Swallowtail Ch. 03

Swallowtail is a novel that traces the narrator's gradual acceptance of submission.

Previously: after having seduced the narrator at an art gallery, Dex returned unexpectedly to challenge him to make her come in his office.

***

Dex has been absent for the last several weeks and my efforts to reach her have been met with a silence. I'm loath to admit it, but I've been bruised by her indifference and my own powerlessness in the face of it. If only I could be so indifferent, but she occupies my thoughts and dreams more than she deserves. I am weirdly paralyzed by her absence, fully expecting another chapter and unwilling to pick up another book lest the story continue without me.

I've toyed with the idea of consigning my meetings with Dex to memory, to be trotted out in my doddering, prostate-challenged old age whenever I need the balm of remembered pleasure. I've debated returning to greener pastures, where the investment of time yields more predictable returns. And therein lies the problem—predictability. Somehow, this churlish if interesting member of Gen Y has, by design or accident, reawakened my thirst for surprise and living for the moment. I'd forgotten the aphrodisiac qualities of unpredictability. Now that I have had a taste, every other dish on the menu suggests a blandness for which I have little appetite.

It is late evening and I am home alone. I have set aside some time to slog through this month's last word on running a successful business. The book lies open on my lap but I'm not that interested. The tumbler of single malt beside me competes for my attention. The whiskey is winning. It does every time.

The doorbell rings. I'm not expecting anyone and I'm tempted to ignore it. Nothing good can come of answering it. I look at the clock and reconsider. It's past nine o'clock, which is late enough for salespeople to have gone back to wherever salespeople go to rebuild their fragile egos.

I find myself sympathizing with them as I hasten to the door.

I open the door to find Dex standing on front porch, apparently put out at having to wait.

"Dex!" I say needlessly and with more relief than I intend to reveal. I follow this up with: "What a surprise!" I'm just full of inanity tonight and put an end to it by inviting her in.

"How did you find me?"

She looks at me as though she doesn't understand the question. "Reverse search."

I don't get it. My clueless expression says as much.

"You gave me your phone number."

"Then why didn't you call?"

"I don't like phones."

I want to say obviously but hold my tongue. I take her coat, which seems entirely too light for the November chill outside.

She is looking at me expectantly, raccoon eyes wide and unblinking. I've forgotten my manners, it seems.

"Would you like something? Beer? Wine?"

She opts for a glass of red and wanders through the house. She says little. Her outfit again is decidedly goth but she has managed again to imbue it with some dark sexiness. Or maybe goth is sexy. Or maybe she is. She wears her hair in a disheveled mess that works so well that it can't be by accident, but I can't imagine Dex caring enough either way. Her eyes are heavily made up and her lips sport a shade that's just this side of the witching hour. She wears a choker that reminds me of a collar that I'd once unsuccessfully tried to convince a girlfriend to wear. Everything else is enshrouded by gauzy blackness and I have to content myself with the memory of her alabaster skin. I don't know how she pulls it off or why it works for me. She is the opposite of the sleek and stylish elegance that usually catches my attention. She somehow manages to evoke more with a multitude of dark layers that other women manage with generous displays of flesh. It's like the dance of the seven veils performed by a Morticia. Whatever else it might be, it's interesting.

I go to the kitchen to fetch her wine. I'm wondering again whether Dex is somehow psychologically unbalanced or even dangerous. I know nothing about her and her propensity to fall off the radar for weeks at a time is irksome and disrespectful. She's either ignorant or contemptuous of the niceties of interpersonal relationships. We've been together twice now, and while this does not constitute a relationship by any stretch, it does imply some kind of attraction or interest on her part. I realize also that although anonymous, no-strings sex with an attractive stranger is a staple in the larder of many a male fantasy, it's a lot less carefree and easy when it actually happens. I've never been one to refuse an interesting liaison, but, evidence to the contrary, I feel that this one has possibly more strings attached than I can see.

Confronted with how little I actually know about this woman, I find myself wondering whether it has been wise to succumb to her so willingly. It has been good and her visit to the office was indeed interesting (if inconvenient), but by my reckoning we are now even. One orgasm for another. Tit for tat. We could conceivably part ways with neither of us being in debt to the other.

