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Tell Me More
Janet Mullany


Jo Hutchinson is obsessed with a man she’s never seen—only heard.Her late-night calls from the office to the mysterious “Mr. D. ” grow increasingly intimate, until they finally become full-blown phone sex. Still, Jo doesn’t dare meet him. Instead, she embarks on a series of sizzling sexual escapades with other guys, sharing every sweaty moment with Mr. D. afterward, a passion-by-proxy arrangement they both get off on.But even as she’s charting brave new naughty worlds, Jo knows that it’s all really for Mr. D. Every pleasure she experiences—eagerly, athletically, vocally—is to please him. Immersed in fantasy, reality just slips away—even the chance at that elusive combination of love and lust.Her new tenant, Patrick, an Irish hunk in geek’s clothing, is totally into her. And in her lucid moments, Jo knows she feels the same. Can she tear herself away from her kinky dreamworld long enough to appreciate what’s right in front of her? Or has Mr. D. ruined her for real life?“Mullany pens an impressively compelling full of humor and poignant irony. ” —Publishers Weekly










Tell Me More













Janet Mullany
















www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)


In memory of Macheath who always fell over for me




1


“I’M HERE FOR MY SKIS.”

I looked at him lounging against the doorway. He’d rung the doorbell, an exercise in futility or good manners—I wasn’t sure which since both door and screen were open to catch the late-afternoon sunlight. Hugh was quite the lounger, particularly in others’ beds. Searching for a snappy comeback, I said, “And how’s the stick insect?”

“Flowyr’s fine.”

Flowyr. I’d been betrayed for a woman called Flowyr.

“My skis, Jo.”

I stepped back. “You know where they are.”

He straightened himself and ambled into the house, accompanied by a few yellow leaves. I tried not to watch. There was something about Hugh in motion, any sort of motion, that still did things to me, a sort of knee-jerk hot-wire to desire. My body was in no hurry to change its habits.

I heard him go into the basement. “Hugh, while you’re down there, would you look at the traps?”

“I thought that was what your fucking cat was for.” Banging and thumping noises accompanied his words.

“He can’t empty mousetraps.”

After a while Hugh came back up the stairs carrying his ski gear. “Nothing.”

“Was the peanut butter still on them?”

“Christ, Jo, I don’t know.” He dropped his skis, poles and boots on the hardwood floor with a loud clatter. “I didn’t look that close, okay? It’s dark down there. Do you have my Ken Burns DVDs?”

I gestured toward the living room. “Feel free.”

I followed him in anyway, telling myself it wasn’t for the pleasure of seeing his ski-and-tennis-toned body drop to a squat, only to make sure he didn’t take the Firth-Ehle Pride and Prejudice. He liked Jennifer Ehle and her astonishing elevated breasts; I liked all the astonishingly unfettered penises waving around inside the men’s pants.

“So,” he said, catching me gazing at his thighs, “the thing is, Flowyr and I aren’t together anymore. I told you it was a onetime thing. An accident.”

“An accident? You rear-ended her?”

“Don’t yell, honey, you don’t want to go on the air sounding hoarse—”

“Don’t call me honey.”

He stood—without a tremor, quads in great shape—clutching a stack of DVDs. “Jo, I’m—”

“I bought Shaun of the Dead,” I said, seeing it in his hands.

“For my birthday, so it’s mine. Jo, I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. The words you never expect to hear from a man. But was his apology for letting Flowyr run his red light or for depriving me of one of my favorite movies?

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

I dropped to the couch, putting myself at eye level with a relatively unfettered penis uncurling behind his khakis.

He had apologized.

If only a moment could be bronzed. Hugh dropped to his knees, laid the DVDs on the floor and shuffled forward. His hands landed on the couch on either side of me. “Sorry. I’ve been so unhappy. I know you have been, too. I was dumb. I …”

This was all too familiar; Hugh making himself available, those lovely toffee-colored eyes with the long lashes, his mouth and a slight dusting of late-day stubble, all within easy reach—all the above-the-neck parts I found sexy and irresistible. And he’d apologized, although I suspected it was pretty meaningless—Had the man no shame? Did he really want to keep Shaun of the Dead that badly? Wasn’t I intending to kick him out of my life (again) with no happy or unhappy returns?

Well, yes. But.

A quick calculation. When did I think I was next going to have the chance of brainless sex with someone who knew what he was doing and knew what I liked? Shouldn’t I be stocking up for the long famine ahead?

A whiff of eau de Hugh wafted into my brain, or crotch, or somewhere.

One of his hands moved to cup my hip.

Our heads swayed, angled.

His lips were slightly chapped. I hadn’t been around to remind him to carry his organic hemp lip salve, and however much mindless screwing he’d had with Flowyr (Flowyr!)—well, that slut wouldn’t be concerned about his lips. Or she might like it rough. Rough skin, that is, rasping on …

Oh, my God. We were kissing and for a moment it was poignant and lovely before it became something equally lovely, but hot and driven. Hands delved into clothes, pushing up, aside, unbuttoning; the press and trail of fingertips, palms, as we became reacquainted with each other’s skin. My T-shirt was up around my collarbone, my bra unsnapped and his tongue in my mouth, on my neck. I had to push him away so I could get rid of my clothes. As I struggled through the dark folds of T-shirt and disentangled my bra, his hands went to work on my jeans, and I lifted my hips to help him get them off me.

“Santa’s come early this year,” he commented at first sight of my panties.

Well, I did need to do laundry, it was true. I watched as his fingers splayed over the faded jolly old elf, and dipped under the elastic, where things were getting very wet.

I lunged at his shirt, unbuttoning, pushing it off him. “Get your pants off.”

He stood to undo his khakis. His cock sprang free, waving around a bit as though just woken and taking a look around. Hmm, nice day, nice warm temperature, glad to be out of those boxers, and is that a pussy I see before me?

I touched my clit through the cotton of my panties, while he shoved pants and boxers down, and toed off his sneakers and socks. I’d taught him that: always get your socks off, Hugh. There’s nothing as dumb as a guy with an erection in a pair of socks.

He watched my finger, my middle finger, the one I always used. “Dirty girl,” he said softly. “Such wet panties, too.”

I spread my legs a little more. “I can’t think how that happened.” I slid my finger beneath the elastic, where his finger had tickled and stirred. My clit was hard. I wanted to come. I wanted him to watch me. I wanted him inside me, that shiny pink cock all ready for me. I wanted his finger and tongue tickling me in rude and naughty places.

“I want—” I said, and Hugh shoved his cock into my mouth. Obviously that’s the sort of thing you did to a dirty girl who played with herself in front of you, and hadn’t had the foresight to put on her special lace or silk panties, but sported her Christmas cottons (slightly grayed and ragged ones at that) two months early. Besides, I was right at crotch level, with my mouth half-open while I considered taking an orgasm before he obliged.

I made a sound of mingled surprise and appreciation and clapped my hands to his nicely toned butt, my nose squished into his pubic hair, and swirled my tongue around his cock. I knew how he loved that, how he would groan and thread his fingers through my hair, and mutter a filthy stream-of-consciousness litany as he rocked in and out of my mouth.

“Oh God yes oh God baby that’s right oh yes oh God yes oh yes like that keep doing that oh God Jo oh God baby make me come oh yes come in your mouth oh yes oh yes …”

And as dumb as he sounded, it made me hot. Made me squirm against the sodden crotch of my Santa panties and groan along with him, while reminding myself that absolutely no way was he going to have the privilege of coming in my mouth, not when there was work to be done below. My hands were busy with him, sliding to stroke his balls and thighs, to probe and tickle and pinch. Now and then one of my nipples would rub against his thigh, bounce off muscle and wiry hair and send an unmistakable signal to my clit—get ready for takeoff—but all I could do was wriggle and rub myself against the roughness of the sofa upholstery.

I pulled free. Now. We were so attuned to each other that I didn’t have to say it, but Hugh, in a brilliantly executed choreography of lust, lunged for his pants on the floor and pulled a condom from his wallet.

A series of reactions rushed through my mind as he ripped it open.

He brought a condom.

What the hell, I want him to fuck me.

But he came prepared.

Very sensible, given the stick insect.

Or does he always have them in his wallet?

Oh, look at him slide it over himself. So sexy to see him handle his cock. I should have asked him to do it for me more often.

Did he always have condoms, even when he was living with me?

But he came here meaning to fuck me. Or fuck someone sometime—

“Hugh,” I said, and he took it as an invitation, which in a way it was—an invitation to stop me thinking.

The Santa panties hit the floor and Hugh reared over and in me, my butt on the edge of the sofa, legs over his shoulders.

“Nice?” he panted. “Nice for the little lady?”

“Oh, yes. Nice.” The little lady was being serviced, no question, fucked and screwed and impaled and penetrated and all the rest of it.

So good, so familiar, so very rude, in the middle of the afternoon with the front door open and me still wearing my socks (actually a pair of Hugh’s but I didn’t think he’d want to claim these fraying relics with a hole in one heel).

He bent his head to suckle one breast and then the other, sending me a notch higher. And higher, so that I stopped thinking about socks and DVDs and random condoms, everything except Hugh’s mouth and cock and his fingers on my clit.

And I was there, torqued up to the breaking point and then breaking and flooding as I came, while Hugh kept me there as long as he could. Then he gathered himself and plunged away in his familiar oh-my-God-I’m-going-to-come home run, short staccato stabs that—other than postorgasm—didn’t do a thing for me. He collapsed with a groan on top of me, folding me up like a pretzel.

“Nice?” I stroked his shoulder, damp with sweat.

He gave a primeval grunt.

“Uh, I can see this isn’t a good time. Would you like me to come back later?”

At the sound of the unfamiliar Irish lilt, we both froze.

Then Hugh leaped to his feet. “Who the fuck are you? What the hell are you doing here?”

I grabbed Hugh’s shirt to cover myself as I remembered, too late, the appointment I’d made. “Patrick … someone?”

Patrick someone, standing at the front door, smirked and blinked behind steel-rimmed glasses.

“Ah, I’ll leave you to it, then,” Patrick said. He glanced at my panties on the floor. “Merry Christmas.”

“Jesus Christ!” Hugh spluttered.

I tried to restrain a giggle at Hugh, standing outraged, cock deflating and wobbly; a giggle did escape as the condom dropped to the floor with a splat.

“Who was that—that leprechaun?”

“He can’t help being Irish. He was here to look at the apartment.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t carry the mortgage on my own.”

For an economist, Hugh was sometimes pretty stupid.

“But—but, you won’t be on your own. I’m moving back in.” He paused. “Aren’t I? I mean, after … this.”

“Hugh, you came to get your skis and DVDs. A fuck doesn’t give you permission to move back in.” I retrieved panties, T-shirt and jeans, and dressed.

Hugh, apparently realizing nakedness gave him no advantage, grabbed his clothes. “Jo, at least we should talk about it. I mean, we love each other. I’m sorry about … you know. Everything.”

“No.”

Brady, tail aloft, trotted into the living room and sniffed at the condom on the floor as though discovering some delicious edible.

“You fucking cat,” Hugh said as Brady wound around his ankles, purring. Early on, Brady had decided that Hugh was his best friend and answered to fucking cat as an alternative to his real name.

“Who are you going to get to empty the mousetraps?” Hugh said with despicable cunning.

“I’ll handle it. I’ve been handling it for the past three weeks.”

I picked up the pile of DVDs and handed them to him. “I’ll pack the rest of your stuff and let you know when you can come get it. I have to go to work now, Hugh.”

“We need to talk about this,” Hugh said, looking obstinate and ruffled in a way that pre-stick insect would have melted my heart.

“No, we don’t. But Hugh, one thing. When did you start carrying condoms around? I mean, do you let them fall out of your wallet at faculty meetings to impress the Chair or something?”

I could just imagine the Economics Department snickering and high-fiving—You get lucky this weekend, Hugh? You da man, Hugh!—under the benign gaze of the Chair, a dead ringer for Alan Greenspan, horn-rimmed eyeglasses, wrinkles and all.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hugh picked up the condom from the floor and headed out of the room.

“Not in the toilet. You’ll block it.”

He stopped and turned to me, suspicion on his face. “How do you know that?”

“I just do.” Virtually anything blocked up the downstairs toilet. It was strictly off-limits to males and menstruating women.

“You bitch,” he said, and to my surprise he looked really upset. He flung the condom into the wastebasket in the corner of the room and flung himself and his DVDs out the front door. The effect was spoiled by his having to stomp inside the house again to get his skis. I sat on the couch, Brady kneading my legs, and listened to his car start and reverse out of the driveway and the sound die away with an awful sort of finality.

I cried a bit, then, thinking how tired I was of crying, but that you couldn’t let three years of your life go without some grieving. Brady purred and allowed himself to be hugged with a friendly tolerance that implied an empty food dish.

The bright fall day was fading now, but before I could go to work there was something I had to do. I went into the kitchen and armed myself. Knife, peanut butter, barbecue tongs (Hugh’s, and I might just forget to wash them afterward), rubber gloves, flashlight. Pants tucked into socks, in case anything was alive, and (aargh) panicked.

I didn’t need a man for this. Or for anything much else in my life.

“You sound just like the lady on the radio,” the woman in the store said. “We’ve got a new brand of organic peanut butter in. Would you like to try a sample? It’s really good.”

I am the lady on the radio. “No, this will do fine. Thanks.”

Sometimes, if I’m feeling sociable, I’ll admit to it, but then what usually follows is a disbelieving look, and a strange comment. I thought you were taller … older … younger … blonde. I hate your fundraising drives. Why do you play so much Tchaikovsky? Why don’t you ever play any Tchaikovsky?

Once, inexplicably and with great indignation, I thought you were black.

