So Strange and Wild Ch. 02: The High Priestess

Another stab of memory. I heard the echo of Iris's voicemail, that snippet of her preserved on some server farm. No answer.

"All true," I said, with my cock raging against its cloth prison.

"For two hours," Lucia crowed, "you 'made love' to a young woman who was not your wife. A woman who looked like that." Her finger stabbed Beth's shape in the photograph; the image zoomed in further, till her curves filled the screen. "Is that truly the phrase you would use, Anthony? 'Made love?'"

"I don't remember what I said."

"Oh, but I do," breathed Lucia. "Penny has it filed away, because she also queried that gap in time. What were you doing, she wanted to know, in the more than two hours"--Lucia drew out the words, rendering them almost as gasps--"between your first and second phone call to Iris Braithwaite?"

My memory gave the answer in hazy, haunted spurts: Beth in my bed, or bent over a chair, her chest spilling free of that forest green cocktail dress. We'd finished against the hotel window, with her silhouette on display for the city below.

I shifted in my seat, hoping to dislodge my throbbing cock. It didn't help, and Lucia's wide blue eyes were lapping up my obvious discomfort.

"'We'd both been drinking,'" she said calmly, quoting my statement from memory, "'and she gave me half an Adderall, so it took a long time to come. She needed a break in the middle, but two hours sounds about right.'"

"You memorized all that?" I whispered. Lucia's proximity was a growing problem; her scent was overwhelming, and I could detect every rustle of her dress.

"I've got excellent recall," she replied. "And a vivid imagination. You said the poor girl 'needed a break.' Does that sound like you were making love, Anthony?"

I hadn't been expecting a cross-examination. "Ms. Abel gave her enthusiastic consent," I said irritably, meeting Lucia's gaze. Challenging her. "More than once."

The lawyer's cryptic smile just got bigger. "Yes, she confirmed as much during our private Zoom call--hers and mine. She was mortified to talk about any of this, of course. Worried it might all have to come out in court. Yet when she spoke about that night last February, she blushed, Anthony. You left a ... forceful impression."

My cock flared in my pants, still painfully confined, and my expression must have given me away. Lucia's pink tongue darted forth between her lips, triumphant. Then she reached under the table with one manicured hand, her eyes never straying from mine.

"Let me help," she said gently, her fingers closing over the bulge in my slacks. She eased my stiff cock to an upright position--pointing it vaguely toward her--so I could surge to my full, unfettered length. "Is that better?"

It was. Her touch had set the blood rushing freely to my crotch, like the welcome return of the tide. Yet the rest of me wasn't ready to concede.

"You could have said all this over the phone."

Lucia tilted her head. "Is that what you want, Anthony? My voice in your ear, just telling you things, while you throb and squirm in your seat? I don't think so." She patted my thigh. "That wouldn't be enough for you."

I glanced around the room: at the tableau of middle-aged guys in hunched conversation, at the server glued to his phone. No one was looking our way.

"What is this?" I asked. It felt like I was fending off an assault. Lucia hadn't removed her hand, so her left thumb lay casually against the tent in my slacks, able to detect every pulse and twitch.

"The pieces don't fit," she said, seeming to watch the vein in my neck. "You told us your wife attended this sex club. Fourteen? We know you went with her, at least once. That suggests a couple at peace with polyamory. Yet on the night of her death, you were screwed a stranger in a hotel several states away. You cheated, Anthony," she drawled, "and I want to know why."

I thought about lying--to Lucia, to myself. But something in her eyes warned me off. There were layers to this woman: lawyerly poise and carnal opulence, a splinter of wanton cruelty. But at the bottom of those sparkling blue pools was something I hadn't expected: kindness.

"We had separated," I told her. "We were taking a break." And then I added, bitterly, "Anyway, she would have approved."

"Bethany?"

"Iris."

The moment I said my wife's name, Lucia began stroking my cock in my slacks. Petting it, almost, as if I were a skittish animal in need of soothing. Perhaps I was, because I didn't stop her.

"Your wife wanted you to fuck other women," she mused aloud, coaxing it out of me. Her nails scritched across the linen till she found the ridge of my swollen head--and she paused there, testing its size and plumpness. My dick tried to jump into her hand, demanding more.

"Yes," I gasped.

"Why?" She asked, offering me a long, teasing graze. If she'd applied the same pressure to my scalp, she might have sent me to sleep, but my cock wasn't easily lulled. Each pass of her fingertips only served to make me harder.

