Triptych

...

First and Last (Eloise)

... as you wish."

She could barely hear her own voice over the thump of her heart, but she hoped she was selling it. She had folded her hands primly in her lap to hide the shaking. Touching his cock was not anything she had planned or even considered, but it seemed the most mature action at the time and so she took it. But now, one wrong step and he might realize how nervous she was and ruin this whole thing.

"Whatever I want?" he said. He was enjoying himself, at least that much she could tell. Maybe even in spite of himself. It was the gentle confidence of his voice, the slight teasing aspect. She knew what he was doing. He thought he could get her to crack if he just treated her like a girl. He might be right—but, well, she wasn't entirely helpless.

"Yes, of course," she said. "I trust you, John. Unreservedly. That's why I chose you." It was weird, through all the flirtation, to just have a few words of truth scoot out.

"Elena," he finally said, and his hand gripped hers. The first touch of skin between them: her eyebrows lifted to say, "You realize what you've done?" while his mirrored the motion to reply, "What of it?"

"Elena, listen," he said. God, she hoped he didn't notice how sweaty her palms were. Oh, for fuck's sake, of course he did. He could always see right through her, could see through to what she was trying to say—the way he marked up her papers, it could make her titter or cry, and regardless, feel naked. Only natural to wonder what it would be like to not just feel naked with him.

"You are a lovely girl. You are, and I'm not bullshitting, because I think we both feel all the boundaries falling already and there's no point in putting up more. Do I find you attractive? Obviously. Would I like to fuck your brains out right now in a bathroom stall, spank your ass, bang my dick against both your cheeks and come all over your tits? It's tempting."

She had started with the profanity but now he was diving into it. She kept a bratty smile on, but she knew things were starting to flow inside her. All the lovely moist machinery of love. A variety of pornographic images were flashing through her head, and she had to believe he'd put them there quite deliberately.

"But it's not that simple. There are trust issues. Maybe you're not my student anymore, but when you were, there was a certain power balance that still exists. Believe it or not, I don't want to take advantage. Maybe I shouldn't have come here. You brought me here, because you know you have a power, and I'm not as strong as I'd like. I'm a man. I think, and then later I realize it wasn't my brain that was doing the thinking. But regardless, it doesn't mean I have to go through with it. I do have concerns about what would happen if this got out, of course, but believe it or not, my real concern is, whether any of this is going to hurt you."

He knew where to hit—a little bit of sexual flirtation, but then in with a hook, some truly genuine concern, then a jab of honesty. Was she being silly by being so affected? Was she younger than she thought? Just a little girl after all, playing the vamp? Or did this son of bitch just know his game? Because handsome as he was, he had to know exactly what he did to women. And he had to have had plenty of practice.

But she knew—always suspected, now knew—that her sex weren't as powerless as they seemed in Victoriana.

The first thing to do was get away from this concern shit. That's where he had the power, and he knew it. If she let him go on like this, she'd end up crying and he'd send her home. Maybe that'd be for the best. But she saw something she wanted, something that she'd wanted for half a year and now was within arm's reach, and she certainly wasn't going to just let it be plucked away without venturing a pounce.

"John," she said, rubbing the pad of her thumb along his palm, "I appreciate that, I really do. You probably do know best, as to whether or not this is good for me. You're older and wiser—that's the fucking attraction. But let me tell you something. There's a reason you want me. There's a reason you're imagining what it would be like to splash your cum all over my tits. There's a reason why you want to know what sound I make when you're fucking me. You want to know if I'll beg for more. You want to know if I'll scream or moan or just gasp for breath. You're pondering just how tight I'd be around your cock. Maybe that attraction isn't just foolishness. Maybe it's a good attraction—maybe you could be good for me and we could be good for each other.

"And, like I said, I'm giving you carte blanche. You want to pull my hair, pull it. You want to stick a finger up my ass, put two. Put me on top, put me on bottom, put me against the wall, put me over your lap if you want. Maybe not all of our attractions are wise—I was as much a Bieber fan as anybody—but I'm trusting in this one. And if it's foolish, then, fuck it, I'm allowed a little foolishness. So are you."