I packed my mousing supplies and my sandwich and soup and fruit for the night in my backpack and started putting on my bike gear again—gloves, the sort of knit hat favored by hunters and rapists, helmet and a scarf to fill the gap between the hat and my lightweight down jacket. Around me, at the checkout, others were doing the same, some with huge backpacks full of organic goodies.

In this pristine Colorado college town you wouldn’t dare drive two miles to work. I cycle.

Neither, of course, would you dare to do anything other than humanely trap rodents and release them into a gorgeous wilderness setting. Never mind that they’d have a matter of minutes to appreciate their new home before they became someone else’s dinner—it would be natural. It’s my deep, dark secret, sending mice to Nirvana on a delicious peanut-butter fantasy (and they certainly weren’t getting the organic stuff; my sentimentality only goes so far, and besides my concern was with ending, not enriching, their brief rodent lives).

Fall was definitely in the air now, crisp and wood-smoke-scented. Any day now we’d have some snow, and then I’d cross-country ski to the radio station. Funny how I never thought that the difference between Hugh and me could be so clearly defined by our choice of winter activities. He favored the mechanical assistance uphill and the short flashy burst of excitement of the downhill run, over in mere minutes. I enjoyed the diddling around with wax (oh, okay, I admit it—I have actually attended wax workshops … I am a certified cross-country geek). You can indulge in a slow, lazy plod uphill, savoring Mother Nature, or depending on your mood, bound athletically up—either way, you have the long, delicious glide down.

Not that it had anything to do with our sex life, which was pretty good, or more than good most of the time. Quite often I’d prefer the short flashy sessions on the kitchen counter or in the shower or … I wriggled around on my bike seat, wondering if it really was possible to have an orgasm by going over bumpy parts of the bike path, and whether it would be safe to do so. I could imagine myself hearing the local news, to my shame, from a hospital bed.

A massive, multibike pileup on the Douglas Pine Bike Trail resulted in several injuries today. The alleged perpetrator, Jo Hutchinson, a local radio personality who is neither blonde nor tall, showed signs of recent sexual arousal at the hospital. A spokesperson for the police department commented, “This sort of irresponsible behavior is something we take very seriously….”

I unlocked the back door of the radio station and wheeled my bike inside. Other bikes were still there; I was early tonight. The news was on and I listened to it briefly as I peeled off my bike gear. I had an hour before going on air, and later, in the wee hours of the morning, I planned to indulge in another of my deep dark secrets, one that did not involve the untimely demise of mice.

In my own way, I had been as unfaithful as Hugh, and with someone whose name I didn’t even know.




2


AT PRECISELY SIX MINUTES AFTER MIDNIGHT MY time was my own, with the last of the news headlines delivered from faraway Washington, D.C. I chatted briefly on air about the weather, a chilly night but with another perfect fall day in store for tomorrow, and the likelihood of the aspens peaking. I brought music swelling into the studio, and checked the dance of the monitor. All was well.

As I switched the mic off the phone rang.

He’s early.

I turned down the studio speaker and removed the headphones. My heart pounded as I answered the phone.

“Jo, honey, what are you doing Friday night?”

“Kimberly!” Despite my initial disappointment I was glad to hear from my best friend, a displaced Texas blonde who ran the station fundraising; a workaholic with a busy social life, she was often awake at odd hours—my hours.

“I have someone for you to meet. A man.” May-un, her voice dipped suggestively.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to meet any men.”

“You should for the sake of the environment. All those electrical devices buzz buzz buzzin’ away in your bedroom. You’re your own little brown cloud.”

The studio door opened. Jason, the assistant station engineer, stood there, buckling his bike helmet under his chin.

“Hold on, Kim.” I turned to him and smiled, for the sake of seeing him look adorably shy and give me a dazzling smile in return. “Hey, Jason. What’s up?”

“Hey, Jo. I just wanted to tell you I’m going home, so you’re on your own.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

He closed the door.

“Ah, the delectable Jason,” Kimberly purred. “You and him alone in that big ole radio station. Why, if it was me I’d eat him up.”

“You’d terrify him.” The thought had crossed my mind, too. Lovely, lean Jason, all of twenty-one (young but legal!), with the obligatory ponytail, faded jeans, hiking boots, single earring, stubble—oh, my God, he was a walking cliché—shy and sweet and good enough to eat, as Kimberly so often pointed out.

“You don’t think he’s gay, do you?” Kimberly asked, as though preparing to revise her list of potential bedmates.

“No, but I wonder about hidden piercings.”

“Me, too. All the time. Now this man, he’s interested in the station, too, so this way I kill two birds with one stone. He’s very eligible, Jo.”

“For me or the station?”

“Both, and honey, I know you can get a volunteer in for your shift Friday, so you’ll find a ticket to the symphony in your mailbox tomorrow.”

I imitated her Texas accent. “I just luuurve a man with a bulgin’ billfold.”

“Oh, me, too, honey.” But the fundraiser in Kimberly was in full swing now. “With the ticket you’ll find a list of the people we’ll be meeting. Memorize their names. Prepare to be charmin'. You can borrow my black taffeta skirt again.”

“And the killer heels?” I asked hopefully. I loved that skirt, its suggestive rustle and the way it flipped around above my knees. Kimberly had an extensive designer wardrobe, as befitted a former Dallas debutante who married an oilman in the days when oilmen made real money.

“You bet. Hey, maybe you could invite him to sit in when you’re on air.”

I don’t think so. “Maybe.”

We chatted a little more—as usual, these days, I assured her that life without Hugh was progressing as well as could be expected—and after I hung up I realized I hadn’t told her the story of the peeping leprechaun. A pity—she would have appreciated the comedic side of it—but then I would also have had to admit that I’d made the grave mistake of letting Hugh drop his pants.

And that reminded me that soon I’d have to make a decision about renting the apartment.

I’d deal with that later. I fired off an email to my roster of substitute announcers asking for a volunteer for Friday night, and looked at the clock. Half an hour to go on Scheherazade.

He’d better call soon.

I walked around the radio station, checking that the lights were off and the outside doors locked; also that Jason and everyone else had really left. I returned to the studio, the quiet space with its white walls and racks and racks of CDs, the gleaming console and monitors.

When the phone rang and I saw the screen announce “no data” I let it ring five times, despite my admonitions to the on-air staff to always, always answer the phone within two rings (unless you were on air, of course).

I picked the phone up and answered with a hint of yawn in my voice.

“Jo?” That voice, warm and dark.

“Yeah?” I pretended not to know who it was while my insides melted away and my nipples protruded through my T-shirt.

“This is a wonderful recording.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Now I felt shy, aroused, nervous. I, who put thousands of listeners at ease, now wanted one of them to assure me that I was safe—safe and loved—in his presence.

We chatted for a little while about the music—we both stopped to listen to the silvery flute ascent and descent, a magical, simple motif, and argued whether that, or the violin solo that represented Scheherazade’s voice, or the push and pull of the waves, was the most spine-chilling part of the work.

“Have you read The Arabian Nights?” he asked. “No? Oh, it’s a marvelous thing, Jo. Stories within stories within stories, like a maze. Sexy, too, although translators censored it, until the most recent editions.”

As he spoke, I tried to place his accent. Boston or possibly someone who’d once lived in England; he had that clipped precision and diction of a Boston blue blood … some of the time.

A pause, and the sound of movement. “Sorry. I’m putting another log on the fire. It’s chilly tonight.”

“I bet the aspens are pretty from up there.”

He chuckled. He wasn’t to be caught that easily. “Yes, I believe you said during the last break that they would be peaking. Nice try. How are you? I hope that bastard Hugh hasn’t been giving you any grief.”

I told him the story of Hugh’s visit and the leprechaun invasion, or at least a censored version—I used the term in flagrante… and heard him laugh with pure delight.

“How long do you think he’d been watching?”

“I don’t know. It could have been from the beginning.”

“Would you have liked him to watch?”

“I don’t know.” I lay back in my chair and watched the sound waves break and dance. We were moving into new territory here. We’d flirted, we’d talked about past relationships, but this—this was getting … well, kinky.

I cleared my throat and attempted to sound dispassionate. “Do you mean would I have liked to have known he was watching, or would I have liked to have found out afterward that he had watched? Oh. Damn. Mr. D., I have to go. Give me twenty.”

Mr. D. I called him that after I’d tried to find out more about him and he’d hinted he was quite a bit older than me (“Decades, my dear. Don’t ask.” I wasn’t sure whether I believed him) and old school. He called me Miss Hutchinson for at least the first dozen calls. It did sound sort of perverted to me—like I was letting him tie me up and spank me or something, or I was wearing a maid’s uniform, or both, but I liked that formality, the Mr. Rochester/Miss Eyre suggestiveness. I knew he was in the station broadcast area, somewhere, and a substantial donor to the station, but through a foundation. I loved his voice, the way he talked about books he’d read and places he’d traveled to and the joy when we found an author we both liked. We shared a passion for mountains, for high, remote places.

For the past six months, as Hugh and I began that painful slide away from each other, Mr. D. had been a constant. A friend. Someone I could tell anything.

There was the possibility we might both disappoint each other if we met. That this relationship could only exist at a distance while we both polished who we wanted to be. And yet he made me yearn for what I didn’t have—adventure, new experiences, the desire to become a sort of modern, land-bound female Sinbad, exploring and learning that one story could lead to another and another.

On the air again, with the pulsing red light outside the studio casting a warm blush into the studio through the glass window, I repeated the information about the last recording, and what we were to hear next, time and temperature … Hope your evening is going well. A little later, we’ll hear music written to put its patron to sleep, Bach’s Goldberg Variations in their entirety, but leading us up to that, a short piece by Stravinsky …

The next time the red light turned on, it was one in the morning. I talked briefly about the national morning news show, which we would interrupt a few times an hour with local news and weather. I hoped that those awake now—lonely lovers, people with insomnia or babies, or students with examinations to study for—would be asleep in four hours when the news began.

The Bach began—music to put you to sleep, but music that had always made me want to get up and dance.

The phone rang right on time.

“Forty minutes of genius and you,” Mr. D. said. “Where were we? Ah, yes. Him watching.”

“I don’t know that he would have found it that sexy.”

“Oh, he would have.”

“Do you like to watch people fuck?” Well, that put us clearly into the sexual, and I was the one who’d asked.

Mr. D., with his usual mastery of deflecting questions, chuckled. “Merry Christmas.” A pause. “I presume you’ve changed your underwear. Tell me about it.”

“You want me to tell you what I’m wearing?” I was surprised. That seemed a little unsophisticated, not what I would have expected from Mr. D. I wondered if he’d jerked off already and was looking for a quick arousal. I was almost shocked, although our increasing intimacy, our shared secrets, our stories, our mutual voyage, had led us here. I knew also, without either of us having to say anything, that we could back off from this awkward moment, and return to our usual friendly banter. Back to the familiar port as if we had never even started our journey.

“I believe it’s a standard approach,” he said.

A standard approach. “That’s one way to describe it.”

He said, his voice hesitant, “I’ve never done this before. I’m embarrassed, to be honest.”

So was I. I was also turned on, wild and slightly frightened, my hands cold, a little sweat on my forehead. I pressed the speakerphone button and laid the phone in its cradle. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m wearing a black T-shirt. Was. I’ve taken it off. My skin looks very pale because it’s almost dark in here. My jeans, now. Can you hear the zipper? I never wear shoes in the studio, and now I’m pushing my jeans down, and they’re off.”

“I can hear the sound of the denim rustling. But denim doesn’t rustle, does it? I can’t think of the right word.”

“I’m wearing red lace underwear.”

“The truth, Jo. Don’t humor me.” He sounded stern and sad. “I know men are all alike but … please, be honest.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “I am telling you the truth.” I swallowed. I sounded like a scolded child. “I—I always wear nice underwear for you. I want you to want me.”

“Always?”

“Since, oh, the first couple of times we talked. When I realized that you wouldn’t tell me who you are. It was all I could give you.”

“I’m sorry. Thank you. That’s an extraordinarily generous gesture.” His voice was even deeper, slower. “Tell me about this red lace underwear.”

“The bra is a half cup. My nipples are hard. I’m touching them.” I winced. I didn’t want to sound like a hooker but I didn’t know what I should say.

“Go on.”

“The panties … they’re called boy panties—you know what they are? They have little legs, and they come up to just below my navel. Even so, you can see a bit of hair curling out at the top of my thighs. And you can see my pubic hair through them, because they’re lace.”

“Your pubic hair must be dark. I’ve seen your picture on the station website.”

I giggled. “That picture doesn’t show my pubic hair.”

He laughed, too, and for a moment we were comfortable together. “I’ve imagined it. You look bright and intelligent and lively in that picture. And sensual. A smallish, slender woman, that’s how I see you—quite athletic, from riding your bike. What color are your eyes?”

“I’m stripping off for you and you want to know the color of my eyes?”

“Ah. Please, don’t make me beg. I’m already humiliated enough.”

“I’m sorry. I keep getting nervous and saying dumb things. My eyes are gray. They change color with what I’m wearing so sometimes they look blue or green.”

“Tell me what your breasts look like. Please.”

I sat in my chair, my legs spread. “They’re not very big. Although I’m dark-haired my skin is pale and the nipples are pink. I don’t tan easily. My breasts are very sensitive. My nipples get erect easily. I like to have them caressed. Kissed.”

I listened to him breathe.

“May I touch you?” he asked.

“Yes. Where?”

“I’m closing my hands over your breasts, squeezing them. Your nipples push against my palms. They’re very hard.”

“I love that. May I unzip you now?” I was pretty sure he was unzipped, stroking himself, pants spread open, my unknown man in his dark cabin. Did he gaze at his cock and hand, or were his eyes closed? Did he smile or grimace?