"Because I couldn't fuck her."

"Couldn't? Wouldn't?"

"Couldn't. She has ... had ... it doesn't matter." There were things Lucia didn't need to know. Things I couldn't hope to express--not here, not while my manhood was a dull, pounding weight. "She wanted me to fuck other people."

"And what did you want, Anthony?" Her hand had stopped moving, fingers splayed, with my shaft pinned under its palm.

I thought of velvet and cherries. A balcony laden with summer flowers. "I only wanted her," I murmured, voicing the saddest truth I knew.

"Really? What about Beth Abel?" Lucia's fingers slid to my waistband, and she popped the button that fastened my slacks. Waiting for the story I didn't want to share.

"Does this turn you on?" I asked. "Toying with me?"

Lucia curled her nails into my unyielding shaft, till I could feel the prick of each point. "Don't be tedious," she said. "Just admit the things you enjoy."

"Why are y--?" I began, but Lucia's nails dug deeper, cutting me off. With her free hand, her left, she browsed to another file on her tablet. A text transcript.

"'He started the second we got inside,'" she read. These were Beth's words, I realized. Her recollection of that night in February. "'He was so hungry, so aggressive, I thought it would be over quick. He pulled down my dress and threw me on the bed, on my back. Then he began penetrating me.'"

Lucia put a mocking emphasis on that last verb, and her fingers moved deftly to my zipper. As she tugged it down, I swore I could hear each tooth coming free, impossibly loud, like a hole being torn in the world. My cock rose taller to fill the void.

"'He seemed angry, I guess?'" read Lucia, skipping ahead in the testimony. "'Or focused? It was like he was fucking someone else, and he was mad at them. But then it changed, got better. I guess he remembered I was there.'"

The sudden arch of her supple back. "She came so fast," I supplied, reliving the moment. "It surprised me, that's all."

Lucia adjusted my slacks like she was folding a napkin, casually exposing my trunks. Her gaze had fallen to my bulge, so that when I looked at her, sidelong, I was struck again by her eye makeup, her exquisite lashes.

"I'm less surprised," she muttered. Then she coiled her fingers around my clothed erection--upside down, with her thumb along the shaft--and gave me two testing strokes. Through the thin fabric, I felt her right ring finger curl around the helmet of my cock; and the heel of her hand moved over my slit, inducing a glorious twinge of pleasure.

"We should get out of here," I said impulsively, before I could stop myself. My cock was doing the talking, but I also wanted to be free of this place--and of Lucia's teasing grasp. I needed to break her spell.

But she had other plans. "Poor, neglected Anthony," she whispered. "When was the the last time a woman made you come?" Still fondling my dick, she let her index finger trail down the shaft. Then she tickled my balls through my trunks with that single golden nail. Playful. Like she was scratching a puppy behind its ear.

"You know when," I said, spreading my legs. I was trying to signal that I was comfortable like this, in control. Probably, I just looked needy.

"I do," Lucia said, massaging my cock with the bunched cotton. "And it wasn't that night, by the window." She was clutched me tightly, as if she were trying to mold my manhood into something different--something new. "It was the next morning, after you'd tended to Bethany's sore and swollen pussy. She blew you in that hotel bed, over room service."

It was true. Typed up and filed away, forever shelved in memory. The room had smelled of fresh toast and honey. I saw Bethany sprawled before me, tangled in the sheets, with her face scrubbed bare from the shower. Eyes closed, mouth full. Gratefully gulping my load. Seconds later, the bedside phone had rung--my cell was dead, and so was my wife; they'd been trying to reach me for hours--and life as I'd known it was over.

"This is cruel," I whispered, meaning the interrogation and her hand on my dick. But also ... me. My faithless choices.

With a sigh, Lucia laid her head on my shoulder, wafting vanilla. Her hair was warm and ticklish against my neck. On the tablet in front of us, the screen timed out.

"You know," she murmured, still stroking my length, "I don't think I've ever felt a man's cock get quite this fucking hard. I swear I could carve my initials in this table just using your tip."

"Fuck you," I said softly. It was all I could manage amid mounting waves of pleasure.

She laughed at me. Then lifted her fingers free and gave them a surreptitious lick. When her hand darted back to my crotch, it slid neatly inside my trunks, and I felt her fingers surround my head, slick with spit. The first thing I thought of was Bethany's dripping sex.

In my ear, Lucia whispered, "The waiter's coming over. Sip your drink."