I find Dex walking around the place, evaluating it as a particularly anal interior decorator might. It amuses me, this act of haughty disdain for the trappings of success that I doubt she possesses herself.

I follow her back to the living room and she perches herself on the arm of a leather chair and casually crosses her legs at the ankles. I notice that she has left her dangerous-looking boots on but I decide to reserve my admonishment. I like hardwood floors but I'm a sucker for high heels too.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?" I ask, sitting in the armchair opposite her.

There's a glimmer of a smile. "I was wondering whether you'd do me a favor."

"Ah," I say knowingly, though I know nothing.

She approaches me, tall in her heels. She squats down and leans her arms on my thighs. I can gaze down into the valley between her breasts but allow myself only a moment to do so. Her eyes study mine. "I hope you're up for it. I think you might be but I'm not sure."

I don't know how she does it, but I'm on the defensive. Again. I feel control slipping away. I'm used to being in charge, yet somehow this woman manages to nudge me into the passenger seat and before I realize it, she has her hands on my wheel and her foot on my pedal and I'm left going wherever she steers us. To be fair, the journey has been interesting until now, but I miss being in control. "Depends what it is," I say. Already the hormones are kicking up.

"Would you be willing to please me?"

I detect a hint of uncertainty in the question. For all of her control and self-possession, Dex still has to ask. She's as unsure about where we're going as I am—has as many questions about me as I have about her. While she's in the driver's seat, she still needs me to agree about the destination. I'm somewhat reassured.

I hesitate. We're at some kind of threshold. A tipping point. I can feel it. Dex thinks that because she has had me on my knees the last time that I might be happy to spend more time there. Not so. I've been here before. The point at which a woman exercises her real or perceived advantage and guile to wrest control from me. It happens in any relationship. I'd seen it in my parents'. My dad, a successful, confident man, mercilessly harangued and heaped with demands and expectations by a woman (my step-mother) who recognized in love a lever with which to elevate herself.

I'd vowed never to be in a woman's debt, to ensure that my emotional balance sheet was always in the black. Some women have said that I'm an asshole, a chauvinist. So be it.

"Depends what you have in mind," I say.

"It's hard to ask."

"Best to spit it out."

"I've had this fantasy..." Her voice trails off and she sips her wine.

Our every meeting has been the realization of some kind of fantasy and my curiosity is immediately piqued.

"If you do this... thing... I'll owe you," she says.

It's good that she says this. She'll owe me and the balance will be restored. "Any hints?" I ask.

"In a minute." She rises from her position in front of me and sits on my lap. I know what she's doing. She's softening me up, making me malleable and sapping my will. Trouble is, there's a part of me that isn't softening and the longer this goes on, the more likely it is that I'll succumb.

My hand is on her thigh. She's wearing black stockings and I feel the strap of a garter beneath my fingers. The woman, I decide, is a witch.

I'm a sucker for garters.

My hand runs up her flank beneath the skirt. She lets it roam. There's an enticing expanse of skin to explore.

Her arm is draped across my shoulder and she nips at my ear. Her breath is hot and expectant in my ear. Jesus.

"So?" she asks. She hasn't elaborated on the nature of her fantasy. She wants carte blanche.

She can probably feel the erection pressing up against the backs of her legs. "Whatever you like," I say. "Within reason."

"Are you sure?"

I'm not, but gamely say, "I'd like to do something for you."

She smiles. There's still some uncertainty to the smile, for which I'm grateful. I know about assumptions. "Where's the bedroom?" she asks.

***

Dex leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed, head cocked to the side and legs planted shoulder-width apart. I'm surprised by the stance, suggesting strength and distance rather than the welcoming intimacy I'd hoped for. "Undress," she says. Evidently negotiations are over.

This isn't quite what I had in mind and I hesitate. "How about another kiss?" I ask, hoping to direct things along paths I'm more comfortable with.

Her eyes widen slightly. "Later." She waits.

"Just me?" I don't like the idea of being vulnerable, of being the only one so exposed.

"Why not? I've already seen you. Most of you."

"But..."

"You said that you'd do me this favor."

"Sure, but..."

She takes a deep breath. "Have you ever asked a woman to strip for you?" asks Dex. "To perform for you?"