“Later. Let me give you pleasure. Stroke my way down your body. Ah, here’s your navel, that sweet little crease. Take off your bra … good. I’m holding your breasts, squeezing them, feeling their weight. I want to lick them.”

I licked my fingers and pinched my nipple. “I can feel it in my clit.” Oh, God, I’m so crude. Heat spread over my face.

“I think your clitoris needs some attention, don’t you? Are you wet yet? Take off those pretty panties, darling. I’m kissing the inside of your thighs, where the skin is so soft and silky. I can smell you. Yes, you’re wet. Soaking. Dripping for me. You’re swollen with desire. Your clitoris is as hard as your nipples.”

My skin glimmered in the light, my pubic hair a dark mystery, my hand delving, playing.

“Taste yourself.” His voice was hoarse against the artful spin of Bach.

I slipped my fingers inside myself, then into my mouth and tasted my arousal, my salty musk. I imagined his hand pumping, the flex of his forearm as he jerked off.

“I wish I could put my fingers into your mouth. Feel you suck them, lick between them. And I’d like to lick you. Your lips, your chest, your cock, all over. I want to make you come.”

“I want you to come, too. I want to hear the sounds you make. Down between your legs, darling. Play with yourself. I’ll play with your nipples. A little pinch, some fingernail—is that what you like?”

My toes gripped the edge of the console.

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Come for yourself. Do it now.”

I came so hard it almost hurt, ratcheting me upward. I abandoned the attention to my breast and clutched at the arm of the chair, terrified that I would fall, alarmed by the intensity of the orgasm, yet not wanting it to end. I subsided, sobbing for breath.

“Lovely.” His voice was a whisper. Had he come?

“Did you …” I hoped he hadn’t. I wanted to share the moment with him.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Let me help you.” Maybe he was still shy.

“Your pleasure isn’t enough?”

I could see him, a sprawled dark figure, face hidden, his stroke slowed to accommodate my needs, fingers curled loose around his cock. Sliding. Wetness, a very little, gathered and dribbled over his fingers.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “What happens next?”




3


AT THE END OF AN AIR SHIFT, IT’S CUSTOMARY to tidy up for the next person on air.

After I signed off for the night—the station is dark between two and five in the morning—I made sure there were no embarrassing damp pieces of underwear lying around.

I reshelved compact discs and pulled the first few for my morning announcer.

I took the last transmitter reading of the night.

I set the satellite for the morning news feed. I knew Gwen, our local host, would do it anyway, but it was what I always did as a courtesy to her.

I checked my email for the last time, and found two new messages. One from Julie, a serious, earnest music major, saying she could do Friday night, but wanted to be home by midnight. Good enough. I could come in for a couple of hours.

The other was from the leprechaun, as Hugh had called him—he looked ordinary enough to me, no dumb hat or buckled shoes. I had a vague impression of a shortish, slender man with wild coppery hair, steel-rimmed eyeglasses and a strange patch of beard on his chin. I remembered the amusement in his voice and the lilt of his brogue.

I’m still interested in the apartment if it’s available. Please let me know when I may view it.

What a gentleman. No mention of Christmas or underwear or your future landlady having her ass screwed off on the sofa.

Lights off, bike gear on, alarm turned on and I was out into the cold night, a splendor of stars above me.

Could Mr. D. see those stars from his cabin or was it buried deep in trees? I was sure he lived in a cabin, high up in the mountains, although most of us in town had hardwood floors and woodstoves.

I pushed off, cycling hard up the hill, forcing myself. I wasn’t afraid of cycling in the dark—at any time of night in this environmentally conscious town there were cyclists on the road. As I rode, I thought about renting the apartment, the mice in the basement … domestic trivialities.

Anything to stop me thinking about what Mr. D. had proposed.

After I’d emailed Patrick, telling him to come—an unfortunate word choice I changed to stop by—anytime after three the next day, I couldn’t sleep. I wandered around the house, now too empty without Hugh. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Had I made the right decision regarding Mr. D.? It had to be, since there was no going back.

To my surprise, the man who had proved so elusive for many months now wanted to meet me. One orgasm—mine, if he had told me the truth, and I wasn’t quite sure he had done so—and he had a complete change of mind?

And I was embarrassed and angry. I had touched myself and talked dirty and moaned, broken my phone-sex cherry, I guess. I had shared this most intimate of pursuits with someone who hadn’t reciprocated. I had performed without knowing it. Now I was not in a mood to be cajoled.

“But of course we should meet.”

“No,” I’d said.

“I’ve never been more intimate with a woman. Not even when I was married—”

“You don’t know me. I’m a fantasy for you. You’re a fantasy for me. It should stay that way.”

“Don’t push me away, Jo. I understand that you’re feeling wounded by what Hugh did, but—”

“How do you know I didn’t make Hugh up?” I was angry now. “And this isn’t about Hugh. It’s about you and me. Think about it, Mr. D. I don’t even know your name. You haven’t exactly been open with me, have you?”

“My name? You want to know my name? It’s—”

“Stop!” I was panting as though I’d ridden a bicycle uphill. “Don’t tell me.”

“Jo, what do you really want?” His voice was gentle, sad.

I don’t know. You. Maybe.

And then I thought of the men I’d loved, the men who claimed to love me back, the mistakes and infidelities, the withdrawal into indifference. I remembered pushing Hugh away in bed because I felt smothered; I remembered too how I’d reached out for him, when I was overcome with loneliness and regret, and his impatient grunt as he shook off my hand.

Did it happen with every relationship? I didn’t want that familiar path anymore. I didn’t want to take that journey—not yet anyway. Eventually I knew I could take the risk, but not now, still worn out and disillusioned by Hugh’s infidelity.

I took a deep breath. “I don’t think this is right for me. I’m sorry. We should say goodbye.”

So it was done.

His last words to me echoed in my head. “Very well. I’m sorry, Jo.”

A click and silence.

I had lost a friend.

Patrick had pretty much decided he’d move into the apartment on Yale Drive if Jo Hutchinson offered it to him, which he thought she probably would. It turned out she knew one of his references, a good sign.

The apartment was small, built over a garage; what Americans called an efficiency and he’d call a bedsit, one large room with a minimal sort of kitchen arrangement and a bathroom. There was a staircase up from outside and a door leading into the house and Jo offered him use of the washer-dryer in the basement and, if he had ambitious cooking plans, he could use her kitchen.

He told her he might well be inspired to bake a half-dozen loaves in that fancy high-tech oven, and she looked at him in a way that suggested she didn’t know whether he was joking or not.

He liked her. She was a bit eccentric, and there was some awkwardness, mostly on his part, that he’d seen her naked.

She spent the first five minutes of this meeting staring at his chin and then told him that taking the beard thing off was an improvement. Given what she was doing the day before, he thought he should be flattered that she’d even noticed his facial hair. He launched into a long rambling explanation of how he tended to sideswipe the beard thing while shaving so it lost definition, but the silent subtext of his monologue was that he wished he’d got a better look at her breasts when she was naked.

Today she wore some sort of blue shapeless dress thing—her legs and feet bare—probably made of hemp or tofu or compost like everything else in the town. He liked her slender body and waifish short dark hair in a ragged sort of style that either cost a lot of money or was a mistake, he couldn’t tell.

She didn’t look the way she sounded on the radio; she was younger than he would have thought, about his age, late twenties. But her voice was sexy in real life, too, and he told her he liked the music she played even if he didn’t always understand it.

“Do you like being a DJ?” he asked.

“I’m music director. I decide on the music programming. The on-air work is only a small part of what I do.”

He felt he was being corrected. For someone who had a geeky sort of job, though, even geekier than his, and looked fey and otherworldly, she was right on the button when he asked about insurance and security and cable access.

By this time they were back in the kitchen, where she poured him a cup of coffee and examined his application. “It says here you’re a web designer.”

“Yeah, I’ll be working from here.”

“That’s fine. We won’t see much of each other because I sleep mostly during the day.” She refilled his coffee mug. “I have a Mac, a laptop. I really like it.”

“I use Macs, too. Three of them and six screens. I’ll show you my setup if you like.” He stopped, because it sounded as though he was boasting, or as if he’d waved his dick at her to prove it was bigger than her boyfriend’s. (It was.)

He told her the brief, bare facts of his divorce, of how he was moving out until his soon-to-be ex-wife had finished her master’s and they could sell the house. She nodded sympathetically and he had the urge to tell her how depressed and horny he was but instead he told her he was stable and financially responsible and so on.

He embarrassed himself trying to look down the front of the blue shapeless thing and musing on how he could persuade her to bend over so he could look up it. He wondered, not for the first time, if women spent as much time and energy, for instance, looking at men’s flies or up the legs of their shorts. Elise had told him once that men were natural sprawlers and it was no big effort to spot, or ignore, a dangling penis in warm weather.

At one point, mildly exciting, Jo stood on one leg with the other foot against her knee in a sort of yoga pose—in this town you had to do yoga or pilates or else risk social ostracism, but he did neither. He suspected there was a crack squad of yoga police who would break down your door to make sure you had your foot in your ear.

Great legs, he noted.

They shook hands and she said she’d let him know.

As he drove away, he decided he absolutely had to forget that he’d seen her naked and stop thinking about what she’d be like in the sack (pretty good, he suspected). It was an honest mistake. He’d heard the moaning and groaning and thought someone was in pain, and looked around the open door and the first thing he saw was her pair of Father Christmas knickers on the floor, the crotch sopping wet.

After that, it was less of an honest mistake. He must have stood there for a good five minutes watching that unimaginative fuck, turned on as hell, seeing the guy’s cock slide in and out of her. He wasn’t particularly interested in the cock, but he could see how it cleaved her, opened her up. She was all sweet and pink and shiny beneath that tuft of black hair, the star of his private porno movie.

Shit. This was a business arrangement. Period. And he should feel relieved that he’d found a place to live, but he felt only sadness.

He couldn’t wait to get away from Elise, but he dreaded the actual moving out, saying goodbye, knowing from now on it was just going to be legal business.

More tears. His if not hers.

How had everything gone so wrong?

Thursday evening at the station we had an on-air staff meeting, me and two full-time announcers and a handful of subs and volunteers. I filled them in on the latest station news and praised them for the quick handling of a breaking news story the previous week. I passed on information from Neil, our program director and my boss, and pretended not to notice the grins and eye rolls.

Sometimes I felt sorry for Neil. Mostly he just annoyed me. He’d come to us from television, and, snobs that we were, Kimberly and I laughed at his liking of expensive suits and haircuts and his blatant ambition. He didn’t know much about music, either, which was a real problem, and mispronounced composers’ names on the rare occasions when he took an air shift. He spoke longingly at staff meetings of talk shows and more news programming.

I found a garment bag on my desk; Kimberly the designer-clothes fairy had visited, leaving the skirt, the shoes and a folder with just about every detail except the inseams of our victims for the night. My date was Willis Scott III, one of our quaint local royalty, in his mid-thirties, president of a real estate company. I yawned as I scanned where he’d gone to school, his hobbies and nonprofit involvement.

On the top of the sheet, in her round, loopy, rich-girl writing, Kimberly had given me the following instructions:

Wax. Go to Azure Sky Salon and mention my name.

No garlic.

Don’t say fuck too often.

Don’t criticize the orchestra.

Don’t cut your own hair like last time.

Just to annoy me she had put a smiley face over the i in her signature.

Wax? Was she kidding? I hoped she only meant my legs and armpits, something I tended to neglect at this time of year.

I took a quick look through the rest of my mail, most of it ending up in the recycle bin.

There was one envelope that must have been hand-delivered, my name neatly typed on the outside. It must be—had to be—from Mr. D. I wanted so badly to open it, but we’d hurt each other and I was afraid of what I might read. Forgiveness might be even worse than any accusation.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

I miss you already.

Beneath it was a phone number and an email address.

I turned the paper over although I knew there was nothing on the other side. Had this really been for me? Yes, that was my name on the outside, in the same standard computer font as the letter. It had to be from Mr. D.—who else could it be from?

I could phone him. I could …

I dangled the paper between my fingertips.

There was no such thing as privacy anymore. I might have an unlisted home phone number, but my information—everyone’s—was all over the place on any number of databases, easily found. I crumpled the paper and threw it into the recycling bin. Then I picked it back out, smoothed it with my palms and wished he’d written it, not typed it. There was one way I could determine it was from Mr. D.—quite simple. I could make a call to that number.

No, not now. I folded the paper and pushed it into a desk drawer, out of sight.

After all, I couldn’t be sure it was him. A good proportion of the male population assumed that a woman was on the radio purely to get a man, meaning them. They sent in photos, some with their cats or dogs, and some, the anonymous ones, proudly displaying an erection but not their face. They sent their resumes, or long rambling letters explaining how we’d been soul mates in Arthurian Britain. We attracted the sad lonely misfits, and that was the end of it.

“You look good. Did you get into Azure Sky okay?” Kimberly bent forward and examined her lipstick in the women’s room mirror.

“Uh-huh.” One of the razors Hugh had left behind had done perfectly well.

“Now be nice to him.”

“You sound like you’re running the best little whorehouse in Texas.” I tucked my small silver purse under one elbow, rearranged my shawl and willed my nipples to behave. I wasn’t wearing a bra—my top was a gray silk halter-neck, found at a yard sale. Above my knees, the taffeta rustled. To complete my happy-radio-hooker outfit I wore thigh-highs, black with a seam, and a pair of large dangly fake diamond earrings.

Kimberly gripped my elbow and escorted me out of the ladies’ room.

“You have the right to remain silent. You have—”

“Smart-ass.” She tugged me across the foyer, filled at intermission with well-heeled, mostly middle-aged patrons, mixed in with a few Birkenstocked old hippies, and some younger people in jeans and hiking boots and down vests. The symphony was nothing if not diverse.

