It Will Do for Now
by Molly Weatherfield



JONATHAN: My hotel was small, no elevator. I was glad of that. We'd sat quietly in the taxi, a little space between us. Hardly touching each other--I mean, not not touching, every so often one of our hands would creep over the little space. But hardly touching. Waiting. Which wouldn't have worked very well if we jammed ourselves into a little French ascenseur. I kept my eyes on her butt as we climbed to the third floor.


We were silent as we entered the room. She wandered to the window, opening it out wide, and looked out into the courtyard, the geraniums in pots, deep red and pale purple. You could hear birds, and you could see two yourn women taking in the fragrant, billowy sheets they'd hung out to dry that morning. "Nice," she said.


I stood net to her, facing her, and closed the curtains. I looked down at her neck, rising from the crisp, oversized whit shirt under her leather jacket. She didn't have a bra on--the shirt was lose and opaque enough so that wouldn't immediately be apparent. But, trust me, I knew, I looked at the inverted triangle of chest at the neckline of that shirt, the shadow at the apex where I knew her breasts began. I almost reached up to unbutton it. And then . . . I had a better idea.


I took off my own jacket instead, tossing it on a chair. Sweater and shirt, too. T-shirt. Her mouth twitched a little at the corners, and I kicked off myu shoes, reached down and pulled off my socks.


She sighed, and then she backed up a step and folded her arms across her chest. Well, she'd certainly gotten into the spirit of this vacation thing. She was smiling now, full out, looking tough in her leather jacket. And her eyes were on my belt buckle. Hungry, amused, challenging. If she'd ever, during the time we'd been together, if she had ever dared look at me that way . . .well, it would have been unthinkable--she'd have gone off the chart, that informal and arbitrary chart of punishments and transgressions I'd maintained in my head. Arrive late at my house, five strokes with the rattan cane, forget to address me by name, ten. . .


Well, if I'd wanted to guarantee her (hey, and me) a monster erection, I guess I'd succeeded. Probably it was the memory of those beatings--coming in loud and clear amid the static of little signals she was putting out now. I fumbled with my belt, remembering those beatings, using them to keep myself focused. Tossing aside my pants, pulling off my shorts. And then there was nothing for me to do but stand there and submit to her appraising gaze.


"Well," she murmured, "you're still a very beautiful man, Jonathan. And you're right--it's crazy how little I know about you in some ways. Like how old are you anyway?"


"Thirty-eight," I answered, trying to sound casual. Still . . .the word had a cold edge to it.


She nodded noncommittally. "Help me take of these boots, please?"


She sat on the bed and I knelt to take off the stiff, pretty new boots with their intricate, multicolor stitching. She took off her jacket but sat still. I pushed her skirt up. She had on long black stockings, a black garter belt, no panties. Slender, very white thighs. Her pubic hair was short, like the hair on her head; they'd shaved her cunt, the hair was just now growing back. The black stripes of the unadorned garter belt drew the stockings up very high, very taut. The whole effect was so ambiguously situated between whorish and conventlike--after a year, did she really remember so precisely what I liked? Or maybe it was just what Constant--the guy who'd bought her at the auction--liked.


I undid the garters. And then I put my head down and grabbed the embroidered edge of a stocking with my teeth. I could feel her thigh under my lips and I slowly pulled the stocking down, my mouth sliding over her knee, her calf, her foot. I kissed her bare instep and then I did the same thing for the other stocking, the other leg, the other foot. She had just the slightest, heartstopping trace of a purple welt on the second thigh, not quite healed--I lingered on it. It made me want to eat her alive.


I reached for the hook of the garter belt, pulled it softly, and it fell away. The little black miniskirt was make of some stretchy fabric. It was easy to pull off, and she helped me, lifting her ass slightly. I pushed her back on the bed, very gently, so that she was still sitting up, and straddled her. And, much more slowly than I wanted to, I unbuttoned her shirt, while she kissed my neck, my shoulders.


And there she finally was, and I stopped caring about what she might want. I fell on top of her, grabbing her ass, tonguing her breasts, moving her up to the pillows. Later for sensitie lover tricks like the stockings; at that moment all I wanted to do was get as much of her into my hands as possible, before I got as much of me as possible into her. She moved against me, wrapping her arms around me, arching her back, so that our fronts were pressed together, and then I was in her, her legs around my neck, her hands on my chest. I stroked in and out, long, slow strokes. I wanted to last forever, I was afraid I wasn't going to last at all, I guess I lasted long enough--to hear her cry out, anyway, loudly.