It takes me a moment to understand what she is asking. Then it comes to me. I have. I nod. At once I have the feeling that the shoe is on the other foot and it's tight and uncomfortable. There's no room in it for me and the hypocrisy that Dex seems to be banking on.

"I'm not going to ask you to dance if that's what you're worried about. But it does turn guys on, doesn't it, seeing their women strip for them? To play with themselves? What if I tell you that it does the same for me to watch a man pleasure himself?"

"I'd say..." I'm not sure what to say. I don't know you comes to mind. That won't do. I have a recollection of telling someone that I liked the way she touched herself. I barely knew her too. Logically what was good for the goose should have been good for the gander, except for the fact that I wouldn't the one doing the gandering. I try to convince myself that turning her on would be a reward in itself. It isn't. I'm not that selfless. Frankly, the thought of providing entertainment by masturbating for her makes me feel more than self-conscious. "I'm really uncomfortable about doing this."

"It's just you and me. There's no one else."

"I hardly know you."

"We've been intimate. We've pleased each other. I want you to please me again."

I sit on the edge of the bed. "Maybe if you start me off," I suggest hopefully.

"No, but if it makes you feel better, you can think of me while you do it," she says.

"Ooh," I say, allowing some sarcasm to slip through. "That'll be fun."

Her only response is a raised eyebrow. One only. I wish that I could have mastered that skill.

"It would make it easier if you were naked," I venture.

"It might, but you'll probably have your eyes closed, so it's pretty irrelevant whether I'm clothed over here or not."

I hesitate some more.

"Pretend I'm not here," suggests Dex.

She's becoming impatient.

She'd been a great lay. I weigh the pros and cons. Con—I embarrass myself. Pro—I turn her on and set the stage for another chapter. She'll owe me.

Am I that desperate?

I think of the last few women before Dex and have to admit that she has packed more excitement and unpredictability in two meetings than the others have, combined, over recent memory. What she lacks in refinement she makes up for in creativity and verve.

***

I remove my tie and let it dangle between my fingers. I toy with the idea of tying her up with it. It wouldn't work, I think. Instead, I throw the tie onto a chair and my shirt soon follows.

I look at Dex who gives me a quick nod of encouragement. She's inscrutable. She licks her lips. I see this as a slip. A tell. She must like watching. Maybe this kind of thing really does arouse her. Maybe the power of it arouses her.

I unbutton my pants. I'm nearing the point of no return and I feel more uneasy now. Dex crosses one leg over the other while my pants crumple around my ankles. My underwear and socks follow and I'm standing there naked, being studied by Dex, and I'm glad that I've at least kept the middle-age flab at bay with regular squash games and running and weights.

I sit on the bed and feel like a tool. "Shit," I mutter. I think again of the times that I'd asked women to do just this. Strip and dance and masturbate for my enjoyment. I wonder now whether they'd felt as self-conscious. They must have. No one is brought up wanting to perform humiliating acts for the pleasure of others. I had told myself that I'd learn these women by watching how their fingers danced over their flesh. Learn by how they manipulated themselves. That was bullshit though. I liked to watch even though I'd never considered myself much of a voyeur. If I was honest with myself, I liked the fact that they were willing to do this for me more than the watching itself.

The thought depresses me now.

"How do you want me?" I ask finally.

"There is good."

I'm sitting at the edge of the bed and allow myself to lie back. I couldn't be less turned on by my predicament and what I've been asked to do.

I tug at myself halfheartedly. Had I known I'd be doing this, I would have bought myself dinner and plied myself with wine. The masturbatory mood eludes me.

I open my eyes. "You're not going to take pictures of me, are you? Post them on the internet?"

"What do you take me for?"

"I don't know you."

"No. You clearly don't. I'm not interested in humiliating anyone, okay? This is between you and me. Anything we do is always between you and me."

I feel somewhat reassured but whatever wispy head of steam I've built up is gone now. I settle back on the bed.

How do I do this? I wonder. I hope she isn't expecting porn star sound effects or electrocution grimaces. I close my eyes and rest my hands on my lower abdomen.

I try to focus on the matter at hand, but it doesn't work. Occasionally I hear the rustle of fabric from where Dex stands and I'm reminded of the breathtaking stupidity and humiliation of what I've agreed to do. Then my mind wanders.