Jerking upright in shock and shame, I fumbled for my glass. Lucia rose more leisurely, and she didn't relinquish my dick. She held it tight and still beneath the table, and she beamed at our server as he cleared the plates.

"Thank you! We'll take the bill."

"No dessert?" the boy asked. His eyes were flicking back and forth between us, and I tried to picture how we looked: Lucia, with her enchanting smile and hand snaking into my lap; and me, flushed and sullen, slugging the last of a warm martini.

"Nothing for me," replied Lucia. "What about you, Anthony? Want more?" And she gave my cock a vicious squeeze, causing me to jump halfway out of my seat.

"No," I groaned, trying to appear unmoved, "I shouldn't." To the server, I added, "You can bring the check to me."

"Such a gentleman!" Lucia cried, running her hand down my dick with agonizing stealth. The moment the server was gone, she rewarded me with a slithering upward stroke--base to tip--that made me throw back my head in exasperation and pleasure.

"Are you done?" I growled. "Can we leave?"

Lucia swiveled in her seat to lay one firm thigh across the other. Using her left hand, she peeled back my trunks to reveal the throbbing cock beneath, its turgid head still caught in her upturned right fist. She gave me one more speculative pump, then removed both her hands, letting my waistband snap back in place.

"You wouldn't know this," she murmured, glancing up at me, "but most men can't stay hard in public. They'd have wilted away when the server came over--or just come in their pants already." She sounded mournful when she said this, which rendered the whole speech darkly comic. "You are not like most men, Thomas Anthony Rocchi."

"You think I don't regret that night?" I said, reaching down to button and zip my slacks; I had to force my dick aside to make it possible. "It fucking haunts me."

She tapped one sandal against my shin as she considered this. The gesture felt more intimate, somehow, than her hand on my genitals.

"I suspect it does," she said gently. "You're smart and a little detached, but not insensitive. Or you weren't before, I should say. Perhaps your grief--your guilt--is making you cold."

"It's only been five months."

"Yet part of you is ready to move on." Lucia gave my crotch an affectionate pat, and my cock leaped back into her palm, betraying me.

"I'm more than my worst urges, Ms. Visconti," I said, though I let her continue to caress me, this time with a single thumb.

"You don't believe that," she said sharply. "You hate this drive in you--the ruthless tug of lust. But it sounds like your wife understood it."

I pictured Iris in my mind, radiant on the night we'd first met. She was sitting in a chair by my bed, offstage. Her hands folded primly in her lap. And she was watching me. Smiling.

In the present, Lucia gave my cock a sympathetic squeeze. "I don't know what happened at that club. Maybe your wife wanted something you weren't ready to give? Something you worried would make you unlovable." This time I gave nothing away. Watching for my response, Lucia angrily tossed her head, nostrils flaring: "What is it, Anthony? The world itches you, and you won't let yourself scratch."

On that last word, she grabbed at my crotch with both hands, hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that my right knee spasmed and cracked off the edge of the table, jouncing the remaining glassware. The few patrons in the restaurant turned to gawk--and then promptly looked away, observing Lucia's privacy. Meanwhile, the server brought the check, bearing it to my elbow on a silly silver tray.

I signed for both meals on a handheld terminal, conscious of the blood pounding in my knee and crotch. Lucia slipped her tablet into a laurel shoulder bag and began winding her headscarf around one wrist. Preparing to leave. As she sidled out of the booth, I realized she was shorter and less imposing than I had realized: she stood maybe 5'6" in flat sandals. Her toes were painted yellow to match her fingers, and they set off the blue of her dress. When she caught me looking, she smiled and graced my arm with one silken hand.

"I'm headed to the restroom. If I don't see you again, Mr. Rocchi, I wish you luck on your journey. Otherwise, wait five minutes before joining me."

The invitation was so casual, I wasn't sure I'd heard her right. She gave my wrist a consolatory pat before swishing away, sufficient to convince anyone watching that she'd just bid me farewell. Frozen in my seat, I could only admire the backs of her broad, white thighs, visible below the hem of her dress. Then she vanished down a corridor at the rear of the restaurant, and I found myself alone in Melograno. The restaurant felt gray and lifeless, starved of light.

I wish I could say that I agonized over the decision--that one of the defining moments of my life didn't hinge on primal instinct or Lucia's skillful provocation. But she had drawn me taut like a bowstring, and I'd begun counting the seconds before she even disappeared from view. My cock was an arrow in flight, bound for its target; I knew where it now belonged.