We approached a group of people with champagne glasses; our station manager, Bill, was among them and the administrative director of the symphony. Kimberly made introductions, her mane of blond hair tossing, and I got to meet Willis Scott III.

He was the sort of man Kimberly would go for—I preferred them in faded blue jeans or baggy khaki shorts—dark with a bit of gray, handsome; expensive haircut, suit, cologne.

“I’m surprised you enjoy the symphony,” he said.

“Why?”

“You listen to music all day.”

“I don’t listen to it a whole lot. There’s quite a lot to do in the studio while the music’s playing.” Phone sex, for example.

“Sounds interesting.”

I nodded, searching for something to say. “Tell me about what you do.”

He was only too happy to, running off at the mouth about prime interest rates and equity, and how this was a great time to buy up.

I drank champagne and tried to look intelligent.

“I’ve got a new development just north of town,” he said. “Great architecture, real exclusive, beautiful setting. We’ve preserved the environmental integrity, lots of trees and stuff, and we’re keeping it upscale, you know what I mean? Second homes, mostly—”

“If you’re that concerned with environmental integrity, why develop it? It’s not as though you’re providing housing for people who really need it.”

He frowned, his handsome brow wrinkling. “There’s a demand, you wouldn’t believe it. But Jo, you know, if you’re in the market—”

I guess that was what happened when you wore designer clothes or possibly gave off some sort of involuntary slutty radar. “I don’t have any plans to—”

“Call me.” He produced a business card.

“Okay.”

Like a gentleman he held my champagne glass while I opened my purse and tucked his card away.

He moved a little closer to me and tugged my shawl back on to my shoulder. His manicured fingers rested on my bare skin a little too long. “You’re a very attractive woman, Jo. Maybe we could have dinner sometime?”

I stepped back. “I work most evenings, Willis.”

“Lunch, then. And we could drive out to the development after. Commune with nature. How about it?”

“I’ll let you know.” I couldn’t wait to throw away—in the recycling bin, of course—his business card.

“Great shoes.”

That was all I needed, a shoe fetishist. Maybe it was an attempt at empathy.

To my great relief the chimes sounded for the second half of the concert. As we walked back into the concert hall, one of the group—a fortysomething fair-haired woman—walked beside me.

“I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your show.”

“Thanks.”

“You always sound so approachable. I think a lot of people get intimidate by classical music. It’s a shame.”

“It is. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Liz Ferrar.” She smiled and touched my arm. She whispered, “If Kimberly thinks Willis is a hot prospect for the station, she’s wasting her time. He’s a real tightwad. The whole family is. And he’s a jerk.”

“Fuck, yes. He hit on me so hard, I couldn’t believe it. Liz, don’t you run the women’s center in town?” She was the reference Patrick had given, the one I claimed to know. “I guess you know Patrick Delaney.”

“Oh, yes. He’s a sweet guy. He designed our site for free. How do you know him?”

“He applied to be my tenant.”

“Good. I’m glad he’s leaving Elise—I mean, you hate to see a couple break up, but when they’re both so unhappy …” She shrugged.

“Come visit us—me, I mean, and Patrick, too. Call me at the station.” We exchanged cards.

Happy that I’d made a new friend, I shushed Kimberly so I could listen to the music.

I arrived at the radio station by cab shortly after the concert ended, and settled myself in for a quiet evening. Time to get caught up on paperwork. I had an article to write for the newsletter, programming to select for the next couple of months.

I jumped every time the phone rang.

At two in the morning I shut down, tidied up the console and reached for the phone to call a cab home.

It rang. No data.

I stared at the ringing phone. I had no obligation to answer—we were off air. After seven rings the caller would be transferred to the station’s voice mail.

But I answered anyway.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“I’m sorry, Jo. I pushed you too hard.”

“It’s okay.”

He sighed. “I want honesty between us. It’s been two nights and I’ve had time to think and …”

“And?”

“We don’t need this sort of relationship. We have plenty of other things to talk about. We don’t have to continue in this way. Unless you want to.”

“What do you want?”

He laughed again. “Whatever you’re willing to give. Darling, it was plenty of fun for me but I love to talk to you. It’s up to you how we proceed now. By the way, you looked ravishing at the symphony tonight.”

My voice shot up an octave. “Oh, my God. Please don’t tell me you’re that creepy Realtor. Or that you even know him. No, of course you’re not. Your voice is different … sorry, I’m rambling. You were there?”

“I have my sources.” He paused. “What I’m saying, Jo, is that you should be in a real relationship. I’d be jealous, of course. But I don’t want you to feel … obligated to me in any way.”

“You’re trying to drop me, aren’t you?”

“In a way, yes. I don’t want to lose you. I hope I won’t. That we’ll be friends. I accept that you don’t want to meet. This is entirely on your terms.”

I dropped my head into my free hand and groaned. “I don’t know that we can go back. I’m not really clear what we’re arguing about.”

“I’m not sure we’re even arguing. I don’t want you to get hurt by our … affair.”

“Affair. You’re so old school.”

“Yes, I am. How would you define our relationship?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter? It is what it is, whatever that might be.” I paused. “If I did fuck someone, what then?”

“You mean, should you tell me?”

“Yes.”

“If you wanted to.”

“Tell you or … describe it to you?”

“Whatever you feel like doing.”

He kept throwing the ball back into my court, giving me the control—or pretending to give me the control.

“I might ask you to do the same. Tell me about an encounter you had. Would you do that?”

“If you asked, yes. Gladly.”

I stood, pushing my feet into my shoes and reaching for my shawl. “Let me think about it. I should go home. I’m glad you called.” I was a bit scared. We seemed to have moved very fast into kink territory and what alarmed me most was how it excited me. Kimberly had once said that even ordinary people have the most bizarre sex lives, that a huge amount of kinky stuff goes on in nice normal neighborhoods between nice normal people. I’d asked her what her preferences were, not really believing her, challenging her.

She had leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Woof. Woof.”

Then we’d both collapsed in giggles. But ever since then, my mind had opened up to the possibilities. I’d wondered. I’d been curious.

And now here was my chance to go on my own voyage of discovery and storytelling and while it was exhilarating I was scared by it. Would I regret not going on the kink voyage when I was old and gray (although Kimberly assured me the old hippies were the best—or the worst—depending on how you looked at it)? Would Sinbad have regretted never taking the voyage?

“Before you go …” He cleared his throat. “Very high heels and stockings with seams, my source said. Real stockings?”

“No. Thigh-highs.”

“Ah. No garter belt, then. A pity.”

I smiled at the regret in his voice. “But with no panties,” I lied, and pushed my ordinary white cotton pair down. Not quite a lie.

“No panties at the symphony?” He laughed.

“I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. The orchestra was pretty good tonight. I don’t know if your source actually listened to the music. Maybe he spent the whole night looking at my legs.”

“My source also mentioned your nipples.”

“Your source needs a cold shower.”

“Jo?”

“Hmm?” The air had shifted, or so it felt, although the studio was perfectly warm and comfortable. My nipples were erect.

“Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Take off your top.”

I turned on the speaker to the phone and untied the halter top. It slithered down my torso in a caress of satin.

“That rustling sound …”

“My skirt.”

“Ah. And your nipples …”

“Erect. Very hard. Dark pink like raspberries. I’m pinching them.”

“Good. Are you standing or sitting?”

“Standing.”

“Spread your legs. Can you feel the air on your cunt?”

It was the first time he’d ever used the word, the first time I’d ever liked a man to say it to me. The contrast between his cultured voice and the crudeness of the word made me shiver.

“Now lift your skirt. Tuck it up, if you can, so you can keep your hands on your breasts. I want to see you exposed, the contrast of the black stockings against your skin. That rustling is supremely erotic, by the way.”

“Say it again,” I whispered, my skirt tucked up.

“What?”

“Talk about my cunt. Please.”

“Your cunt.” I could hear the smile in his voice. That’s what we say in the business, when you want to convey an upbeat attitude on mic. Put a bit of smile in it.

“Your cunt,” he repeated. “I’m imagining your hair looks very dark against the white of your legs. Quite a lot of hair. You’re not the sort of woman who’d shave or wax it into submission. Is your cunt wet, Jo?”

“Yes. I want to touch myself.”

“Not yet. Can you come from touching your breasts?”

I moaned and rocked my pelvis forward. I thought of the pinkness and wetness between my legs, my clit a hard splinter of nerve endings. I pressed my middle finger hard against my nipple as though it was my clit, rotating.

“That’s right, darling. Get yourself off.”

“Talk to me,” I gasped. “I’ll come if you talk to me.”

The studio door banged open, and I blinked as the room flooded with light.

Jason stood there, his mouth hanging open at the sight of me.

I stood there for a moment, horrified, my fingers stilled, before I lunged forward and disconnected the call. I fumbled to pull my top up, my skirt down.

“I’m sorry—” Jason mumbled. He had an erection; I could see it distending his jeans.

“No, I’m sorry. Oh, fuck.” I could get fired for this.

“I was … uh, I didn’t think you were here.”

“I didn’t know anyone else was here.” My fingers shook as I tied the halter top. “I’m leaving now.”

I grabbed my shawl and purse, mortified, further embarrassed by having to scoop my panties from the floor. I’d find another phone and call a cab. I’d wait for it outside, braving the freezing temperature, rather than having to face Jason after what he’d seen.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I walked toward the door, toward him, discovering it was almost impossible not to walk with a sexy sway in the shoes.

“Uh. It’s okay. It was hot.” Jason blushed. He backed away from me. “You’re hot.”

I stopped. I needed a real man, a flesh-and-blood man. Just for tonight.

And then I can tell Mr. D. about it.

I guess I was ready for this journey, after all.

“Jason, I need a ride home.”




4


HE STUTTERED AN ANSWER—SURE, YES, YEAH—and jingled his keys in the fidgety sort of way men do, particularly young, hyper guys, and led the way outside. We both fumbled around with the lock and the alarm, jerking our hands away when we made contact with each other.

I hoped Jason was as nervous as I was.

Once outside the fresh air hit my exposed and overstimulated pussy with a cold burn and I clamped my legs together. Another icy caress as I climbed into the front seat of Jason’s pickup and then I squealed as the cold vinyl of the seats hit my thighs.

“You okay?” Jason looked at me with concern.

“Yeah, I’m cold.”

“I’ll turn the heater on when the engine’s warm.”

“Thanks.”

We set off, me very conscious of every bump and ridge in the road, which seemed to address my clitoris with a blatant reminder of what I was about to do. As we neared the all-night drugstore in town, Jason slowed.

“Do you, ah, have, ah, you know, should I …” He looked uncertain. After all, from his point of view I hadn’t exactly spelled out what I wanted him to do. Maybe he thought he was giving the radio station’s eccentric squealing masturbator a ride home after which we’d say good-night to each other and he’d drive off with a merry toot of his horn.

I’d be tooting his horn for sure.

“No, it’s fine, I have, uh, you know,” I replied fluently. Unless he wanted to buy himself a toothbrush? I think I had a spare somewhere. “Thanks for asking,” I added.

We arrived at my house before the truck had reached anywhere near normal temperature, and I eased myself from the seat, relieved that my skin did not separate from the vinyl with a loud, rude sound. Once again the shock of frigid air hit my crotch and I scuttled for the front door, with Jason behind me.

He stood very close to me as I inserted the key into the lock, not touching me, but close, and it would have been damned sexy if he hadn’t been wearing a down jacket. There might actually have been some contact. But I got the door open and lunged for the lights and the thermostat.

Brady appeared, mewed and collapsed on his side in front of Jason.

“Is your cat okay? He just fell over.”

“Yes, he does that to people he likes.”

“Cool.” Jason bent down to pet him.

“Let me take your jacket,” I said, the perfect hostess, and relieved Jason of his jacket—he put his gloves carefully in the pockets, which I thought was rather sweet. He hung his messenger bag on the rack next to his jacket, removing his cell phone.

“I have to …”

“Oh, sure.” I left him to make his call, wondering who it was to. Not a girlfriend, I hoped. Or his mother, which would be even worse. I went into the kitchen to feed Brady, who transferred his affection from our guest to me, weaving around my legs as I tipped kibble into his bowl.

Jason came into the kitchen. He didn’t offer an explanation for his call, which was none of my business anyway, and looked around. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” The perfect asexual inner hostess kicked in at this point and I asked him if he’d like something to eat—I swear the words just popped out of my mouth—while in the back of my head the slutty hostess shouted, Get him upstairs! Remind him you’re not wearing panties! Unzip him!

“Uh, no, I’m fine.”

I found myself gazing at the banana in my fruit bowl on the kitchen table—Freud would have had a field day with me—and reminded myself sternly to think about the matter at hand. While I attempted to figure out my next move, I picked up the container of cat food to replace it in the cabinet.

And then, proving that one of us had some sense, he came up close behind me—I could feel his warmth, and the nudge of his erection against my butt. His hands slid up my sides. “You are so hot,” he whispered.

I grabbed the edge of the counter, weak-kneed as his mouth moved over my neck, warm and tickling. I turned my head to kiss him, whimpering a little as his hands cupped my breasts. His mouth was nice, gentle and sweet.

I turned in his arms. “Let’s go upstairs.” The slutty hostess had won the fight.

I led him upstairs, enjoying the swish of the taffeta skirt and the assertive clip of the high-heeled shoes on the wooden stairs, and into my room.

He was right behind me, breathing fast. I wondered if he could see up the skirt and decided that as soon as I could I’d bend over in front of him, or part my legs accidentally.

“Okay, Jason.” I turned and he almost bumped into me. “You may undress.”

He gave a huge grin, which made me think that maybe I hadn’t sounded like as much of a dominant bitch as I’d intended. “Sure.” He took off his shirt. Nice chest, a scatter of hair; not superdefined, but pleasant to look at.

