telling: heartbreak. It is always so curious why pain is the perfect contrast to pleasure, why they mix together so well, and how muddy they can get, to the point that you can't make out a distinction between the two.

I turn the corner and see him across from me, watching me as he makes small talk and conversation with his admirers. I smile and continue to wander, feeling his eyes on me. I stop, looking at a piece that is raw and carnal, and I see him out of the corner of my eye pulling away from the group and grabbing two glasses of champagne as he makes his way back to me.

Handing me a glass he comments, "This is my personal favorite."

I sip the champagne and echo his words from earlier with a coy expression, "Interesting, why is that?"

I can feel him smirk as I drink in the bubbles of the champagne and the spread legs in the artwork before me. He moves closer to me again, standing slightly behind me, so we almost touch. He leans in, and in a hushed tone answers, "It's more than simply vulnerability. It's reckless abandon. To be that free... To say 'fuck it' and 'consequences be damned.'"

I breathe out a breath that I didn't know I was holding. "That is quite a line..." I say smiling.

"Did it work?" he asks with a grin.

And I can't help but to throw my head back and laugh. I turn to him, smiling. Stepping around behind him, to his other side, I look over to him and whisper, "Runaway with me into the night, with reckless abandon."

He immediately grabs my hand and starts to pull me to the back of the gallery. We don't look around, though we can feel the eyes on us. We both set our glasses of champagne on the waiter's tray as we pass him. We move through the backdoor, out into the alley, and down the few steps into the night. We both start laughing and running. We are free. We circle the corner, and I am pushed up against the brick wall. We are all lips and hands and tongues. We are without a care in this moment.

"Come with me," he says, "There's something I want you to see."

He pulls my hand, and we are running again down the allies that vein through the city. He pulls me into a backdoor of a building and we are in a construction site. Tarps are flapping with the breeze that runs cyclones through the building. And the glow of the city matches my mood- cool and dark, with heat from an unknown source.

"Do you trust me?" He asks, grazing his lips over mine, and then taking my lower lip in his mouth, for a quick, sharp, bite.

"No..." I smirk at him.

"Good girl..." He croons.

His dress shoes and my heels click and echo, as we make our way through the tarped off rooms. Plastic and warped light offers an arousing and eerie tone to the uncertainty that is electric in the air between us. We turn a final corner and in the warm, flickering light, I can see the open service elevator. An accordion-style gate open to a thick, fabric-slatted, net that you can see-through to the cityscape on the other side.

He walks ahead of me and pulls up the net. "Going up?" He smiles.

I duck under the net and step into the elevator. The city lays out in front of me and I can only imagine the view that will come as we make our way up the building. I can hear him pull the gate shut and latch it behind me. The heavy net drops and he pushes the lever up, which jolts us into motion.

We don't say anything to one another. We simply look out at the busy night swarming below us. I am ripped from my thoughts when he abruptly stops the elevator. I turn to find him looking at me while he pulls at the leather strips of fabric that make up the net.

"This will do nicely," is all he offers with a devilish smile. "Step over here," he commands.

I do, while wearing a cat-that-ate-the-canary-smile on my face. He wraps his arm around my waist and moves his hand up the back of my dress where he finds my skin. He holds out his other hand and I place mine inside it. We begin to dance. Then, with one spin, he has my back against the net and takes one of my hands and raises it up, and has me grab onto one of the slats. Then he does the same with my other hand.

"You are going to be a good girl and stay just as you are." He states.

"Yes." I simply say.

He reaches behind me with both hands and begins to unzip my dress. As he does so, he tells me, between kissing, and biting my lips, "You mustn't make a sound. The construction is only on the lower levels and there are people still working on this floor tonight. Not. One. Sound." He warns.

I can feel the rush of blood to my sex, the challenge exciting me along with the feeling of my strapless dress being peeled-off of me. He pulls at the net near my legs. I step out of my dress to find a hole to step through. One leg, and then the other, I am a star spread open, 18 floors up. I am only left in heels since, let's face it, Tom Ford doesn't leave much room to be bothered with the idea of underwear in some of his evening collections.

"Not. A. Sound." He reminds me while his fingers run down my stomach and push into my sex.

I am lost in the feeling of the breeze running over my nipples, pulling them into hard, tight circles, that ache for a mouth to find them. His fingers expertly pushing into me and pulling out, searching for exactly where to touch when he wants to send me over the edge. Dropping to his knees, he buries his face in me. Whispering, I beg him to stop. There is no way that I can be still, let alone quiet, as he laps up my wetness and softly plays with my clit.

I am panting. It's so hard to focus and be quiet. My chest is heaving as my breathing gets more and more desperate with the effort to not make a sound. He slows his pace. Softly licking me and stroking with his fingers inside me. This...this is heaven. My head falls back, and I forget where I am for a moment, and let out a moan.

He stops immediately and looks up at me. This powerful man, on his knees with his mouth glistening, "I told you to be quiet. And you didn't listen."

Before I can think what to say, he is taking one leg out of the net. Then the other.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. And I mean it.

"I believe you." He says.

I start to let go of the net and he growls, "Don't! I didn't tell you that I am done with you."

I freeze, not wanting to breathe so that I can hear what he has in mind.

"I know who you are," he says. "You and I both have much to lose if we are discovered and our names show up in tomorrow's headlines. There will be serious consequences for our behavior."

He takes his jacket off. And unbuttons his shirt. Each piece of clothing joins my dress on the dirty flood of this service elevator. Belt. Pants. And then he's in boxers, that I can see glisten from where his thick cock leaked onto. He stips off his boxers and his erection shows me every vein that wants to fill me with his cum.

"There's only one way out of this now," he whispers. "We have to cum before they find us. Because we, we are going to be so loud, it's just a matter of time before they do." He promises.

My heart races and I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. He takes my legs and hikes me up around him. I am holding onto the net and he lowers me to him. I can feel the swollen tip of him touch me. All he has to do is slide into me, but he doesn't he just looks at me, waiting to have my full attention. I give it to him. And at that moment, he pulls me down onto him as he simultaneously thrusts into me. I cry out. So does he. It feels so good to feel this full, to let go.

Our time is indeed limited. Neither of us is quiet. Our names and reputations are at stake, and yet, before I have the good sense to see how reckless we are being, I see you watching us in the apartment, across from the building. You too are touching yourself. You have been there this whole time, watching this scene unfold.

You freeze for a moment, seeing that you've been discovered. But as I am being fucked like my life depends on it, because it does, I lick my lips, holding eye contact with you and mouthing 'yes' for you to continue.

You can see people are making their way to us from the other side of the floor. I can see your gaze shift, and instinctively know it means they will discover us soon. You touch yourself faster, matching the desperate pace we are moving.

I whisper to my lover, "They are coming..."

And the three of us abandon the consequences that tonight's event may bring and completely surrender to the sensations that are flooding our bodies. Loud, primal, and with need driving us, we race time. Our bodies each winding up tighter and tighter. And when the door is finally flung open, we explode.