She pulled a folded piece of paper from her wallet and slid it into his hand. "That's my case; that's the best I've got. Take it or leave it. Here's the hotel room. I'll be there all night, and if I'll be there alone—well, I'm working my way through Clarissa, and it's so fucking good it may be better if you don't show up."

She gave him a wink. As she stood up every man at the bar glanced over—one pretended to be scanning for the waitress. John was watching her too. She looked back at him. No smile. Just his crisp blue eyes tracking every movement she made. It felt proprietorial. Judging.

She didn't turn back—she was blushing hard and that was a secret she'd rather keep.

...

(Joseph)

As he said, the values shifted when he wasn't looking. He thought he had pinned everything at its proper mix of utility and disutility. Then he'd seen her. It had been one month since school, but everything had happened. You're with someone day in day out, amongst a bunch of kids who spend half their time dreaming up excuses for homework that they could have done in half that time, you see that person as a thankless child, who didn't want to be taught and who he didn't want to teach. Sure, she was a smart girl, and he'd noticed that. Sure, she was an attractive girl, and he'd noticed that. No sense in denying biology. But he had her cabined off into the box where she belonged—a platonic jail in his brain, unable to inspire any sort of interest. Messmates with Ayn Rand and H. G. Wells.

But then she walked in, with her skinny legs and round hips and that skirt and that top and that square of ebony flesh displayed below her neck and makeup subtle but done to the point of perfection. It was when the other men at the bar craned their necks that the box simply broke. She wouldn't fit it in it any longer. This woman—do whatever you like with her—was not a nameless jug to be filled with knowledge, but an agent in her own right. A creature of reproductive worth that would not be dismissed, but that had to be, whether pursued or shunned, evaluated. It may not be fair, but now she was in the game, a prize to be won and a contestant at the same time.

That was the moment he'd gone hard. Before she even sat down, before she'd said a word. The rest of her seduction, artful as it had been, if a tad gauche, was just icing. He knew before she'd alit that the decision had to be completely redone.

And that's where she left him, with his Scotch going warm in his fist and a piece of folded paper in the middle of the table, his name on the top in her frostwork calligraphy.

First, he poured the drink in a nearby plant and got a coffee: alcohol has never once improved a decision.

Second, the obvious: tumescence is even worse than alcohol. He waited for fifteen minutes for his erection to subside, and then, with no relief in sight, hobbled awkwardly to the bathroom, locked the door, and rectified the situation manually.

He watched the football game for a while, got invested, slammed the table in disappointment at a humiliating interception, and that was as long as he was distractable. Then he just sipped his coffee, lining up the variables, examining the contingencies, musing on philosophical questions that arose as the heuristic superstructure was cemented into place.

So he decided. It was his decision, not society's, and not his dick's. And it was a relief to have made it, such that afterwards he sat there contentedly drinking his coffee, thinking of things with not the slightest relevance: yard projects that needed to be done, books he'd like to read this summer.

He leisurely called for the check.

...

(Eloise)

It had been three hours. Which meant it was time to first, recognize that her brilliant plan had been a bust, and second, order room service. Third would be a long bath. Also, don't tell the concierge, but somebody's suitcase is full of wine.

So she didn't look in the peephole, because she thought it was just her fudge sundae.

Just him. No one else in the hallway. Not a sound. He didn't wait for an invitation. Even an acknowledgement. Just her surprised face and he kissed her, and that stopped, so she kissed him, and then that stopped, and then they fell inside while he kicked the door closed.

"I was expecting dessert," she said, but he wasn't in the mood to flirt. He took two handfuls of her ass and hoisted her, and god if that was as good as a little groping felt she wanted a thorough manhandling, maybe even outright abuse. He poised her on the edge of the desk. She was playful; her tongue darted around his, and his wrestled hers back.

It was too fast. She wanted to show him every part of her. But slow. He'd come back; he'd earned everything; the contract was fulfilled. And she had so much to show. But it was happening so fast, spiraling.