And afterward, after a space of time that I can't describe, I felt her come, once more, just a last little one--she was hardly moving at all except inside. And then I heard--maybe felt--a low laugh in her throat, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside her. I'd forgotten that laugh, but now I remembered it--her laugh that meant when it was especially good there was always something just a little ridiculous about it.


She hadn't let me hear that little laugh too often. And rightly--I would have had to punish her for it. So, as she'd gotten to know me better and had become cleverer, she'd only let me hear it when she knew that I'd fucked myself into a stupor--that I was too wiped out to whale her for such flagrant disrespect. I liked hearing that laugh again. And I'd like punishing her for it. Not right now, of course, but soon, soon enough. For now, though, it was good enough that she was here, under me. For now, anyway.


xxxXXXxxx


CARRIE: We must have fallen asleep. Because the next thing I remembered was the sun coming through the curtains. It was low, and the light was pink. Sunset.


I was lying on my side. Jonathan was behind me, one arm flung across me, his hand on my breast. Long, tapering fingers, beautifully articulated bones spreading out from his wrists. My skin looked pink in the light, pale pink against the olive of the back of his hand. I could probably bend my head down to kiss that hand if I tried, I thought.


I wanted to, a little. To show him how good I was feeling. Not that I'd exactly been keeping it to myself, but still. It was all so luxurious, so warm and indolent. During the past year I'd occasionally thought of his hands, the bones in his wrist. They'd drift, these images, unbidden, into my thoughts, late at nght, perhaps when the day's challenges had overwhelmed my defenses. I'd remember the weight of them on my body, their elegant curve around my breasts. And I'd remembered correctly, too, I thought. I'll move, I'll do something soon, I kept promising myself. But right at that moment I didn't want to do anything but lie there with the slanted light of that sunset lengthening against us on the bed. Well, perhaps I could shift backward a little, a little closer to his hip. . .


His hand tightened. He was beginning to wake up. I lifted my head and licked his fingers. I inched my ass closer to him. He turned a little, and I could feel his cock--still a little moist, but not yet hard--jumping a little against me.


I turned a little more so that my ass was directly against his cock, and he moved his other hand under me, reaching for my other breast. He kissed the back of my neck. I arched my back, stroking his belly, his stiffening cock, with my ass until I felt him move into its furrow. Slowly now. I moved back and forth--teeny movements really, stomach contractions, rotate an inch forward, an inch back--while he grew against me.


"Okay," he whispered, and we moved onto our knees, him on top of me.


The bed had a headboard. I grasped it. I didn't want him to have to balance on his hands. I didn't want him ever to take his hands off my breasts. He spread his fingers a little, enough to catch my nipples between them, and then tightened. And while I gasped at the pinch, while I lost a beat in thralldom to that sensation and he felt me lose that beat, he moved his cock against my asshole.


I wasn't ready for him, quite. He knew that, he'd been looking for that moment. He wanted to feel me yielding to him. He pushed slowly and I gave way, arching my back, opening to him, forgetting everything except that yielding, that opening, that always-frightening letting loose.


It hurt a little on every thrust. (It always does. I hope it always will.) I pushed back aainst him, making it hurt just a little more. He moved more deeply into me, and I began to cry out guttural, unrecognizable sounds that come from deep inside. I teased myself a little. It hurts, I thought, I have to ask him to stop. Yeah, right. I felt myself opening my mouth and trying to shape some words--please, or slower, or something--and the words lost their form and became cries of pain, of pleasure, of desire and delight, and I heard and felt myself coming loudly.


He moved his hands from my breasts to the wall above the headboard, leanng heavily forward, surrendering to his own loud orgasm. Somehow we slid down together to the bed, my sweaty back plastered to him while I felt him shrink slowly in me.


I began to believe, for the first time that day, that I was actually here. With Jonathan. In a hotel with faded blue shutters at the windows and geraniums in the courtyard. There were lavender and lemon vervain in a vase on the dresser. And the sheets of our bed still smelled of sun and fresh air. Well, of sweat, too, and of cum. Wonderful, I thought. Well, but right at that moment, I was finding just about everything wonderful. No fantasies, no reciting his little letter to myself as though it was a catechism, no dreams about romantic endings. Just this lovely, wonderful, all-enveloping lust. Vacation. No rules, no plans, no idea what would come next. It would do for now. It would do quite nicely.