I reclined on the bed, one leg outstretched, the other bent, with my wrist resting on the knee. I wanted to see whether he’d angle himself to look up my skirt.

He did, taking a couple of steps towards the end of the bed, ostensibly to put his shirt on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The bulge in his jeans, which seemed to be more or less permanent—or had at least been there in the twenty minutes or so since our first encounter at the radio station—seemed even more prominent. He bent to unlace his boots and kick off his socks, then put a hand to his belt buckle.

Show-off. Delicious show-off.

He snapped the button of his Levi’s and unzipped, sliding the jeans down his legs and kicking them away. He wore gray knit boxers that clung to every contour and ridge. Very impressive.

He hooked a thumb into the waistband and looked at me. Then he looked up my skirt again and swallowed.

I slid off the bed and unzipped the skirt, leaving me in my heels and stockings and the silk halter-neck top. I reached into the bedside cabinet drawer for a condom and walked over to him, conscious again of the sexy sway the shoes gave me. I ran my finger down the underside of his cock, through the cotton knit.

He moaned.

I pulled his underwear down his thighs and he stepped out of them, his cock bouncing slightly as it was freed. It was gorgeous, rigid and curving, a drop of pre-come welling at the tip.

He smiled, but his breath came fast. “Can we …”

“Sure.” I pushed him onto the chest at the end of the bed. It had a padded top, kind to the knees. I knew. This was how I wanted him. I stood astride his thighs and kissed him, not the gentle way he’d kissed me, but deep and carnal and wet, while his hands roamed over my breasts and thighs and butt. One hand slipped between my legs and his breath hitched when he found how wet I was and it was my turn to moan as he took a finger to my clit.

I sheathed him in the condom and placed one knee beside him, easing him into me. He gripped my hips hard. “Go slow,” he said, then looked embarrassed. “I mean, I don’t want it to be over too soon. I want it to be good for you.”

“'S okay.” I was very close to coming, as though I was a pot that had been about to boil when Jason had interrupted me at the radio station and now had full heat beneath it. My body had forgotten about the intervening embarrassment and awkwardness and now wanted to go back to where we’d left off. But Jason inside me, that unexpected, delightful presence curving inside me, jerking a little as I moved—I wanted to hold the moment, concentrate on the gorgeous slide and retreat as we fucked.

He untied the halter-neck top and let it fall, lifting a breast to his mouth to suck the nipple. The sensation shot to my clitoris. “Keep doing that. Harder.”

I ground myself on him and came so hard it hurt.

“Christ! I felt that.” And he thrust up as I gripped him, his eyes dark and wide, and shuddered as he came.

I collapsed on his shoulder, coming back into the present and becoming aware of my breathing, his breathing, the rapid thud of his pulse, the scent of our sweat and bodies. He sighed and nudged me. “Jo, I’d better …”

The condom. Of course. He reached to kiss me on the lips—a friendly sort of gesture, for which I was glad—as I untangled myself from him. I crawled onto the bed, leaving the shoes behind, and slid the stockings off. I resisted the temptation to ask him what he’d like to do next, in case he suggested we watch MTV or say he wanted to sleep. I was pretty much wide-awake and I wanted him again.

“Was that okay?” he asked, settling onto the bed next to me.

“Better than okay.” I wondered how experienced he was.

“Cool.” He grinned. “I’ve wanted to do that since I met you.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. No, I’m not.” He touched my breast, making small circles around the nipple, and gave a small sound of satisfaction as it stiffened and darkened. “You’re gorgeous. Sexy. I can’t believe I’m here with you.”

His cock stirred. I reached down and took him in my hand, squeezing gently. I sat up and ran my hands over him, exploring his planes and surfaces. He twitched away as I kissed his nipple, then settled back, sighing. I kissed his belly and thighs, deliberately ignoring his erection, while he stroked my breasts and shoulders.

“Tell me what you want,” he said after we’d kissed awhile.

I reached for another condom.

“Don’t you want more foreplay?” he said earnestly, as though I wasn’t conforming to some textbook of female erotic behavior.

“Sometimes I like hours of it. Right now I want to be fucked.”

“Okay!” He took the condom and rolled it onto himself, then pushed me onto my back, eager to show me what he could do. And for an exercise in stamina, it wasn’t bad, lots of nice sweaty thrusting and flexing and groaning from both of us.

“Have you come yet?” he asked after a while.

“I don’t come like this.” I rubbed my foot up and down his back.

“Shit. Why didn’t you say?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t enjoying it. I am.”

“What should I do?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing.”

“But I …” His hips were moving again. “I want you to …”

“Jason, just shut up and fuck me, okay?”

He stopped, shocked, and then grinned. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

I was a bit worried about his lack of vocabulary for a couple of seconds before he started fucking me in earnest, and hurtled to a climax before collapsing on top of me.

“That was … that was great,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows. “What would you like me to do now?”

My mind wandered off onto some stuff I’d read somewhere about dominatrices who made their submissives do the laundry or clean the bathroom, but it seemed like a waste of good manpower. I had this gorgeous, unstoppable young male in my bed, all puppy eyes and eagerness, willing to do whatever I wanted, and—

“Jason, I hope you don’t feel I’m using you.”

He looked up from my nipples—very enterprising, while I was thinking of a reply, he had taken the initiative to start kissing his way down my body. “No. I like you. I think you’re …”

Oh, please don’t say I’m hot again. It’s flattering but—

“You’re nice. Like, when we had those third graders tour the station and you showed them around. You were really cool with them. They liked you.”

“Oh. Thanks. I like you, too. And that—oh, that’s nice.” Perhaps everyone’s vocabulary shrank when the sex was good enough. Jason lapped and nibbled at my thighs and my clit, and I came to his supple, energetic tongue, surprised, pleased, thrashing around.

“I’m hard again,” he said, almost apologetically. I wasn’t aware he’d deflated at any point, and I had a feeling I’d come across the used condom in the bed pretty soon.

“Then let’s do something about it.” I handed him a condom and watched him roll it on, kneeling above me. “And I’ll go on top.”

“Will you come like that?”

“Almost definitely.” It was sweet how concerned he was with my orgasms, when I, or any other woman, could out-orgasm him, or any other man, until the cows came home.

And I did. Or at least, until the arrival, not of any cows, but of my new tenant.

“I guess this is it,” Patrick said.

Elise leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’ve been so great about it all.”

“Hey, stop it. Next thing you’ll be inviting me back in and then we’ll start all over again.”

“You’re right.” She stepped out of his arms and he felt as though he were ripping up inside. It was a definite physical sensation, a weird tingle down his arms, adrenaline maybe, or a heart attack. He waited. Was he about to drop dead on his soon-to-be ex-wife’s—or rather, his own—doorstep?

Damn, she’d get his life insurance. The merry widow.

“Yeah. Okay.” He took his glasses off and pinched his nose, hard, to force the tears back. “I couldn’t find the drill. It’s somewhere in the house. It doesn’t matter. I’ll buy another. You need to have one.”

“Do I?”

In Elise’s world there was always someone with a drill, always someone to look after her and protect her and do things for her. Him, her father, her brothers, even Patrick’s friends—God, if he thought any of his friends were screwing her or wanted to screw her, or coming around with their big drills at the ready, he’d kill them, but they’d be insane not to want to screw her….

“Patrick, just go, please.” She looked waiflike and frail, clinging to the front door. She was as tough as old boots.

“I changed the furnace filter.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

He nodded and trudged to the truck he’d rented for the move.

He drove round the corner, parked and cried for a good two minutes. Well, he thought, blowing his nose, at least he hadn’t cried in front of her.

She hadn’t cried in front of him, either. Shit, he should have torn the house apart and found the damned drill. He’d always despised couples who got into deathly, expensive fights over household items when they divorced, televisions or favorite bits of furniture, but now he understood that irrationality. He couldn’t even bear to think what it would be like if the disputed property were a pet or a kid, but this marriage had none of the above, a thought that did not cheer him particularly.

He put his glasses back on and shoved the truck into Drive, stomping his left foot on the floor in the way he always did driving an automatic, and drove to his new apartment.

He rang the doorbell several times and eventually Jo opened the door. She wore sweats and pink slippers and her hair was on end. She looked sleepy and mussed and sexy. (Yeah, and ten minutes ago he’d been crying over another woman.)

“Sorry I woke you up,” he said.

“No, it’s fine. Come on in.”

He didn’t want to come in the house, but he did to be polite, and she gave him a set of keys.

“I’ll move the pickup,” she said.

Funny, he wouldn’t have thought she was the sort of girl to drive a pickup, and sure enough she wasn’t. A kid wandered out of the house, with “I got lucky” written all over his face—Christ, he was young—and moved the pickup. He introduced himself as Jason, asked what Patrick liked in his coffee and went back into the house. He came out again as Patrick backed the truck into the drive.

“She said I should help you.”

“Thanks.” Exactly how many boyfriends did Jo have?

She wandered out again with mugs of coffee for them both, which she offered with a vague, satisfied smile—heck, now he was paying attention, he saw she had “I got lucky” all over her, too, but for some reason on her he found it endearing—and then she went back into the house

“Cool. IKEA,” said Jason when they got to the flat boxes in the truck. “You want some help putting these together?”

“And what happened next?” Mr. D. asked, when I told him the story at work.

“Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of something along the lines of a hot threesome surrounded by cardboard boxes.”

He laughed. “Not until now. So how did you get rid of Jason?”

“He said he had work to do. It was easier than I expected.”

“And do you think you’ll do it again?”

I tucked the phone under my chin as I replaced CDs on the shelves. “We work together and it could get awkward. I enjoyed it, but it was a bit like having a well-trained puppy around—he was so eager and happy to please me. If I’d asked him to be rough or selfish—and I did, remember?—he’d defuse it by being acquiescent. Quite unintentionally … I don’t think he was jerking my chain.”

“Another dog metaphor?”

“Or a bitch metaphor, but you’re too polite to say it. I guess that’s why I have a cat—you never really know what they’re thinking, although the answer to that is probably nothing at all. But back to Jason—I’d always thought I’d enjoy a hot young stud who was hard all night long, but his erection never went away, and it was boring. I wanted some variety, some textural interest.”

“Did you think about me when you were fucking him?”

“No.” I put the last CD on the shelf. “I thought about telling you about it. When he curled his tongue around my clitoris and put his fingers inside me, I thought, Mr. D. will enjoy this. Did I tell you I kissed him and tasted myself?”

“Go on.” His voice had a dreamy, throaty quality.

“Are you hard?”

“God, yes. Tell me more.”

And I did, and heard him sigh and groan and give a low laugh.




5


“BRING HIM TO BILL’S BIRTHDAY PARTY,” KIMBERLY said.

“Who?”

“The Leprechaun. I can be his rebound girl.” She propped her feet up on her desk and took another mouthful of coffee. It was Wednesday and ostensibly we were meeting to proofread the station newsletter and discuss the fine details of the station manager’s birthday party. She peered at the papers strewn over her desk. “Should this really be the Erotica Symphony?”

“What? No! It’s the Eroica, Italian for heroic. Please tell me there isn’t a T in the middle.”

“Just kidding.”

“And you can’t be serious about Patrick. He’s only been separated a week. Less than a week.”

She shook her head. “My sources tell me it’s been six months since they split up. He’s ready.” She tapped her pencil on her desk. “And when are you going to start dating someone?”

“I don’t really feel like it.” I considered telling her about Jason.

“Dating or telling me?”

At that point the phone rang. “Yeah, she’s here.” Kimberly winked at me with the receiver pressed to her ear.

“What is it?”

“Wait, honey,” Kimberly cooed. “You just sit tight.”

The door to her office swung open and a huge bunch of flowers appeared, almost masking the station receptionist.

“Ooh, who are they from?” they both squealed as I snatched the card out from the floral depths.

Mr. D., please. But these weren’t his style, I hoped, and they were far too expensive to be from Jason. I ripped open the card.

“They’re from Willis Scott.” I stared with disbelief and fascinated horror at the phallic floral exhibition in front of me, while Kimberly and the receptionist made excited, giggly comments.

“What does he say?” Kimberly plucked the card from my hands. “'I owe you lunch. Best, Willis.’ How cute.”

“Is it?” I stared in fascinated horror at the flowers, some of which I was sure had been genetically engineered by a scientist with a dirty mind. Nature could not be so crass.

“Of course. He’s getting ripe.”

“Like a cheese?”

“Ripe to make a major gift.” Kimberly reached for her Rolodex, flipped it over and began typing. “I’m emailing you his number. And his cell. He’ll be a change from those bearded intellectual bores you usually date—”

“Hugh did not have a—”

“Or those muscle-bound rock-climbing types—”

“One, four years ago before I met Hugh—”

“Or those pretty dancers who couldn’t decide whether they were bisexual or not—”

“I couldn’t help hanging out with other dance majors and that was a long time ago, and only one was—”

“So now you can date an adult,” Kimberly said with an air of finality. “And if you give me the Leprechaun’s email I’ll invite him to Bill’s party.”

I scribbled his email address on a Post-it. “I don’t know why I’m agreeing to let you pimp me for the station or corrupt my tenant.”

“I’m sure both of us will behave with the utmost professionalism.” She handed me a paper napkin as I spluttered coffee over her desk.

After six months of housesitting, friends’ sofas and occasional returns to Elise’s bed in a house that no longer felt like home, Patrick thought he should feel relieved to be in his own place. If only. He felt he didn’t belong in this small space, him and the half-dozen humming computers, the clean quiet of it all. Jo was a remarkably silent neighbor—he guessed she slept most of the day. He met her one gloriously sunny afternoon planting bulbs in the front yard.

“Daffodils,” she said. “The squirrels eat everything else.”

“Right,” he said.

“Are you coming to Bill’s party?”

