Last October

Last October I met my boss in a bar to discuss whether and how we might have an affair. I make it sound businesslike, but it wasn't. We'd arrived in that bar after circling each other for a year.

The weekend before, on business in another city, in the wee hours of the morning I'd found him in the hall outside my hotel room. I'd left him only minutes before--we'd spent the last hour in a colleague's room, having an inappropriate conversation about our sexual preferences and marital frustrations. (He likes a hairless pussy; my husband goes down on me but lacks skill.) It had been a bourbon-fueled group discussion where I'd announced that I would cheat, but only with someone who had as much to lose as I do. 'Someone married,' I'd said. He knew who I was talking to.

He was locked out, but I told him I was sure they'd have another key for him at the front desk. We laughed, and I opened my door as he passed. I paused, and he glanced back at me, smiling. I inclined my head toward my open door, and he turned and stepped inside. I closed the door behind us.

We looked at each other. The reality of that moment: I am in my pajamas in a hotel room alone with the managing director of my company--lasted for a full beat before he took hold of my hips and pulled me to him. 'Are we gonna do 'dis?' he said. He is from New York. I am not.

'Can you handle it?' I asked him. He said he could. My hands on his chest as if I might push him away. We babbled to each other about how we loved our spouses, about how we both needed something, and could we give it to each other, without jeopardising all we cared about? We sought reassurance, proposed rules, confessed desires. 'I've wanted you from the moment we first argued, in that car, on the way to that party,' he said. 'Do you remember?'

'You were annoying that night.'

He grinned. 'I don't remember what we argued about. But you were wrong. And I've wanted you ever since.'

I told him I remembered it differently, although I didn't. His eyes, dark brown and shining, searched mine. This is what I've always liked about him. Feeling seen. Exposed. A brutal intelligence I can't hide from. Outside the sun was coming up. 'We can't do this tonight,' I said.

'When?' he asked, leaning close. My arms went round him and he breathed me in, his whiskers tickling beneath my ear. My head fell back as he inhaled, his hands slipping inside the waist of my silky trousers, his mouth at my collarbone, his tongue, his teeth, grazing my skin for the briefest moment, stopping everything--my breath, my heart, the noise in my head. A jolt of heat straight to my cunt, my pulse thudding in my ears. An intensity of feeling I hadn't known for years. I pushed him away. 'You have to go.' I reached for the door handle. 'Discretion,' I said, and he smiled as I shoved him out in the hall. The door shut and I turned and faced the mirror next to the closet doors. My face flushed, my heart kicking like a rabbit trapped inside my chest. 'Jesus,' I said, looking hard at my reflection, studying my eyes. I had set something in motion. Something was beginning.

On the train

On the way into work I missed my train, and had to get the one I hate, the one at 9.00, where I have to position myself in exactly the right spot so I can be in the front of the door when it opens, and be willing to step up into a crush of people, wedging myself in like a fucking sardine, pressed against those in front of me, smashed by those behind me. Today you are on the train behind me, and as I move forward into the car, trying to find a space, you stay right with me. I'm not dressed for the crowd--a too short sweater dress with lace thigh-highs under my jacket. You're pressed against me from behind; i don't move away--I can't--and your chest is hard against my back. We're packed in so tightly I can feel your thighs against my ass, the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. As we all do. Are you leaning into me? I think you might be, and I feel my pussy heating up as I become aware of your body. Just as I'm thinking, why not enjoy the ride? I feel your fingertips at the hem of my skirt, tickling my thigh. Then your hand slips under my dress, pulls my hip towards you to adjust my position, sliding up and over my outer thigh, your thumb lifting the lace of my thong over my hip, tracing it down my ass and between my legs. There's nowhere to go. I should wriggle away; I should say something; but my pussy's wet now, your fingers probing my cunt and I feel your cock growing hard against the small of my back. Instead of telling you to fuck off I part my legs a little, feel your fingers slip inside me. It's hard not to let my head fall back, to close my eyes. Everyone around us reading the fucking paper and zoning out under their headphones. I struggle to keep my breathing normal--I'm trying to control it just as the train stops and the people around us begin to move. In an instant your fingers are lost to me, a woman with a backpack pushes past us, and I turn to see you exit the train, lifting your fingers to your mouth to taste me, smiling back at me as the doors close, your eyes locked with mine as the train pulls away.

Love this. So much.

If you haven't seen these, you're in for a treat. This one's a bit long, but it's my favourite. 

I've been thinking about why they're so compelling--and I believe it's all the elements that come together (pun intended): the chosen text, the quality of the reading, the tension between the exhibitionism and the trying-to-hold-it-together, the gestures (lip-biting, squirming, table-gripping), the dresses, the photography, the moment they finally lose control. I keep wondering about the woman wielding the vibrator under the table--she must be using attachments, don't you think? Whatever she's using, she's clearly got mad skillz.

In the library

I’ve been sitting in my favorite carrel, writing all day. I like it because it’s deep in the stacks on the third floor – where they keep the maps of Mesopotamia and other books no one ever reads. The carrels are three-across under a high window. A box of light crosses the floor and climbs the wall as the day wanes, and on the floors below: shuffling papers, the soft thud of books, the occasional whispered conversation. It’s the best kind of quiet, and I lose myself in words. Footsteps below come and go until a single pair of feet mounts the narrow staircase up to my floor. I ignore them. An unwelcome distraction, but most who venture up here wander around for a few minutes before going down again.

