Sex in Black & White - Story 03

- Story 3 --

Reflecting

We don't see things as they are; we see them as we are.
- Anais Nin

*****

"So you're all set?" he asked casually, as we stood inside the entrance to Blackheath Station. Refusing to meet his gaze, I scanned the display for the next London-bound train. Platform two, fifteen minutes.

Stepping away from him slightly, I answered with feigned assurance. "Yes, I'm fine. Had a lovely time. And thanks for driving me to the station."

"Of course."

Struggling unsuccessfully to avoid eye contact, I scrambled to find something else to say. My mother had taught me a lot about good manners, but we had never covered this particular situation. "It was nice to meet you," I added finally, managing an unconvincing smile.

"Same here."

On some level, he knew I found eye contact vexing and I thought back to how, only an hour ago, I had drawn him down to me, kissing him deeply for the sole purpose of having an excuse to shut him out, to close my eyes against his unshakable gaze. Intimacy hadn't been part of the bargain and not having changed my mind, once again I looked away. It was getting late and things had gone well beyond enough. In fact, I found his need for this final familiarity bordering on hypocritical as it didn't appear likely we would ever see each other again. I just wanted to escape, to have some time to piece together everything that had happened during the most surreal afternoon in my experience.

I didn't live this way; at least I hadn't up until now, and was a little in awe that we were standing here politely, acting as if the afternoon's fucking hadn't happened. It was the strangest thing and I wasn't sure just yet, how I felt about it all.

"Well then," he said, plainly wanting to hurry things along. "I'll let you go. We should do this again sometime." As he leaned toward me, I offered him a cheek and his stubble scraped me one last time with a goodbye kiss. I accepted it with a civil chill.

"Sure. Give me a call sometime, then." The second I said it I wished I could take it back. I mean, he wasn't actually going to call, was he?

My overly-hasty exit from his bed made me doubt it, and I thought he must think me a complete bitch. But I wasn't sure that I cared. After all, I'd gotten what I came for. Stepping onto the escalator down to the platform, I furtively glanced back at the crowd. He was gone. It was over.

*** Ten minutes later, just another solitary girl riding the train, I listened as the big machine rumbled noisily through the darkness, its squealing wheels churning as it deftly negotiated the curves along the way back to London.

The journey was a time to take things apart, I thought, to spread the pieces of the day's grand puzzle before me. No longer able to ward off their insistence that I lend them form, it was time to reflect on the whole thing, a destination I simultaneously starved for and hated the thought of.

It was late evening and I sat the way everyone sits on trains, my upper body rocking to and fro in unnatural harmony to the carriage's swaying motion. Like everybody else, I stared out the window, avoiding eye contact with everybody else, something I didn't like as it made me seem like everybody else.

And while everybody else read their papers or deafened themselves with iPods, my gaze fixed on the opposite window and unlike everybody else I thought back to a peculiar afternoon whose schematic I had meticulously orchestrated in days recently past.

The carriage's interior lights shone brightly, making it hard to see out, but still I caught glimpses of nameless villages whose ghostly snow-covered profiles appeared fleetingly in outline against the blackness of the night.

Smiling discreetly to myself, I thought of how flawlessly my plan had worked. Within two weeks I had searched for, found, met, fucked and left a man whose name I had never even said out loud. I smiled confidently as I thought back to him; convinced I had kept it simple and could now ride off into the night, back home to solitude and the hot shower that would wash it all away like original sin.

However, with the passing miles, my lustrous marble surfaces, polished and gleaming at the start, showed signs of cracking as doubts began to simmer, and I wondered whether all might not be as black and white as I'd hoped.

And to complicate matters, I was suddenly starting to feel tired. So clutching the now half-empty bottle of Diet Coke, and not wanting to think anymore right now, I leaned my head against the rattling window and closed my eyes.

I felt her almost immediately of course, thinking, damn it, can't she just this once leave me alone? After all, I'd spent the better part of the day with a stranger piercing my body, and was finally able to breathe again. The last thing I needed was an audience with the Grand fucking Inquisitor.

My defiance showed its fangs and I thought, I won't be intimidated, not this time. My plan had worked perfectly; there was nothing she could say to me. Steeling myself, I lazily opened my eyes, blinking in the bright light as her form swam into focus in the window. I had rarely seen her look at me so intently.