He hesitated. “Maybe.”

“It’ll be fun,” she said, stripping off her gardening gloves. “Liz Ferrar’s coming, probably some other people you know. Everything okay in the apartment?”

“Yeah, it’s great, thanks.” He sounded wildly enthusiastic—he really needed to get out more—as though he were commenting on an orgy.

She usually left for work in the late afternoon and out of curiosity, and by the need to deal with his laundry, he entered the house later that day. The doorway to the apartment opened into the upstairs of the house—polished wood floors, white walls, all very ascetic, like a nunnery.

Except for the bathroom. The half-open door revealed a rack across the bathtub, with expensive underwear laid out to dry. Christ. Was she wearing something like that under her gardening outfit? Classy stuff, too. Sexy and silky and … stockings, too. A far cry from the faded Santa Claus panties, all that exotic lace and silk and satin. Underwear made to be displayed, slowly removed (or not at all), brushed over a guy’s face so he could catch her scent.

Grimly Patrick held on to his laundry basket. There was no way he was going to touch her underwear. Absolutely not. Just because he’d seen her naked once and admired her legs and liked her voice on the radio didn’t mean he had to … No point in touching anything, he argued with himself. They were just scraps of fabric. Now if she, or someone, was wearing them, that would be far more interesting—a nipple poking against taut silk, or a crisp of hair against dampened satin, or. He tried to summon up some good Irish Catholic guilt, and failed.

Something brushed against his leg and he almost dropped the basket. The damn cat, of course, looking at him with solemn, reproachful eyes.

“I get it.” Patrick hefted the basket. “Don’t tell her.”

A bloodcurdling scream came from downstairs. What the fuck. He dropped the basket and ran down the stairs and into the basement.

At first he didn’t recognize her and gave a yell of fear at the faceless stranger who stood screaming in the dim light. She wore a pair of Wellington boots with her jeans tucked into them, a long-sleeved sweater with rubber gloves and something over her face that he recognized, with incredulity, as a fencing mask. In one hand she held a pair of barbecue tongs.

“What the hell?” he shouted, in relief that it was only Jo.

“Get it off my foot!”

“What?”

“It moved!”

“Why are you here in the dark?”

“I don’t like to see their eyes.”

He snapped on the light. “Whose eyes?”

She pointed at her feet. The cat strolled forward and sniffed at her toe.

Patrick squatted to take a better look at the small scrap of fur that lay on her foot. “It’s okay. It’s dead.” He now saw the discarded mousetrap on the floor. “Why not just throw the whole thing out?”

“It’s wasteful.” She said it with a reproachful air. Then she screamed at him. “Don’t use your hand! You get could sick!”

He took the tongs and retrieved the mouse. “What day does the city recycling pick up dead rodents?”

“I throw them in the backyard.”

“Okay.” He unlocked the back door and threw the day’s catch out. “Jo, if it freaks you out so much, I could catch mice for you.”

She removed her fencing mask. “You would?”

“Sure. But why doesn’t the cat catch them?”

“Sometimes he does. I don’t think he’s much of a hunter. That’s real nice of you, Patrick, but you can’t use glue traps and they have their own peanut butter—”

“Consider it a term of my rental. Why do you wear a fencing mask?”

“One time a mouse wasn’t dead and when Hugh found it he let it go and it ran up his leg and bit his knee.”

“Inside his pants?”

“No, he wasn’t wearing … I mean, it was summer. Shorts.” She smiled. “I’m very grateful. Really. I have another trap over there. You’ll need the flashlight. It’s dark in that corner. I just hope they enjoy the peanut butter. It’s not organic, but it’s quite good.”

“Of course.” He found another small corpse with an expression of surprise on its face, or what looked like it. Under her cringing supervision he smeared more peanut butter onto the traps and reset them.

All the while he wondered what she was wearing beneath her jeans and sweater.

“Thank you for the flowers,” I said to Willis.

“I’d hoped you might call me.” He snatched two glasses of wine deftly from a circulating waiter and handed one to me. Around us the party was in full swing, held in the large open space in the middle of the radio station. Once the building had been a small parochial school and this had been the assembly room. I’d lost sight of Patrick, who’d been appropriated by Liz Ferrar.

I shrugged. I’d sent a polite email thank-you to Willis. I wasn’t about to make up any excuses. I took a small sip of the wine—not much, I had to be on air in ten minutes.

“So, lunch,” he said as though I’d made some sort of encouraging response.

“I’m flattered and all that, but you’re not really my type.”

He grinned. “You’re very direct. I like that.”

Oh, crap. I couldn’t win with this guy. So much for honesty. “Oh, I think Bill is going to cut his cake. I’d better—”

“Not for a while yet. So how about it? Lunch tomorrow? I’ll pick you up at twelve?”

Before I could come up with a conventional sort of response about checking my schedule, he grabbed my hand. “Look, I know you think I’m a flake because I’ve cut a few trees down in my time. We have different values. You’re a sort of hippie—”

“No, I’m not. My mother is a hippie. Just because I work in radio—”

“Whatever. I make money. I like money. I like spending money on girls.”

“Jesus, Willis, listen to yourself. I’m not a girl.”

“Woman, then. Women.”

“And I don’t like the idea of being some sort of money pit. What’s in it for you anyway?” I almost hoped he’d say fucking but even he wasn’t that crude.

“Jo.” His thumb caressed the back of my hand and to my astonishment it made me feel … well, probably more the way I should have felt during a night of fucking with Jason, the permanently erect. “I’m interested in you. I know you’re going to say I don’t know you, but I’d like to. We have different values. So what? It keeps things interesting. I have money and I guess you don’t. So let’s pool resources.”

“And what do I bring to this interesting relationship?”

“Willis! So glad you could come!” Kimberly bore down on us, deftly reorganizing her wineglass, plate, purse, napkin and various other odds and ends to kiss Willis’s cheek without pouring zinfandel down his pants. “Jo was just talking about y—”

“No, I wasn’t,” I interjected before Kimberly encouraged him any further.

“We’ll talk soon, okay?” And she was off in a cloud of social fairy dust, leaving me fuming and Willis in firm possession of my hand.

“We’d have fun,” he said.

My instinctive retort was to say I wasn’t into fun but I hesitated. Some fun might be good. I had a serious sort of job with strange hours and a very odd sex life—and I could seduce the pants off Willis and tell Mr. D. about it. I took another look at the clock on the wall.

“Time flies?” he said.

“I have to be in the studio. Watching the clock is a major part of my job. Okay, then.”

“Okay to lunch?” His face split into a huge grin.

“Sure. Pick me up here.” There was no way I’d let him know where I lived.

I made my escape to the studio, where our early evening announcer signed off and I pulled a few CDs, annoyed that I might miss the cake. I went online for the latest weather report and local news and closed the studio door but left the light on. This was one of the occasions when Neil or Bill would give guests the grand tour so they could have the pleasure of staring through the window at me.

I lined up a short piece to begin with and glanced at the phone. It was too early for him to call, but. I wasn’t sure he’d approve. And that raised some uncomfortable questions. Did I need his approval? Was I using Willis the way I’d used Jason? (Except that had been entirely spontaneous … hadn’t it?) And we’d parted on good terms with no expectations and … Willis was just so unlike the men I usually dated, but according to Kimberly I made bad choices in that area. I pulled out my cell phone and texted her to save me a piece of cake, and then watched the countdown on the music currently playing.

Cake was nice and simple and not sullied by issues of morality. Unless you were concerned about your weight or a wannabe dancer obsessed with keeping yourself to bone and muscle (and probably planning to barf it up anyway), cake was a pleasure, pure and simple.

The music ended and I came on air and made a short announcement. My philosophy was that we did not have personality announcers, but a smooth flow of music and if our listeners noticed the voice had changed, that was fine. But it was the music that kept them listening.

When I flipped the mic off someone knocked at the door and I got up to answer it. To my surprise it was Patrick with a plate of cake.

“Kimberly told me to bring this to you.”

“Great. Want to come in?”

“Sure.” He came in and looked around. “So how does all this work?”

I gave him my usual semitechnical explanation and offered him a seat. “Stay while I talk on air, if you like. Try not to sneeze.”

“I won’t.”

“You’d be surprised how many visitors have a coughing fit.” I took a quick bite of cake and put my headphones on.

This time I talked a little longer, giving a weather update and mentioning the music that would be coming up later, aware that I issued an invitation to Mr. D. This is when I can talk.

Then I hit the play button for the CD, faded the mic down and switched it off and removed my headphones.

“Do you get nervous?” Patrick asked.

“No. Some announcers imagine they’re talking to one person, or their pet. I don’t. If you think about how many people might be listening it’s unreal, intimidating. So I just talk.”

“And you like being here late at night?”

Well, yes. “I’m not always here late. I can put a show together by downloading music and recording the announcements, and that’s what I usually do if I want an early night. An intern comes in to make sure everything is okay and can step in to broadcast from the other studio if something goes wrong. But generally I work live.” I forked more cake into my mouth. “Thanks for bringing me this.”

“No problem.” He cleared his throat in the way men do when they are about to get personal. “Kimberly seems nice.”

“She is.”

“You’ve been friends for quite a while, she said.”

He was asking for a character reference, in other words. I thought I’d move things along a bit for him. “She’d probably appreciate a ride home, if you’re driving, that is.”

“Good to know.” He nodded in an emphatic sort of way. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Unless you’d like more cake?”

I told him I was fine and he left me to the quiet of the studio. Now and again a group of visitors came by, and I put my headphones on and looked properly busy at the console even if I wasn’t at that moment.

I was watching the clock. I was waiting for the moment when everyone left and my time with Mr. D. began.

“I’m worried I’m turning into some sort of fuck-bunny monster,” I said to Mr. D. before he’d barely had a chance to say hello. “It’s as though every guy I see, I’m eying up as a possible sexual partner.”

“Everyone?” I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

“Well, not everyone. Not Gerard Morgan. He’s one of our major supporters and I think he’s about eighty. I’d probably get his wife, Marilyn, as part of the deal, too—she keeps him on a short leash. On the other hand she’s a nubile seventy-five-year-old. They’re both pretty frisky, now that I think about it. I’m talking myself into it. See what you’ve done?”

“I’m not sure people aren’t eyeing each other up as sexual partners most of the time. Perhaps you’re being more honest than most of us.”

“I accepted a date tonight with someone I think is despicable.”

“Why?”

“My friend Kimberly—I’ve talked about her—persuaded me it would be a good idea, and she’s cultivating him for a gift to the station. She thinks I don’t date the right men.”

“I think she’s right.”

I twisted the phone cord. “And I accepted so that I could fuck him and then tell you about it. No, I know what you’re going to say. It’s my decision and all that. I don’t have to fuck him and we can talk about something else. I know. So why am I doing this?”

A silence. “There must be something you like about him.”

“He’s physically attractive. Not my type, but he’s handsome. And there’s something about him—he’s crude and materialistic but he doesn’t pretend to be anything else and I admire him for it. No, the real reason I find him attractive, Mr. D., is that I want to have sex with him and then tell you about it.”

“And this makes you feel—what? Guilty, sad?”

“Are you a shrink in real life?” I grinned. “No, it makes me feel excited. It makes me feel powerful and sexy, and I like that. But at the same time, it worries me.”

“I don’t ever want you to feel obligated to me. I love to talk with you. We can talk about whatever you like. You don’t have to describe your conquests to me unless you want to.”

“But I do want to.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. How long do we have?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“I’d like to have you talk on air seconds before you come. I’d like to hear that roughness in your voice and know you’re speaking to me, something you and I share. Will you do that for me, Jo?”

I hesitated. My next recording was cued, and the notes I’d use to make my next announcement lay ready on the console. I could do it, but what would his next demand be? “If I do that, will you ask me to come on air next?”

“No. That moment is for me. I don’t want to share that with anyone.”

I squeezed my legs together. I was alone in the station—I’d made sure of that—but I wondered if he’d delayed calling so he could specifically ask me to do this. In which case, I’d put him on the spot, too.

“Unzip yourself,” I said. I put the phone on speaker and heard a rustle, the slide of his zipper. “Are you hard?”

He gave a soft, sexy laugh. “What do you think?”

“Describe your cock for me.”

It was something of a test. I didn’t want bullshit about his hard eight inches because in my experience eight inches, or more, was something that existed only in men’s imaginations.

Besides, who wanted a dick the size of a baseball bat pummeling their insides?

“It’s hard—I mean, hard in the sense of difficult—to describe something I’ve seen so many times. It has a slight curve to the right—I suppose because I’m right-handed. My pubic hair is dark brown with a few gray hairs, quite tightly curled. My cock is brown, darker than my skin, but the head is dark red. It’s very smooth. I’m running my fingertips up and down the ridge on the underside. Teasing myself.”

“Go on.” I traced my fingers lightly over my breasts. My nipples tightened.

“Now I’m cupping my balls with my other hand. They’re warm and heavy. Tightening against my palm.”

I listened to his labored breathing, the sound of his excitement.

“Jo? I’m touching the head of my cock with my thumb and forefinger, squeezing it. There’s some seepage, now.”

I traced the outline of my nipples and spread my legs. I’d worn a skirt for the party and beneath it my cunt felt full and heavy. “Tell me more. Tell me what your cock looks like now.”

“Darker. Wet. I’m using lube.” A gasp. “The head is swelling. Getting very sensitive. I’m using my whole hand. Sliding up and down.”

I slid a hand under my skirt and into my panties. Above my head the second hand of the clock moved. “Wait!”

He groaned.

I put his call on hold and moved to the console, placing the headphones on my head. The last chords of the music died away and I slid the faders into position, slowly and smoothly.