While their tongues were in full melee, her ass slid back along the desk, knocking over a lamp and a few complimentary waters. She was reaching for the buttons of his Oxford when she found herself being turned around and bent over the worktop. Not exactly how she had pictured it in all her schoolgirl fantasies, so only natural that she would try to turn back—but he held her fast with one hand while the other was skillfully making preparations under her skirt. Her belt was ripped off with a whistle and sent flying across the room. Her carefully chosen white thong, its diaphanous cutwork cupping her buttocks, unappreciated and jerked down while one of his fingers slid in the muggy crevice from her clit around to her anus (which, in retrospect, was just a gentleman making sure she was ready). She heard a tear and a spit and saw part of a condom wrapper go flying past her, and just when she was about to suggest slowing down his cock was introduced in full into her cunt and the sense of fullness went radiating out from some deep dark cavern she'd never suspected, rose at the speed of electricity, burst like champagne bubbles against the inside of her skin.

She gazed over her shoulder, and their lips met again, but there was no chance he'd wait. She had opened her gates, she had shown him where the treasure was kept, she had given the guards the day off. He grabbed her hand and placed it on her vulva with his over top, and their two hands moved in unison on her, with a precision like he had owned and tended her genitalia for decades. As if through careful study he had come to learn each freckle, each sensitivity. There was a bit of pain in her below, and she knew he knew, but he didn't want to stop, and he knew she didn't want him to. And even if they both wanted to stop, neither one could now. This was choreographed long, long ago. The steps were perfected when the phyla of life were still young.

"All yours," she said and fell forward onto the desk, bi-lobed brown heart of her ass in the air as his hands locked around her hips. "Tear it up."

Not the words she had planned on. Maybe she had planned too much anyway.

She could feel her heart beating in every joint of her body as the full fucking started. She had dreamed about his cock, but that was only visual. Never suspected the muchness of it inside her, the tactile torment. Never suspected it had its own power, its own intentions. Seeking out new vacancies in her. She was a little afraid, the way the first man who tried to tame a lion must have felt. What had she gotten into? What had she released? If he wouldn't take a no, what would he take?

She heard a loud moaning, a feverish breathing; it was her own. The rhythmic slap she realized that was his crotch against her thighs. She could hear her own wetness, her own contribution. And the sound was wonderful. Fuck strings, fuck flutes, life was always percussion. Flashes of images: some spear-wielding racist caricature of all Africa, Heart of Darkness extra, taking his fine-ass full-bodied topless woman with the firelight on their skin, not knowing nothing about all them empires looking hungrily at this darkest continent. That was part of her mix. And Bronte heroines in four-posters in habitats of propriety and lace. That too.

She had thought, stupidly it seems now, she could control him like every other man she'd ever met. The reins were a well-timed smile, a bit of giggling, a flash of a bra strap. She thought that she could give out each piece of herself in her own good time. Maybe in an hour or so all of it, but not now. But the invaders had crossed dead man's land, they were wild and howling and setting their flags in this virgin country. And she could only try to contain them.

And then he sped up, and she felt her heart starting to fill again. The sweat up and down her whole body, falling from her eyelashes in droplets onto the tabletop. She must have had a fever. Random syllables came out of her mouth—she didn't know even what she was failing to say.

"Can't take it..." she finally managed. "Too much..."

"You're fine." The syntax of an order, the connotation of an encouragement.

Regardless, he was right. Once more, he knew her better. She was melting under the onslaught, but she was fine. She couldn't imagine what life had been like or would be like without having this man fucking her. She just knew—so did the rest of the world—that something was coming for her. And she wanted it.

And with a growl and a final furious minute of complete bruising thrusts he had come. She was a shivering mass on the desk, big-ass ass up in the air, still in her top, skirt around her ankles with the curled-up loop of thong. One stiletto on, one somehow ten feet away. Panting in a way she had thought only dogs did.

Whatever she had pictured, whatever anyone had pictured as a first time—this wasn't it. But after all, that had been the point. She'd won.

He stood there and watched her as he slid the condom off his slumping cock. Dropped it in the trash then methodically unbuttoned his shirt. She could feel his eyes drifting up and down her body, examining his kill. He pushed his pants the rest of the way off, and loomed over her, naked, quite blessed in the chest hair department, absent mindedly stroking his gleaming member with his left hand. Like a hunter sharpening a knife.