The minutes dragged by. Dazedly, I climbed out of the booth and started walking. My erection must have been obvious, but I didn't care. I wasn't thinking. The back corridor was empty and almost featureless; I followed it deeper, taking a left turn into the depths of the building. There I found two heavy wooden doors--one black, one white, each wearing a letter in the other's color: "M" and "W," respectively. Not knowing what to do, I knocked on the white.

It opened a sliver, and I saw Lucia's smirking lips in the gap, in the gloom. "Quickly," she said, and she ushered me inside. I heard the lock snap home behind us.

The bathroom was built for a single occupant, but it was larger than I'd expected, with a sink running the length of one wall. In the shaded mirror above this, I made out Lucia's figure and a startled face--my own. The few sconce lights were a dim orange, revealing little, and the wallpaper didn't help: it was darkly vinous, with a dizzying pattern of flowers and fruits. Ripe halves of pomegranate, their seeds on display.

"Kneel down," said Lucia, indicating a spot on the floor. She was leaning back against the sink, and her exposed skin kept slipping in and out of shadow--face and chest and graceful limbs. She had taken off her belt. Now she was inching up the hem of her dress with spread fingers, revealing thick, golden thighs; and wide hips; and her perfect cleft, waxed and glistening.

Seeing me still on my feet, she clicked her tongue scoldingly. "Kneel, Mr. Rocchi."

In that small cloister, Lucia's scent was overpowering: a mix of perfumed vanilla and fresh, wet pussy. I dropped to the cold tiles, and she tangled her fingers in my hair. Then she dragged me to her crotch face-first, demanding my lips on her slit. I kissed her once, reverently, and was rewarded for it: she clamped her legs around my skull and drowned me in pussy.

"Show me who you really are," she said.

I obliged her with long, clumsy licks, aiming to squirm my way upward to freedom. But whenever I tried to steal a breath, Lucia fought back with sudden, sharp jerks of her hips, ensuring my face stayed level with her snatch. Her hands clutched the back of my head, and she guided my lips to her gleaming clit. As her dress fell around me like a veil, she steered me lower, to her slick opening. Then lower still, till I found myself hungrily lapping her ass. To support myself, I clawed at her hips, savoring her fleshy curves.

As the minutes slid by, I kept to my task. My tongue crept through cinnamon folds. I felt lightheaded, floaty, deranged, but the blood was singing in my cock, convinced of its purpose. Best of all, Lucia was happy: when she yanked back my head, it was to grant me a beatific smile.

"My sweet, lost boy," she purred. "Look at you."

I had no pithy answer to that, no contradiction; I just kept my eyes locked on hers and returned my lips to her vulva. With my ears no longer covered by her thighs, I could revel in each gasp and moan she made, and I used them to guide my tongue over and around her clit. Soon, a steady, rhythmic cooing accompanied each flick of her button, and I saw the pleasure build on Lucia's face; she was biting her lip to stifle it. My hands stole over her rear and cupped her cheeks, pulling her cunt into my mouth. I was like a man drinking deep from a lifesaving bowl of nectar.

Too late, she realized she was on the verge. Tried to stop me. But she couldn't: I caught her right fist in my left and pinned it to the lip of the sink. Then I grabbed one delicate ankle and lifted it off the floor, till Lucia almost toppled over. She was forced to stumble forward instead, into the relentless questing of my lips and tongue.

She came like that, in my grasp, almost silent; only a strangled howl at the end betrayed her, when she was no longer able to contain her joy. I felt her wrist and ankle writhe in my hands, seizing with pleasure, and a bead of her juices rolled down my upturned chin. When I pulled away--grinning, victorious--my face was drenched in her sex.

It took her a moment get a proper hold on the sink. "Some men," she hissed, "like to inflict pain. You ... inflict pleasure. Am I wrong?"

In response, I just scooted backward, fumbling at my slacks. My erection had been latent while my mind was elsewhere, but now it was hard as iron--and confined enough to hurt. Still kneeling, I fished my cock out of my trunks, letting it quiver in the air between us. Heavy with intent.

She nodded, as if I had begged her favor aloud. "Stand up."

I stood, kicking off my shoes. I lowered my slacks to the hard floor, careful of the cell phones I kept in my pocket. Sliding off my trunks with hooked thumbs, I stepped out of them--and forward, till my dick bobbed inches from Lucia's midsection. Seeking her out.