My voice sounded calm and soothing through the headphones, announcing what we had heard, and what was coming up next. A few words about the weather, and a short statement about the sponsor of the next hour of music, the local theater company, and their next production. “I’m Jo Hutchinson and it’s my pleasure to be with you for the next few hours.”

My pleasure indeed. Mic off, music up, phone call off hold. I gripped the edge of the console, pressed my pubic bone against it, hard, and my orgasm roared through me.

I dropped into the chair, out of breath.

“Jo? You okay?”

“Sure. I feel like I’ve run a mile.”

“Me, too. The way you said pleasure—that did it for me. You were speaking to me then. I felt it.” He laughed. “God, you make me feel like a randy teenager. I’d already jerked off at work thinking about you today.”

“You did? Where?”

“At my desk. I told my assistant I wasn’t to be disturbed and … well, you can imagine the rest.”

I could, but I also wished he’d waited for me, waited until I was off the air and I had heard him come.

“Are you disappointed?”

“At what?”

“That I do this without you?”

I shrugged before realizing he couldn’t see my gesture. “I don’t see that it’s anything to do with what you and I have. I guess I’m flattered that you fantasize about me.”

“We have such a small part of each other,” he said. “I don’t want to jeopardize what we have, until you decide you want more from me.”

“You know my answer to that.”

He sighed. I heard clothing rustle, and the sound of his zipper going up. “So how was the party tonight?”

“You knew about it?”

“I received an invitation, yes.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Were you there? Was that why you called so late?”

“You know I keep a low profile.”

“I can always look at the guest list,” I said, although I knew I wouldn’t. I wanted to keep the mystery. “I like the idea of you watching me across the room. How did you feel when you saw me flirt with other guys?”

He laughed. “If I had been there, I would have loved to have watched you. And seeing you flirt with other men—I would have felt hopeful. Excited. Because I would know I would receive the greatest and last pleasure, to be the one you would tell everything to.”

“So if I don’t seduce this guy tomorrow, will you be disappointed?”

“No. You can never disappoint me.”




6


I DREAMED SOMETHING RANG AND RANG, PEALING in my ear. I grabbed out and reached the phone.

A giggling squeal assaulted my ears. I blinked at the numbers of my digital clock. Three in the morning. I’d been asleep less than an hour.

“What?”

This time I recognized the voice.

“Kimberly? You okay?”

Another fit of giggling.

I finally figured out what the two syllables were she kept repeating. “You woke me up to tell me he has a foreskin?”

“Shit, sorry. I thought you’d be awake.” More giggling. “It’s weird.”

“He’s Irish. It’s probably normal there.”

“I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“Where are you?”

“My place. In the bathroom. He’s asleep.”

“Oh, good. He might find it depressing that you’re on the phone to a girlfriend giggling about his dick.”

“I wouldn’t say a word in front of him. It’s bad manners.”

“So is waking me up.”

“I’m sorry. I had to tell someone about it.”

I yawned. “I’m pretty sure there are AM call-in shows for this sort of situation. You sure you’re okay? Not overwhelmed by foreskinned leprechaun sex?”

“He’s cute. Nice. Sexy. We had a good time.”

“Great. Why don’t you go to sleep, too? Good night.”

“Are you grouchy for any other reason than being woken up?”

“No, I’m fine. ‘Bye.” I disconnected the call and rolled over, dislodging Brady, who had swollen to twice his normal size and heated up to an alarming temperature, as cats will. I allowed myself a moment of self-pity. Kimberly had a guy in her bed and I had an overheated lump of fur in mine and a vibrator somewhere on the floor. I scrabbled around for it in a halfhearted sort of way, put off by the thought of the dust bunnies it might have accumulated. Sleep seemed a more wholesome alternative.

“I thought we’d have a picnic.” Willis grinned with approval at me—I thought it was approval, but it might have been self-satisfaction. On the other hand my outfit of cowboy boots and a black-and-white polka-dot, knee-length skirt looked pretty good to me. “That okay with you?”

“That sounds great.” It was one of those unseasonably warm days in the Rockies where half the town appears in shorts, grabbing a few rays before the temperature plummets with the setting sun.

He wore jeans and a battered leather jacket and looked slightly more human than in his expensive suits and ties, or at least slightly more like a guy I’d date. He ushered me out to his car, a sort of jeeplike thing, and I bit back the first comment that rose to my lips about its mileage. This was not the sort of vehicle acquired for its light carbon footprint.

“Like it?” he said, mistaking my interest.

“Sorry, I don’t know much about cars.”

To my relief, he didn’t take this as an invitation to educate me, but opened the car door and once we were seated, made a fuss of selecting music, adjusting the temperature and so on. Then he drove through the town and west into the foothills.

He didn’t say much and I wondered if he was shy, or maybe thinking he’d made a mistake.

“Are you seeing someone?” he asked.

“No. Are you?”

“No. You acted weird about coming out with me, so I thought …”

“I was in a fairly serious relationship for quite a long time. I haven’t got the hang of dating. How about you?” I’d given up telling him he wasn’t my type. He couldn’t or wouldn’t believe it.

“Divorced. I’m not ready for a serious relationship just yet. I like sexy, adventurous women like you.”

“What do you mean by adventurous? I used to date a rock-climbing fanatic. I went climbing with him a couple of times but I was scared to death.”

He shot me a glance. “You look athletic. Sure of yourself.”

“I ride a bike, but doesn’t everyone?” I looked at the road we were on, winding through pine trees. “This might be a good road to ride. Do you like sports?”

I’d asked for it. A lecture followed on the local football team. He stopped. “I guess you’re not into football?”

“No. I meant, do you climb or run? You look like you work out.”

“I lift weights, go to the gym a few times a week. Ski in the winter. Play a little golf.”

Oh, God, please don’t talk about golf or start comparing Breckenridge to Aspen.

He didn’t, having turned off the road and onto an unpaved track, probably an old logging road. The interior of the car was warm with the bright sunlight that flickered through the trees, and I hated to admit it, but I enjoyed the leather seats and the comfortable ride, the luxury of riding in an expensive car.

“I hope this wasn’t too early in the day for you,” he said. “I brought brunch.”

“That’s very thoughtful.”

He pulled the jeep to a halt in a sunlit meadow. We weren’t far from town but when I opened the door and stepped outside I was struck by the peace, the quiet. “Is this it? The place you’re going to develop?”

He nodded. “It’s still in the early stages. It may not happen.”

“And if it doesn’t? Won’t you lose money?”

“I’ll have the land. It might happen next year or in ten years. You never know.” He reached into the back of the jeep for a picnic basket and cooler and led me over to an outcropping that held the heat of the sun. He was an attentive and solicitous host—he even had a plaid blanket that he spread on the rocks—and the picnic basket turned out to be one of those fancy ones with china plates and cutlery. He’d brought bagels and lox and cream cheese and champagne in the cooler.

So who was seducing whom?

“This is nice,” I said, hoping the surprise didn’t show in my voice. “Great bagels.”

He popped the cork on the champagne, not making a big deal of it but easing it off softly. A little vapor rose from the neck of the bottle before he poured it into two glasses, pale and sparkling. Good signs—I wondered how he’d be as a lover.

“You’re the first girl—I mean woman—I’ve brought here,” he said.

“Yeah? You seem to have all the right moves.” I clinked my glass against his.

He smiled and unscrewed the cap of a bottle of sparkling water. “I have to drive, but you go ahead.”

I raised my face to the sun. Perhaps it was the champagne, perhaps it was the company of a handsome man who was not full of self-important chatter, as I’d feared, but I felt extraordinarily peaceful and at ease.

I finished my bagel and wondered if it would be crass to ask if I could have one for later—I decided it would be—but accepted an orange, one of those big, fat expensive ones that I hardly every bought. The rind peeled off with an easy grace and a wonderful whiff of scent.

“You’re a very sensual woman,” Willis said.

“Is that a euphemism for greedy?”

“No. You enjoy things. You show it.” He reached to refill my champagne glass.

“This is all perfect,” I said, indicating our picnic. “Other than your yearning to cut down trees and build ugly houses.”

“Heck, they won’t be ugly. I’m working with a green architect.”

“Green with pointy ears?” I lay back on the blanket, eyes closed, and chortled at my own joke, a little drunk on champagne and sunshine.

“You’re a funny girl.”

“Woman.”

He shifted toward me. Oh, this was so damn easy. Too easy. Without opening my eyes I separated a segment of orange and stuck it in my mouth. His face hovered over mine as I chewed and swallowed—I could feel his breath on my lips—and he moved in and licked juice from my chin. I was impressed. An enthusiastically chomping woman would not be a particular turn-on, or so I’d think, but he managed to take the moment from slightly comic to erotic with one light touch of his tongue.

His tongue touched my lips and he reached for the orange in my hand, loosening my fingers from the few segments that remained. He fed them to me before taking my hand and licking the juice from my palm.

“Nice,” he murmured.

I closed my hand around his chin, smooth from a recent shave. He smelled, very faintly, of lime, something subtle and expensive. I wouldn’t have expected this from the brash Willis I’d first met.

“More orange? Champagne?”

I opened my eyes. “You.”

He looked surprised. Maybe he expected to have to seduce me, or maybe he didn’t expect me to be quite so direct. But he didn’t think too long, particularly when I sat up and stripped off the long-sleeved T-shirt I wore and began on the buttons of his shirt. His hands flew to my breasts; I wore a pink cotton bra with a little lace, what I considered suitable for a lunchtime seduction.

He reached into the picnic basket. Yes, condoms for dessert. My bra was tossed carelessly aside as he nuzzled and kissed my breasts and I pulled his shirt from his jeans.

He had enough muscle and hair that he didn’t look like a pretty boy, but I noticed a certain awareness, a flexing of his pectorals, as though he was posing for my admiration. I suppose the equivalent for a woman was to suck it in.

“I like your chest,” I offered, feeling that all that time at the gym should be acknowledged. I stroked his biceps and glanced down. His erection pushed against his jeans.

He dipped a hand beneath my skirt. I propped myself on my elbows to watch his mouth at my breasts, his hand working between my spread thighs and my skirt bunched up at the waist. I liked that he played around my underwear, sliding his fingers under the elastic, stroking the dampened fabric of the crotch with his thumb. He took his time and when he slid a finger inside me I clenched on him hard, my breath short.

He raised his head from my breast. I wondered for a moment if I’d burn in the warm sun. “Am I going too fast for you, honey?”

“No. It’s great.”

I reached for the button of his Levi’s and slid his zipper down. White Jockeys, not my favorite (was there ever a more stupidly designed piece of underwear in the world?) but I didn’t intend to look at them for too long. I shoved his jeans and underwear down and his cock sprang into my hand.

He lost his concentration, his hand slowing on my clit, and I bounced my hips at him. What the heck were we going to do about our cowboy boots? Mine, it appeared, were going to stay on. He paused from regarding his dick approvingly to unzip my skirt and pull it and my underwear down. He raised himself onto his knees to stroke the condom over his penis, gazing at himself with adoration, jeans and underwear lodged at his calves. I was excited but at the same time I was an observer, taking notes for later.

He levered himself over me, and I saw we were about to embark on classic missionary style. And, yes, his boots were staying on, too.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, staring at my nakedness, my cowboy boots, my darkened nipples. “I want to fuck you so bad.”

Willis was losing his cool a bit, I was pleased to see. His mouth was half-open, lips wet, eyes hot. His hand stroked his cock, up and down. I don’t think he knew he did it, but when I reached down and touched my clit his eyes widened.

“Now,” I said.

I loved the sight of his cock sliding into me, the juicy, rude sounds of our fucking, the warmth of the sun on my skin. The scent of the lime shaving product he used mingled with those of sweat and oranges and champagne. Beside my head his arms flexed as he pushed inside, withdrew, pushed again, and my hips rose to meet him. He murmured to me how good it felt, how wet and hot my pussy was, how he couldn’t last, but he’d lost me. I tried to recapture my own rhythm, but it was like watching someone run away from you, and while the experience was pleasant enough, I couldn’t catch up.

Willis was way ahead of me now, lost in his own excitement, sweat breaking out on his forehead and chest before he dropped onto me, out of breath.

“Wow,” he said. “That was great.”

He rolled off me and reached for a paper napkin. Condom disposed of, he turned back to me. “You okay, honey?”

The best answer, it seemed to me, was to take his hand and guide it to my clitoris.

“You want more?” he asked with a grin. And then he continued, “Oh. I thought you’d … you know, you seemed real close.”

“Close but not quite there.” I added, “It’s the way I work. You were great, but the first time, with someone new, it’s not always easy to figure out what they want. Don’t feel offended.” Just rub my clit, you idiot.

“No, no, I’m not offended.” He shook his head with such vehemence that I didn’t believe him. “It’s just that generally gir—I mean women … come pretty easily with me.”

“I will, too.”

I pressed the great lover’s hand a little more insistently where only minutes before he had dabbled and played with such skill. He looked pleased at my praise but pulled up his pants and zipped up in a way that suggested today’s fun was over and his cock needed time to recover its hurt feelings.

Then he gave me an orgasm with very little effort on his part, as I’d predicted, and a lot of heaving and gasping on mine. I couldn’t help thinking he saw it as the consolation prize for the girl who didn’t appreciate the finer points of the Willis Scott III penis.

I rolled away from him and scrambled to my feet. “I need to pee.”

He blinked at me and it occurred to me that maybe I should have said something in praise of his technique but my bladder was about to burst.

After taking advantage of the privacy of some scrub oak nearby, I stepped back out into the open meadow. Sunlight drenched and warmed me, caressed me, and the long grass brushed against my boots with a soft shushing sound. A small breeze brushed my nipples erect. I stretched out my arms and circled, taking a few dance steps, feeling the old familiar stretch, my body drawing itself up and in, taut, strong.