I stared back of course, but knew it was futile. A vain attempt to make her uneasy; it hadn't the slightest effect. In fact as we continued to lock eyes, the only shift I felt was that of energy -- mine, or what little I had left -- flowing inexorably across the narrow aisle to her, embellishing her form. I expected the worst.

Staring at me, she blinked when I blinked, she frowned when I frowned, and looked askance when I looked askance.

I didn't like her much. "Little more than a second-rate imitation of myself," I scoffed, pulling at my white gloves before clutching the lapels of my black trench coat, cinching it tightly at the collar. She ventured a wry smile but otherwise remained mute.

Deciding to meet her obvious disfavor head-on, I finally spoke. "Is there something you don't approve of, Mira?"

Ignoring the question, she continued her scrutiny, her eyes wandering my body from head to toe as she took in the disheveled leavings of my faultlessly planned but chaotically executed coupling.

Returning her eyes to mine, that indecipherable smile of hers widened slightly before she spoke. "Why, Taryn Asher, you're wearing black for a change. How ladylike you look. Show me...show me all of it."

How I hated that soft sarcasm of hers. I almost always wore black and she knew it. But why not show her? I looked good, after all. Opening my coat with the same assured slowness that I'd used on him hours earlier, I shifted the scarf to one side to unveil the tasteful but rumpled black cardigan and jeans. Then just as deliberately, I shut myself off from view as if to say, "Enough, you bitch."

Her nod, though acerbic, conveyed a certain caring and though I knew she wanted the best for me, her presence was annoying. Following up in business-like fashion, she asked a second question. "Is that apparel Taryn, or a philosophy of life?"

"Mira, please..."

"Your sexy stockings - nice touch. But oh my, they're bunched around your ankles, you know. Has it struck you that in your rush to get away from him, you left your new garter belt behind? He's going to find it later tonight and think you left it there on purpose..."

"You're a smart-assed bitch! I snapped. "Of course it struck me! Don't you think I can feel my stockings slipping?" My head was starting to ache. "Why don't you just go away and leave me alone?" It was meant to come out as an order, but sounded much more like a tired plea. I throttled my coat ever more tightly at the neck and turned my face in the direction of a group of women sitting close by. Well worn, I thought. They reminded me of my mother, attractive in a tired sort of way, much as I was at the moment. Most had their hair up or cropped short like hers; each carried a touch of worry on her otherwise handsome face, as if she had learned too much about life and unlike me, refused to hide it anymore.

My fingers toyed with the little silver cross at my throat as I thought about my mother, hundreds of miles away. A present from her on my eighteenth birthday, I had put it on this morning without thinking. As laughable as it now seemed, to me it had always been a talisman that would protect me from anything.

"Tell me, Taryn; when she gave you that necklace, do you think she imagined you'd one day wear it as you lay in bed under a stranger?" Mira's tone had become more businesslike now. "She'd be appalled out of her wits if she knew what you did." I stuck my tongue out at her.

"Do you suppose any of those women have daughters who spent the day fucking strangers? Just what every mother wants; for her little girl to grow up to decide to do such things. But it's too late now anyway, isn't it, Taryn? To be considering what her reaction might be? It's done."

Mira's nonchalant sniping only stiffened my resolve to lash back and to make matters worse, she was right. My new stockings were bunching around my ankles and I had left his house in a God-awful hurry; stumbling about, pulling clothes back on in an ungainly attempt to retreat to the pre-fuck sanity I wasn't even sure was sane.

Anyway, she had managed to back my confidence, contrived as it was, against a proverbial brick wall, as I thought about that new garter belt, left behind in the hands of a stranger. Anya was a firm believer in wearing real stockings, and I had enjoyed their sexy feel more than a little.

I tore back at her. "So what? So what if I'm thinking of my mother? She's none of your business, do you hear me?"

"Don't get testy with me," she answered calmly, forcing my attention back to the smudged window before adding sternly, "And do try to remember who you're talking to, young lady."

Retreating into what I hoped was a dignified silence, I ran my fingers over my swollen lips and refused to look at her. She continued on anyway.

