Write, Darling
He sat back from his computer, tired and frustrated, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his brown eyes. After many hours of staring at his screen, he had still come up with nothing. Pushing back from his roll-top desk and running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, he stretched his arms and long legs, rolled his shoulders, and craned his neck. Then he looked back at his screen, which stared back with a gentle, taunting, empty glow.
He’d always known that he wasn’t a writer. Not really. He could put together articles and short talks for work, or edit other peoples stuff, or occasionally write a short poem that wasn’t so bad. Sometimes, he might even pull off a few paragraphs of creative fiction that was, well, passable, if he was given a topic and some parameters. But now some of the friends with whom he wrote challenged him to come up with an erotic story, all his own, a completely new creation. And he just knew he wasn’t up to the challenge.
She gazed at him, lovingly, from the doorway, and sighed, shaking her head, crowned by shiny dark brown hair in a bob cut. She knew that his literary gift was so much bigger than he gave himself credit for, and was convinced he simply needed to open his mind to the possibilities. Hardly making a sound, she gracefully crossed the room in her sneakers, comfortable chinos, and polo shirt, stepped behind his chair, and began tracing delicate circles on his temples with her slender fingers.
“Wouldn’t it be a great time for a nice, relaxing nap now, pet?” she asked, and his head began to nod, his eyelids drooping. The second trigger, “Sleep for me now,” was barely past her lips when his eyes had fully closed.
As his eyes fluttered open, he found himself in a corner booth in a club. In the dim lighting, he could make out a bar at the far side of the room and a few dozen men and women nursing drinks, chatting in the booths, or dancing, slow and close, on the floor, urged on by the cool jazz in the background. He took another sip of his Diet Coke with lemon as he recalled coming in here when the subway broke down, hoping to stay cool and kill a bit of time.
He was alone, and that was the way he liked it. Or, to be more accurate, it was the life he was used to. He lived alone, quietly, and, for the most part, worked alone as an analyst, breaking codes for some NSC eavesdroppers, though, officially, he was a proofreader for a book publisher. Each day, he went back and forth, home to work and back again, with only the occasional stop at the grocer, the bookstore, or the library. This stop in the club was the grandest adventure in some time out of a life as plain and predictable as his gray jacket, khaki pants, oxford shirt, and striped bow tie. He knew he wasn’t anything special, not the type that people noticed; with his job, that was better.
“Hello. May I sit here for a bit?” Her voice was soft and sultry, drawing his eyes up to her slim yet shapely frame, accentuated by her red, strapless, satin sheath, hugging her curves from her “C” cups down to the middle of her thighs. For a moment, his eyes followed her legs down to her sling-back pumps with three-inch heels. “There’s just nowhere else to sit, and I’m being hit on here on the dance floor.” That sentence drew his eyes back to her soft red lips, her bright green eyes with long lashes, and her short, shining, bouncing brunette bob. He silently gestured to the seat.
“So,” she smiled, “has anybody told you that you have nice eyes?”
“No, not really,” he mumbled, staring down into his cola. But two slender, strong fingers with perfectly lacquered red nails found the underside of his chin and raised his face up toward hers again.
“I can’t believe nobody ever told you that. They’re such kind eyes,” she was stroking his hand now, still staring into his eyes, with her fingers slowly beginning to wander up his arm. “I like how the candlelight brings out little flecks of gold in them.” His nostrils were filled with the scent of violets from her perfume, and he was beginning to sense her growing nearness, as she slid towards him. “Are you sure no one ever commented on your eyes?”
“I don’t have too many people looking me in the eye.” He was quiet, almost ashamed: “Nobody ever tends to find me remarkable.” He tried to restore some personal space, but found himself quickly backed to the wall.
“I find that hard to believe.” The tips of two fingernails were running up and down the side of his neck now, from time to time lightly flicking the tip of his earlobe, “You seem like a very nice man, and you are obviously polite, so much nicer than most of the guys in here.” Her other hand was now stroking his chest, keeping time with the rhythm of her voice as she said, almost in a sing-song, “A girl could be very attracted to a nice man like you. Someone ought to be giving you attention, letting you know she appreciates you.” Her eyes became bigger and bigger to him, and the violet fragrance dominated his senses more and more. He didn’t even notice as the hand that had been on his reached up and dropped a small amount of white powder into his soda. “Maybe,” she suggested, “you should finish your drink, and we can get to know each other better.”