Willis watched, arms folded on his knees. I’d forgotten what it was like to have an audience, to see admiration and wonder. I tipped my face back to the sun, eyes closed, orange and yellow and red sparking behind my eyelids.

“I’d like to make you look like that.” I heard the brush of grass against denim as Willis approached.

“Like what?”

“Ecstatic.” He bent to kiss my nipples. He slid his hands down my sides, over my hips, my butt, and then knelt to kiss my mound.

I didn’t need to be told to open my legs. He held me, strong gym-toned arms around my knees, and his tongue parted and flicked, small nibbles and sucks and the occasional graze of his teeth. I gripped his shoulders hard, my legs shaking, and came with the colors of the sun flaring behind my closed eyes.

“Nice?” he said, grinning up at me as I opened my eyes.

“Ecstatic,” I said, trying to get my breathing under control.

He stood and reached for my hand, drawing it to the front of his jeans. “I’ve never seen a woman so comfortable with being naked. With being watched.”

“I was a dance major.”

“Yeah. You’ve got great muscle tone.” He groaned a little as I squeezed his erection. He put his other hand on my hip, stroking, assessing.

“What would you like me to do?”

He blinked and looked at my mouth. “Uh …”

I dropped to my knees and undid his jeans to reach his cock, and darted my tongue out to catch the drop of liquid that welled from the slit. He groaned again, and put his hands to my head, and I breathed him in and took him as deep as I could. His fingers dug into my shoulders, moved to grip my head, to guide me. This time it was he whose legs shook and who cried out, his hips jerking as he spilled warm and salty into my mouth.

I released him and wiped a dribble of semen from my chin.

“Wow,” he said. “It’s great in the open air.”

“Like salami sandwiches,” I said as we strolled back to the blanket.

“What?”

“When you get up to a high altitude—higher than this, the top of a mountain, maybe—terrible food tastes great. Salami on white bread, for instance.”

“You’re a funny girl. Woman.” He picked up and handed me the bottle of mineral water that he’d abandoned by the picnic gear. It was a polite gesture, I suspected, that I might want to rinse out, but I took a large swallow and suppressed a belch.

“Was that better than a salami sandwich?” I asked.

“Never even thought about a sandwich of any kind,” he said. “Not once.”

A small breeze raised goose bumps on my arms. “Maybe I’d better put some clothes on.”

He looked at me with appreciation as he fastened his jeans. “Don’t want you catching cold, but it’s a pity. I like looking at you. I think you like it, too.”

I made a noncommittal noise as I dressed. There was a speculative quality to his voice and I wondered what he was going to suggest—a strip show at the next Realtors’ Association breakfast perhaps. Generally I found that once I’d admitted to my time as a dance student all sorts of odd things went through guys’ minds, the first being speculation as to whether I could put my feet behind my head (easily) or what I could do with a pole (nothing out of the ordinary).

Willis, looking thoughtful, packed up the picnic basket. He tossed me another orange, which I caught with a minimum of fumbling and stowed into my purse for later, and then I finished off the champagne. Pretty soon I’d need a nap, relaxed by sunshine and good sex and good food.

“So,” he said with a studied air of nonchalance as we walked back to the jeep, “I wondered if you’d like to do something on Saturday. Something special.”

“He said what?” Mr. D. sounded, well, shocked.

“Isn’t it more to the point what I said after?” I cued up my next CD. “I think you’re rather like me. You’ve had a lot of sex but it’s been fairly conventional. Vanilla. Nothing kinky. And one thing I’ve realized since meeting you is that there are all sorts of possibilities open to me, and maybe this is the time for a little exploration. I’m not saying I’ll never fall in love again, because that’s plain dumb. But I’m single and it’s a good time for me to experiment. Didn’t you tell me once this is one of the kinkiest things you’ve done? I’m sure you’ve done other stuff, too.”

“Well, when I was younger …”

“Yes? I think you owe me a story.”

“We don’t know that the king told Scheherazade any stories.”

“Afterward, I’m sure he did. He’d proved his point, and she would have demanded it. Three years of stories without even maternity leave? She would have wanted a story and a foot rub when she’d had a really tough day with the kids.”

“I’ll tell you a story another time, I promise.” He paused. “And what did you say to his proposition?”

“What do you think?”

“So tell me all about it,” Kimberly said. “Did you make this coffee? It’s god-awful.”

“He’s nicer than I thought.”

“Details. Details.” She tapped me on the hand with a plastic spoon.

“No foreskin. How are you managing with yours?”

“It’s not mine, and I’m woman enough for it. Come into my office and give me the dirt.” She led the way, swaying on cowboy boots that were far sexier than mine, scarlet leather with black embroidery.

“No, you give me the dirt.” I closed the office door and sat in my usual place. Her office was the only one in the station that had a decorative quality to its mess.

“Patrick’s real sweet,” she said. “Never thought I’d go for sweet, but he’s just that. And the foreskin is actually sort of useful. Adds bulk. Never a bad thing, not that he needs bulk, but it’s a nice little bonus. He’s funny, too.”

“I’ve always thought he’s depressed, but I don’t see much of him.”

“You can be funny and depressed. A lot of people are. Did Willis take you somewhere nice yesterday?”

“We had a picnic.”

“A picnic?” She stared at me. “That doesn’t sound like him. Will you see him again?”

I shrugged. “Possibly.”

She gave me a long searching look. “What’s up with you, Jo?”

I resisted the urge to squirm in my chair. “Nothing, other than taking your advice and trying to learn how to date.”

“You’re different these days. Secretive. I don’t mean in dick details, but you seem distracted. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She frowned. “Maybe it’s too soon. You were with Hugh for a long time.”

“No, it’s time.” I hastened to reassure her. “I know I was resistant to the idea at first but I think you were right.”

She leaned forward and patted my hand. “I’m saying this because I’m your friend, honey. I think you’re keeping something from me and I don’t want you to be hurt. Anytime you want to talk, I’ll listen. Okay?”

“Thanks. You’re a good friend.” I was touched by her concern but there was no way I would tell her about Mr. D. or what Willis and I would be doing this weekend.

“I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s double-date. Patrick’s taking me to the Shamrock Club Saturday night—it’s some sort of Irish place with traditional music and Guinness. Why don’t you and Willis join us there?”

“I’ll ask him, but we’re probably doing something in the evening and I’m not sure how long it will last.”

“You have fun.”

What an opportunity I was missing. I was badly in need of fashion advice. Kimberly, what should I wear to an orgy?




7


SO WHAT DO YOU WEAR TO AN ORGY? ALTHOUGH, Willis assured me, it wasn’t an orgy. Oh, no, no, no. Just sex among friends.

His friends. Another couple. Great folks. I’d love them. One way or another.

The cowboy boots had been quite a hit with Willis but they were awkward to get in and out of. Not that I’d necessarily take them off. I eventually settled on kitten heels and jeans—I looked good in them and I didn’t want to look as though I were dressing for an orgy even if I was. Jeans with cowboy boots, as Willis had so amply demonstrated, were not great for spontaneous sex, and I didn’t want to picture myself sitting on the floor, undignified, wrenching off my boots with my jeans around my knees, and holding up the activities. (“There in a second!”)

Maybe it would be the sort of house where you shucked your shoes in the hall, or, more likely, your panties.

I topped the jeans with a scoop-neck black T-shirt, and beneath everything was some of my good underwear. I was sure Mr. D. would approve. I toyed for a moment with tidying up my pubic hair, but why bother? I didn’t think, if all went according to Plan A, that I’d have the panties on for long, or, if I chose Plan B—“If you like, you can watch. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I had been assured—it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Sparkly earrings, yes. Perfume, definitely; I hoped our hosts would not have an allergic reaction.

Willis eyed my living room as I grabbed my black suede jacket and a small clutch purse. “Very nice. And a cash flow with the apartment. Great neighborhood. How much equity do you have? Have you considered—”

I stopped him with a kiss. “Stop being such a Realtor.”

His hands closed on my butt. “Yeah, it’s time to play. Let’s go.”

I guessed from his hyper attitude and the slight dusting of stubble on his jaw that he’d been at work that day. His tie was loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up despite the chill of the evening, and when we got to his car, a shiny BMW this time, I saw his suit jacket folded neatly on the backseat.

The house we drove to was in the suburbs, where too many people tried to live their dream of a house in the mountains. Although the lots had pine trees you could see the neighbors’ lights and hear their dogs bark.

Willis put the car in Park and turned to me. “Don’t be nervous, babe.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are. Body language. I’m an expert.” He leaned to kiss me and I slid down in my seat, wanting the moment to last, the sweetness of his mouth and scrape of his chin.

“Okay.” Ever businesslike, he slipped off his tie, folded it and laid it on top of his jacket on the backseat. “Let’s go. Relax. They’re great folks. They’ll make you feel right at home.”

The woman who answered the doorbell was wearing jeans and a T-shirt like I was, but her breasts were probably twice the size of mine. “Willis, honey, great to see you. We’ve really been looking forward to this, haven’t we, Jake? Jake?” she called over her shoulder and pouted. “He’s watching the game. I’m Cathy. May I take your jacket?”

To my relief she didn’t recognize my voice, but led us downstairs to a basement with a huge flat-screen TV and expensive-looking leather furniture.

“Hey, Willis. We’re in overtime,” the guy hunkered in front of the TV said without looking at us. Willis sat beside him on the couch.

Cathy made a cute face at me, the females in exile from sports, and provided the guys with beers from a bar at one end of the basement, and poured white wine for me.

“You have a lovely home,” I said, since we seemed to be deep in a suburban dream rather than any sort of naked sweaty activities.

Naturally she beamed and offered to show me the rest of the house and I admired the master bathroom with the his-and-hers sinks and listened to the story of how the marble countertop had arrived cracked and the hassle of getting a replacement. The bedroom featured a huge bed with a velvet cover. Cathy darted forward, giggling, and whisked something from the bedside table and into a drawer—I think it might have been a vibrator, but I wasn’t sure.

“Where do you keep your books?” I asked.

“Books? Oh, some over there—” she gestured at a cabinet that held knickknacks and a couple of books “—and some in the study.” She gave me an odd look.

Several rooms later—after viewing bathrooms, spare bedrooms, a study (housing a scant half-dozen more books but many sports trophies), family room and dining room—we ended up in the kitchen, a masterpiece of granite counters, stainless-steel appliances and a beautifully polished hardwood floor, a room I truly envied. She bent to retrieve a tray of crudités from the refrigerator, treating me to an impressive display of cleavage.

As she straightened up she caught me looking and grinned. “Aren’t they great? Jake’s birthday present for me, but I think they’re a present for him.”

What was she talking about? She giggled and placed the tray on the counter. “Boob job,” she explained, and hoisted up her T-shirt.

I stared at her breasts, round and solid with large pink nipples. I’d thought she was wearing a bra, but they were a masterpiece of technology, needing no support.

“Great,” I said. “Were they really small before?”

“About your size,” she said. “Willis is really into boobs. He’ll probably want you to get yours done.”

“We haven’t known each other that long,” I said, wanting to cross my arms protectively over my small and untouched breasts.

“It’s so worth it. Jake loves them and it makes me feel so sexy.” She pulled her top back over her breasts and opened the dishwasher door. At that point I realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. She unloaded a handful of brightly colored dildos and butt-plugs into a plastic bowl—I was relieved to see they were the only items in the dishwasher, and that I wouldn’t have to ditch my wineglass and switch to beer.

“Can I do anything?” I asked and immediately regretted my question. What if she asked me to get busy with a dildo?

Fortunately she took my offer at face value and set me to work arranging chips on a serving tray while she scooped various dips into bowls. Then we took the snacks down to the basement, and so far, other than the breast display and the dildos rattling around in the plastic bowl on Cathy’s tray, it was just any weekend afternoon in suburbia.

“Oh, that’s gross, guys,” Cathy said.

The game had ended and the guys sprawled on the couch, beer bottles in hand, while on the screen a blonde with breasts even bigger and more rigid than Cathy’s divided her time between sucking a huge torpedo of a penis and glancing flirtatiously at the camera. The owner of the penis was a large hairy guy with a slight potbelly.

“That is so unreal,” Cathy said, grabbing the remote from Jake and switching the set off. “Jake, this is Jo. I showed her my boobs.”

“Hi,” I said.

Jake, a bulkier version of Willis—clean-cut, middle-class—lurched to his feet and leered. “Hey, little lady. Does my wife have great tits, or what?”

I was so dumbfounded at being addressed as “little lady” I only managed to mutter something along the lines of “Yes, she sure does,” before gulping the remains of my wine.

Willis ambled over and put his arm over my shoulders, letting his fingers fall onto my breast. “Jo’s are pretty nice, too. Small, though.”

“Show us your tits, honey,” Jake said to me.

“What’s the magic word?” I snapped at him and shook Willis’s hand and arm away.

Jake stared at me.

“Oh, honey, you are such a big, bad boy,” Cathy cooed and placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Where are your manners?”

Jake grinned in a way that might have been irresistibly boyish and mischievous and mumbled something apologetic in my direction. He then stuck his hand down his wife’s top.

I marched over to the bar and poured myself another glass of wine. I was feeling very Puritan and uptight, instead of sexually liberated and daring, and I didn’t like it. And now I could see how this room was set up for what was about to happen: the bowl of condoms on the low table near the television, another on the bar along with the dildos, a pile of soft towels, tubes of lube, the sturdy sofa, a collection of ottomans for various positions.

Willis followed me over to the bar. “You okay, Jo?”

“Yeah. Fine.” I was not being the life and soul of the party, that was for sure. I glanced over at the sofa where Jake and Cathy sat, he now nuzzling between her breasts, her T-shirt up to her chin. She gave me an encouraging smile. I wondered if Jake was concerned that her breasts could snap back and injure his nose when he emerged.




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