You reach the top of the stairs, looking for a quiet place to read. It’s noticeably warmer up here. Dusty. You’re inclined to turn and head back down where it’s cooler and brighter, but you’ve come all the way up, so you wander the rows of stacks to the back, where there’s a narrow space under a high window. I’m in the corner hunched over my laptop in a short row of carrels. Dark hair and a blue tank top, a sheen of sweat on my tattooed shoulder. I type a short burst on my keyboard and hook my ankles round the legs of my chair. Leather boots laced with purple ribbons, my bare calves flexing as I shift around. You decide to stay. There are two empty seats, but you take the chair right next to me in the carrels. I don’t look up.

Seriously? A whole fucking library and you’re going to sit right next to me. I feel the urge to grab my shit, shove it in my bag and leave. Goddamnit, I was rolling. I hate people. I steal a glance as you shove your bag to the back of the carrel desk and open a book, stretching out your stupid long legs, crossing them and leaning back in your chair like you intend to stay awhile. Despite my irritation I can’t help but notice your body looks strong, and your hands on your book are a shade of honey I tend to find particularly tasty. I don’t mean to, but I wonder about the size of your cock. Your fingers and long, a good sign, I think. My mouth waters. I imagine standing up, taking the book gently from your hand and laying it aside, the surprise on your face as I straddle you, settling myself on your crotch. Would you freak or get hard for me? Would you push me away or slide those lovely hands up my thighs, grab my bare ass under my skirt and pull me closer?  Shit. Now I’m distracted. People should not sit next to me.

You try to focus on your book but you’d swear there’s actual heat coming off me. My skin is glistening; I’ve been up here for a while. Some salty tang in the back of your throat makes you very aware of your tongue in your mouth and you think, ‘Can I smell her?’ You imagine the taste of me, you want to run your mouth from my shoulder to the back of my ear, to bite my neck until my head drops to one side and my eyes close. You're sitting a bit behind me; you have a better view of me than I have of you. But I am looking. You’re sure of it now. I think I’m slick but my eyes keep flickering in your direction. You shift in your chair, invading my space a bit. You watch me freeze, and you smile.

Did you just move closer to me? I squirm in my chair, opening my knees and imagining you can smell my wet pussy. I’m hot, my clit is swelling and my cunt has that empty I-want-to-get-fucked feeling. I consider whether I might run to the bathroom and bring myself off quickly so I can focus again, so I can get back to work, but instead I decide that now’s a good time to plug my laptop in. I have plenty of charge, but that’s hardly the point. I lean over and dig in the backpack next to my chair, extending my leg in your direction, letting my skirt creep up my bare thigh. I retrieve the cord and sit up to unravel it. All the outlets are under the carrels, so I push my chair back and crawl under. I take my time, feeling the air on my moist pussy, very aware that I’m presenting my cunt to a stranger like an alley cat in heat. I accomplish my mission and start to back out from under the carrel when your chair scrapes back—fuck, I’ve scared you off—but then you move over and sit down in my chair, trapping me underneath. You unzip your jeans.

Your cock is rock hard now, and I know exactly what to do with it. I move between your legs and pull it out of your pants, place my hot mouth on you, licking and stroking from base to tip. When you can stand it no more you reach under the desk and grab a handful of my hair, pulling my head back and holding me still. With your other hand, you guide your cock into my mouth, and I begin to suck. You don’t let go, and I let you find a rhythm you like as you force my head up and down and I struggle to take more and more and soon you’re ramming the back of my throat and I’m moaning around your cock like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. She loves it, you think, and you consider coming down my throat but instead you stop me, catching your breath before you yank me out from under the table.

I'm pulled to my feet by hair, my jaw slack with wanting, my eyes half closed. You were about to come--I could fucking taste it--but now you hold me there in front of you, my head forced back, and look right in my eyes before you plant your mouth over mine, giving me all your tongue and I melt, lost, and ready to give you everything. You let go and turn me around roughly, push me down over my desk as I shove my books and papers aside, spreading my legs and arching my back for you to enter me. In the moment before you take me I listen hard for the sound of someone on the stairs, but hear only the murmur and drone of the studious souls below. I'm desperate for your cock and you know this, but instead you lift my skirt and slip your fingers inside me, making me moan. God, I want it, want all of you inside me and I push my hips back, contracting my cunt around your fingers. You stroke me into a frenzy, and I’m fucking your hand, your cock all but forgotten until you say, ‘Come for me,’ and I do. 

My pussy’s so hot and wet, every muscle rippling inside as you withdraw your fingers. My upper body splays across the desk; I’m breathing hard. You can see everything, my tight asshole, my wet slit. And you’re not finished with me yet. You slip your thumb in my ass and I gasp as you ram your cock inside me, all the way. Then you slowly slide out to the tip until I mewl and beg, ‘Fuck me, please.’ You give me one sweet stroke, hard and fast, and I cry out. A hush falls over the entire building. You lean forward, your mouth in my ear. ‘Shhhhhh,’ you say. And then you thrust inside me, hard and fast, knowing someone will be up the stairs any moment. You grab my hipbones, pounding me until you come, exploding inside me, and I’m right there with you, coming again, and again, my legs trembling.

You leave me there and step back, your belt buckle clanking softly as you zip up. You return to your own chair, and I slide back into mine, running my hand through my hair. Footsteps on the stairs beyond the stacks as I pull my laptop close and pretend to look at it. Semen drips deliciously down my thigh, and you pick up your book, as if to read. Behind us, an old man shuffles by.