"That Diet Coke you're clinging to; you don't seriously think it's going to make the taste of his cum go away, do you? And I'm still waiting to see if we're going to talk about any of this."

I sat in silence, watching her in the darkened window. It was smeared with the fingerprints of children whose sole purpose on trains, was to be kneel on hard cushioned seats, their snotty noses pressed against the cold glass. Despite the smudge, I caught a glint in Mira's eyes and knew she knew it all; that I wasn't fooling her in the least.

Failing to illicit a response, she continued. "You're not even going to try to justify it - are you, Taryn?" A practiced expert, her words, like daggers, slid smoothly through the joints of my usually sturdy emotional armor plate. "And just so you know, it never subsides, not completely anyway."

"What...doesn't subside?" I asked naively. Damn it, I thought. She always knows how to draw me out. Staring in silent critique, she made me ask a second time. "What?"

"Don't make tricks, Taryn. That musky taste; all tangled up with his unique scent; it's acting like a knife in your throat each time you swallow. And it's following you home, trailing behind like a sick dog as a reminder you had sex with a man you didn't know and didn't care about. Poor thing, you thought it was supposed to go away when he did. It won't. You'll go to sleep tasting sperm and will awaken to the same hated fragrance in the morning."

"I don't care, Mira. Anyway, it isn't even that bad," I snapped.

"Don't be so sure about that," she countered. "Remember, what you taste, I taste; what you swallow, I swallow and at the moment, we both know it's invading your total being." She laughed out loud, then added, "You silly girl. And your friend, what's her name? You know, the Russian?"

"You leave her..."

"She warned you it would happen, Taryn. She told you and you didn't listen. After a girl sucks dick, its owner rules a part of her forever. That you disregard my warnings is one thing -- not heeding them is your stock in trade - but I thought it was different with her; that you trusted her judgment. You're lucky he didn't ejaculate in your pretty mouth."

I found the thought sickening, instantly conjuring an image of myself on my knees before him, semen dribbling from the corners of my lips, frantically searching for a towel to spit into.

Happily, the rude notion passed quickly and I thought, "Thank God for that." I didn't know what I would have done had he actually finished in my mouth. And he'd certainly had ample opportunity as I'd sucked him for what seemed like hours.

Mira was right; I should have listened when Anya raised the point weeks ago, but I didn't know what to do with it. Having sex, which I desperately wanted, meant sucking cock, which I wanted too. And sucking cock meant ingesting at least a little sperm and that was only if I was careful. But then, I wondered, what is a little sperm? At the moment it felt like there was no such thing.

So when the inevitable happened and I was facing my first erection, I didn't know how to get out of it and basically prayed I wouldn't suddenly find my mouth filled with ejaculate. Such a terrifying thought.

"After he's in your throat two seconds," Anya had warned, "it's all you'll taste for days." Escorts know, of course, but I had silently sidestepped her warning, which now acted as an unceasing reminder of misguided judgment.

I liked things to be either here or there and I hadn't considered I might find shades of gray in it all, where his hold on me might persist even after we'd concluded our...session together. Frankly, I found his lingering smack infuriating and was pissed at myself for having allowed it to happen at all.

What about a condom? I should have asked Anya whether it was all right to insist he wear one, but had I done so, she would have known something was up and would have asked questions I wasn't prepared to answer. Besides, insisting on a condom for fellatio was something he would have perceived as rejection. I couldn't do it.

Interrupting my tattered reflections, Mira continued, "Taryn, don't think that taste is going anywhere soon. Answer me this, dear, is there a touch of queasiness in your tummy?" I glared at her.

"A touch, yes," I reluctantly admitted. I always assumed semen was basically harmless but wasn't feeling very well and thought maybe it was the wine; that I had drunk too much.

"The mind plays prankster, Taryn. You have a few million of those squiggly spermy things swimming about down there now and the very thought is bothering you. Isn't his taste preoccupying?"

"Yes, but drinking the coke will..." I hesitated, knowing she had me. "Anyway," I said, changing the subject, "Why did you have to bring this up?"

Ignoring the question, she simply smiled. "Oh, of course. Diet Coke solves everything." It would do nothing of the kind and deep down, I knew it. I had sucked something too sweet and too musky for too long and felt sick.