And she realized he wanted to show her things too.

"Come on," he said and disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of a bathtub being filled.

He knew it. She was precocious, so she knew it too.

It wasn't over. Some heathen god wasn't yet sated.

...

(Joseph)

He heard the cork pop. "No, no, no," he said, lazily rolling over in the bath. "Put it away."

"Why not? I need to celebrate. Cherry popped! Mission accomplished! Put up the fucking banner!"

"I'm not procuring alcohol for a minor."

"I ain't asking you to procure shit, motherfucker. I brought my own props. Fuck, I ain't even letting you have any."

She was in her underwear in the doorway of the bath, white spider webs of lace trying to restrain her breasts, thong like a bit of cloud borrowed for modesty, waist cocked to the right. She sashayed towards him, bottle in her hand. He watched her in that numb post-coital way of examining something once thought sexual, as if some dark veil had finally been ripped away, and he could appreciate the artistry of every curve, could almost see the Renaissance craftsman who had spent a century plotting her out with a straight edge and compass. Without hesitation she let her breasts spill out, slid her underwear to the floor, and slipped into the hot water, her back against his chest.

"What the fuck," she said, and poured some champagne sloppily in the general area of his mouth. "No rule says I can't give it to you."

"Good champagne."

"Acceptable sex."

"Shut up. What do you have to compare it against?"

He could taste the little bubbles of wine on her lips. His hand weighed her breast, squeezed tenderly.

"I don't know. I'm not sure that was your A-game. I think you holding out on me."

"Maybe. So how does it feel?"

"Being a woman?"

"Yeah, that."

"I understand the appeal. I'll probably spend a fair amount of my life having that or looking for it. But, at the end of the day... it's just textbook mutilation right? Like when they chopped off that part of your dick."

"Observant. Is that how you pictured it?"

"I pictured eleven inches! So, you know, another let down."

He laughed, as he clumsily tried to unwrap the complementary soap with his left hand. "You've been watching too much pornography, Eloise."

"Would you just be like everyone else and call me Elle. It's French for 'she.'"

"I like 'Eloise.' It's something you'd hear in a nursing home."

"You fucking asshole. Enough champagne for you. Maybe enough cooch too."

"I'm not done with you, Elle," he said. He was softly massaging her sex. "And you're not done with me." He kissed up and down the curve of her neck, the unblemished skin, tight and smooth was it would ever claim to be. Salty and sweet.

She guzzled from the bottle. "Never liked porn actually. The acting is abysmal."

"People aren't watching for the acting."

"Neither am I, but what's the appeal of two people fucking if you don't know who they are? What they want. Like take a Dickens book. Take Great Expectations."

"I've heard of that one."

"Cut out every part of it that deals with motivation. You'd have twenty pages. Twenty shitty pages. That's what porn is."

"That's the thing with men. They only need those twenty pages. They read the rest of the novel to get to those twenty pages. And then take a nap. By the way..." He feigned snoring.

"Bullshit. I know damn well you enjoy the whole book.After all, you made me read the damn thing."

"How's your cunt?" he gently inquired.

"It's ok. It hurt a bit. Still does. Was it—did it feel all right for you?"

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"Sorry. Thanks for using the condom by the way."

"Of course. I don't know where the hell you've been."

"Nowhere exciting, I assure you. Or scandalous."

"You're young. I'm sure this is just the beginning of your escapades. There'll be rough shit, there'll be multiple partners, some experimentation with the same sex—you'll probably end up hosting orgies."

"Maybe I'll end up an English teacher in the suburbs with a fucking gorgeous bod."

"My crystal ball says otherwise. Lean forward, I'll do your back."

She pulled her hair to the side. "Do I feel what I think I feel?"

"I guess it's been fifteen minutes."

"Is that typical?"

"Different guys, different refractory periods. I've even heard unverified tall tales about men who don't even need them at all."

"I'll have to find one of those."

"Best of luck: citation needed."

"You will be ready to go again before too long right? Because if not I've really backed the wrong horse."

"I'm not waiting for my benefit, love. Elle. You need to rest."