Chapter One
As I walk through the city now, I feel autumn in my bones and between my legs. That unique dust is in the air, suggesting this decaying time of year. Something alive is about to die as the last blood of summer slips through scarlet veins. My thighs pulse in an undulating rhythm as this old season slides down those slippery sweat-covered slopes of fall, soon to freeze in the cold hands of winter—but not yet.
I’m sticky now between my legs letting a warm breeze move between my fluttering skirt and my quivering legs. Crossing the street just past the university, I walk into old- town where there are trendy boutiques freely mixing with derelicts, where the wine is either chic or drunk out of brown paper sacks, where I can stare into shop windows and wish I had the money to spend on black leathers, or offer change to a wrinkled hand extended in my direction.
I see him again today, the stranger. The man with the long, black ponytail and the trimmed beard and the physique of concrete and steel. He has the eyes of a conquering hero. I’m not sure he really sees me, or takes notice of who I am, or what I appear to be. But I see him clearly, a virile man who moves with grace—with feet anchored and eyes that know things. Again my sex quickens seeing the way his mood plays confidently along this street. He’s got a boy’s tight ass and the bulge of a man in front. I’d stare but I’d be embarrassed if he caught me looking so I simply imagine what he’s like beyond the clothes. Arms like a truck driver, thighs like a wrestler, though he’d be none of these, just naturally powerful for power’s sake alone.
Too aroused to wait until I reach Isaac’s flat and its privacy, I duck between two buildings, the alley narrow but passable, until it opens into a deserted courtyard. Under the cover of a secluded archway, I pull up my skirt and rub my hand along silk tap pants. The aroma of my female body wafts upward. And there, under the folds I feel myself damp. Prodding one finger, silk and all inside the wetness, it’s a quick finger-fuck, but it’s not enough. I think of the stranger, his hold over my mind—and I’ve only seen him twice. If he were with me, I’d be naked now. As it is, I have one hand under my sweater fondling a tit I’ve freed from my bra, while the other hand manipulates the hard clit through silk. But when that’s not enough, I pull my tap pants down over my hot hips. In my hand, I press them to my nose and draw a deep breath. The sex aroma is stronger still—of autumn and decay and my own musk. Breathing is drinking that fine seasonal wine. Fissures and flesh so enlivened claw at me as though something needs to be freed.
Getting closer to a cum, I can’t stand the confines of the sweater’s heated wool. Quickly drawn over my head, I toss it to the ground at my feet. Both tits pop from their lacy confines and I start getting shivers thinking that my stranger is about to turn the corner into the alley and confront me with those eyes. Enormous spasms of relief are so dizzying I want to fall in a faint, but the concrete beneath my feet would never comfort me the way my own hands can now that I’m cumming. Grinding my hips into the wall behind me, I feel the brick scratch my ass as the cum goes on. Moving on the wall as though it’s a lover’s hand, I press the sensation to a peak, gliding over the top. Bucking hard at the very end, until it’s over.
I believe I’ve been silent, but gazing upward I see an open window and a face staring at me curiously. She’s older than I am, dressed in jeans, looking dykish but interested—at least until I pull the sweater back over my sand-colored hair and she turns away. I’ve embarrassed myself, but decide to step out of my shame back into the autumn day.
It’s quiet on the street, cars moving by lazily as though they’re in slow motion. Just two blocks to Isaac’s, I’m there in minutes, climbing three flights to his book-lined living room and study and the tiny guestroom where I sleep, and the cat he calls Smithereens—I didn’t bother asking why the name.
Isaac’s gone for the year, a sabbatical in Greece. He’s there while I sweat at home, or rather in his city home away from my real one over the bridge and thirty miles south. Robby, the guy I married last year, thought it practical to house-sit Isaac’s cat for a free room and no commute during the week. I suspect this makes it easier for him to have his other life, the affair with Chelsea and her mop-top curls. Robby and I did all the right things because we both wanted to feel safe, I suppose, being able to say “my wife”, or “my husband.” But this is no one’s idea of a real marriage. Still, I love the house and the lake on summer weekends when it’s hot, and Robby’s great company after he has his fill of Chelsea’s thighs and the spicy perfume at her neck.
Now, away from all that, I can imagine something extraordinary happening in this marginal part of town. That was the real reason I took Isaac’s offer. I can imagine I’ll get an answer to what’s aching in me.
***
It’s the end of another week. Friday. I tell Robby I’ll be staying in the city for the weekend. His words suggest he’s disappointed, but I can hear the pulse of excitement as I give him the news. He can have Chelsea in our bedroom is what he’s thinking. I suppose just for good measure, I should show up anyway and catch them there. I wonder what it would be like to watch her tanned thighs moving with my husband’s cock between them. He’d have her haunches up, ass wagging like a dog. It think he’d fuck her on the floor, the hard pounding variety. I’d juice just watching them perform with her athletic body going on for an hour before she finally gets exhausted. It’s not hard work for Robby, though—he wouldn’t have to get her off. She’d be into multi-orgasmic frenzies all on her own.
I’ll find something as good for myself, but it won’t look the same as their brand of sex.
The bar’s crowded at four just as work gets out, and at least until six, until the dinner hour when the patrons desert