It's not working. The mighty oak remains a stubborn, pathetic acorn. Performance anxiety, I tell myself. I take a deep breath.

Dex recognizes my imminent failure. "Tell me what you would like me to do."

"Come here and help me, for one."

"And then?"

"And then you'd strip."

"And then?"

"And then you'd rub your breasts across my face... You'd take me in..."

I imagine it and feel the stirrings. I picture it. Can I be that easy? I can imagine it then, except it isn't Dex in the leading role...

***

It's Moira. There's a shock of recognition. Where has she come from. I haven't thought of her in years. She was one of the first. A flame-haired beauty who cultivated a faux hedonistic air that cloaked a choirgirl. I'd been taken in, convinced that Moira was far more worldly than I.

I'd coaxed and cajoled and teased her over a period of months. She'd responded just enough to keep me interested.

I remember my attempts at convincing her that she possessed more colors on her erotic palette than she knew and that she owed it to herself to grow comfortable in their use—lips, tongue, hands, pussy, ass...

My hand finds my groin as I remember...

And she tries, gamely swimming against her upbringing and her nature.

It is afternoon in my room at the residence. I deliberately leave the blinds partially open to better watch her. She likes darkness, as though the God of her parents could not see her there. She moves to close them and I beg her not to. I love the play of light and shadow on your body, I say. She blushes furiously, pleased and embarrassed by my words. Her shyness as she undresses arouses me and she leaps into bed more to escape my gaze than to express eagerness. I can still feel her skin, cool and smooth under my fingers as she buries herself into my side.

I roll her onto her back and kiss a path from her lips to her toes and back up again to the downy delta between her legs, leaving a riot of goose pimples in my wake. I coax her legs apart. They open to me hesitantly as though afraid of what wickedness exposure might bring. She freezes at the first touch of my tongue despite the heat that I feel on my lips.

I can imagine her thoughts. Did enjoying this make her a slut?

She tries to regulate her breathing, afraid of the admission implied in a gasp or a moan. I enjoy my perceived mastery over her. I can play her like an instrument.

Her climax is a quiet and private affair, a trembling moment of horrified breathlessness.

She is sated and would gladly go to sleep to escape the first tendrils of guilt.

I kneel at her head, my cock shamelessly pointing at her mouth. I lean over and kiss her, my tongue imparting the taste of her. If she finds it gross I don't care. I've survived it, after all. Her hand has found me, likely by accident. Fingers weigh my balls and hold them tentatively.

I straighten and bury a hand in her fiery tresses. I pull, gently. She rolls to her side. My gaze sweeps up her pale flank to her shapely ass, past the corrugation of ribs to the weight of a pink-tipped breast. She kisses the tip of my cock with the trepidation that one would a reptile. I stroke her breast with the other hand. She has never expressed any interest at providing this type of enjoyment. Her lips part reluctantly. It's a duty, this giving of pleasure. An unreasonable expectation hatched in porn films and adolescent male fantasies. She's reminded of Genesis and of the snake and recoils at having anything even vaguely snake-like in her mouth. But my hand holds her and I push myself into that velvet heat. Her hand has left my balls and now presses against my thigh. Too much, I think, disappointed. I withdraw. She tries gamely, fighting her Catholic guilt and gag reflex.

At length I flop onto my back and maneuver Moira onto me. Here she is slightly more comfortable. The working parts are as far away from her mind as they can be while still sinning. Her hair curtains around us and we're breathing each other's hot breath and gazing at each other for meaning and reassurance and that sublime intimate space for me is completely irrelevant because she has found me and I'm poised at the gates, feeling the warmth and the promised embrace. She hesitates and drives me crazy. I don't know if she's doing this on purpose. She resumes her descent on me. It's slow and deliberate. She's wonderfully tight and I'm aching with engorgement.

She can go no further. The length of me is buried within her. I wonder how different it feels—the possessing or the possessed. Her eyes are closed and she's sitting up on me. She tightens herself and I moan. I like to think that the contraction is by design rather than by accident. My hands support the weight of her breasts; I bracket them upon the arch of my thumb and forefinger. Moira flings her hair back and grinds into me, losing herself a little in the moment. She's thinking of herself now and the feeling of something hard and insistent within her. Her eyes are closed and it could now be me or anyone else.