Mira shifted gears again. "Taryn, your girlfriend has been wondering about today. She's going to want to know where you were. Ready to reveal your exciting little...adventure to her?"

"I have no intention of explaining myself, not to anyone," I shot back. "And what's more, I don't have to. What I do with my body is my business, Mira."

"Somehow, that's exactly what I expected you to say," she went on. "But this isn't some kind of game. It became deadly serious the moment you began browsing testosterone-filled cocks on that preposterous website and you've played it dangerously close to the edge with this one. Remember too, no matter how secretly you planned it, concealing what you did, meeting him on the sly and all, in the end; it still has to make some kind of sense to you. Does he have Herpes?"

"What a thing to ask!" I protested indignantly. "How would I...?" "Well, does he?" Unremittingly answering her own questions, she carried on. "Of course you wouldn't know - how could you? It's not like he'd admit it. But then, you might be the only woman he's seeing, right?"

"I hadn't thought about it," I answered softly, while taking another swig. From the scornful look she shot me, I knew she knew I was lying through my teeth. "Anyway, I don't think he does."

"Does what?"

"Have herpes..."

"Oh, that. Well I'm sure you're right. But let's face it, you can't know and you did suck him, sin preservativo, so whatever he has, you already have. And by the way, I'm curious about something. Why didn't you make him wear one? You're demanding enough otherwise and aren't exactly enamored with the thought of getting a mouthful of you-know-what."

"If you must know, I didn't want to spoil the mood."

"Honestly? You put yourself in danger of walking off with some permanent microbe and were worried about ambience? Are you serious?" I stared at the floor. "Was any of it even slightly romantic? Mmm?"

"It was in a way, because..."

"And besides, he didn't exactly volunteer to wear one when he basically demanded that blowjob, now did he? No, of course not, they never do, especially if a dim-witted girl is willing to suck him off anyway."

I glowered at her in silence and took another draught of coke.

"The drink isn't helping, is it," she added flatly. "The taste will only become more virulent, Taryn because you blew a man you had no feelings for; we both know it's true."

Clutching the bottle tightly now, more for comfort than anything else, I admitted to myself, but not to her, that she was right again, as the usually bracing liquid wasn't nixing the excessively sweet taste of his semen, now attached like barnacles to my frazzled tonsils.

And it wasn't only his sperm that troubled me. For God's sake, I didn't even know who he was and had devoted hours to fellating him in exchange for a bit of tenderness which, though he had granted it, was definitely something "given" out of the goodness of his heart. Even I knew he didn't feel the slightest affection for me.

A moment later I silently rejoiced as the train decelerated, knowing Mira's image, and the blistering exchange she'd forced me into, would vanish in the bright light of the platform.

By the time the great iron beast jarred to a groaning halt at Hither Green I needed one thing; relief from her demanding grilling. Suddenly, the train jolted still, seeming to bump some undefined object on the tracks.

With the shadows of the countryside now replaced by the glaring lights of the busy station platform, I saw dozens of would-be passengers milling about, huddled against the cold and waiting for the car doors to shift to the open position.

That's when I spotted her. Lovely in white, she was hard to miss, dressed against the winter chill in fox roller hat, matching full-length coat and high heeled boots. She gracefully parried the crowd, pacing nervously just outside the window. Attempting to hold the station's racket at bay, she tightly covered an ear with one hand and held her cell phone against the other, seemingly waiting for someone to pick up - all with a distressed look on her face.

It wasn't just that the arresting woman stood out in a crowd. Her unpredicted presence startled me. Ignoring my phone's vibration, I hurriedly leaned forward and fumbled with the buckle of my shoe. Pulling it off and hobbling across the aisle, I madly tapped its heel against the opposite window. It worked, as Anya's attention instantly found me just as I drew my own cell phone from the side pocket of my purse. "Anya, I'm so glad you're here!" I stuttered into the phone. Then, frantically pointing in the direction of the carriage doors, only now just opening, I added, "Quick, get on the train."

Looking at me through the window and moving her cell phone from her ear, she lifted her shoulders as if to say, 'Taryn, what the fuck?'