She watched carefully as he sipped his newly-enhanced Diet Coke, never taking her eye off his. Within a few minutes he began to feel confused, oddly disconnected from himself. “What’s wrong, baby?” she asked, and the compelling gleam of her eyes made him forget that anything was troubling him. She leaned in to give him a gentle kiss and, for just a second, poked her tongue between his lips. He began to think that this was wrong, but . . . but it was getting to be too hard to think.
So he stopped thinking as she stood up, taking his hand and pulling him along. He stopped thinking, just watching the glorious sway of her ass hugged by that red satin as he followed her through the crowd. He simply stopped thinking, so much so that he only vaguely noticed that he was bumping into things here and there, and didn’t realize at all that they were dancers who, thank to her pre-arrangement, didn’t ask him what his problem was or to be more careful. He stopped thinking as he followed her into a room in the back that was little more than candlelight and a bed, as she pulled off his jacket and tossed it away, loosened his pants and dropped them to his ankles, or sat him on the end of the bed, pulling her dress up a bit as she straddled his lap.
“Am I beautiful?” she asked.
As he felt her soft, shaved pussy rub along the top of his growing erection, there was almost no hope of actual thought in his mind. There were a few tight corners of his disciplined brain desperately trying to snap him out of whatever this was, but finding an absence of both ability and desire.
“Am I beautiful?” she asked again as she deftly plunged his member into her, never breaking eye contact.
But what was required for a reply was much more primal than thought: “Oh, yessssss.” Why was his speech beginning to slur? No, it was easier to focus on her lovely eyes. Soon, she was loosening his tie and pulling his shirt open. After a gentle shrug and a quick wriggle, her sheath of satin dropped down in a soft, cool ring around the point where their bodies met. She began encouraging him to gently fondle her breasts.
“Do you want to kiss me, dear?” There was suddenly more authority in her voice, and he felt as if all he could do was nod. Once he did, she drew his face to hers and kissed him deeply. As their tongues dueled, he found himself loosing more and more sense of himself. “You want to do what I say,” she whispered hotly in his ear. “You like it when I think for you. You get aroused when you please me. All you ever want is my happiness, and the chance to serve me.” She licked his ear as she finished speaking, sending shivers through him, and forced his face down to her cleavage, allowing his now-eager mouth to find a waiting nipple.
Part of his mind still told him that this was wrong, but he couldn’t remember why, nor did he care. She was so beautiful, and she did all that difficult thinking for him, and it made him feel soooooo incredibly good to please her. His entire body spasmed as he came inside her and every last bit of doubt in his mind melted lazily away.
After tenderly shoving him back onto the bed, she was breathing into his ear again: “Now, darling, let me tell you how you can please me by bringing a few messages home from your job.” Everything she told him made perfect sense. “But first, my pet, I have a little bit of work for that marvelous tongue of yours.” She slid her smooth, warm slit up to his face, and he began hungrily, mindlessly licking and sucking as he drifted back off to sleep.
She was still drawing circles on his temples, standing behind his chair in her polo shirt and chinos, smiling knowingly as his tongue darted out of his mouth, and thinking about how that might be useful . . . later. Before he opened his eyes, she said, “This time, my love, you will remember that story, because it came from your imagination while you were in trance, and you first told it to me. You will remember all the details, all the sights and sounds and smells, and you will remember being there with me. And you will find, there in the story with me, all the places that this tale can go. All of this will flow out of your imagination, through your fingers, into the keyboard.”
She kissed him gently on the forehead, and his eyes fluttered open. First, he realized what she had done for him. Then his eyes lit up, recognizing the kernel of a narrative in his mind. So she kissed him deeply, and he kissed her back. But she pushed away from him—“Not now, my love”—and rubbed his shoulders as he sat up and dove into the computer keyboard.
“Write, darling.”