Mind Caviar Fiction "A Different Ending" by LaShayne

LaShayne teaches literature and film by day, seeks adventure by night, and each day and night looks forward to the exquisite moments of reading erotica. LaShayne's work can be read online in the forthcoming issue of the sexy webzine Venus or Vixen

Correspond with LaShayne.

A Different Ending
by LaShayne

Your e-mail surprised me after all that time. During our relationship you were kind to me, waiting for my divorce while I delayed it for reasons that don't seem as good now. One day you said you couldn't wait anymore. Next thing you were in Carolyn's arms. I was angry, jealous, but what could I do? After you finished your Ph.D., I heard you got married just as I was finally moving on the divorce. In your message you said you'd survived several years of temporary, low-paying teaching contracts in places like Albuquerque, Atlanta, and Maine, but that your marriage hadn't.

Now you've found your niche in Pennsylvania, and you found me at my new home in upstate New York. What a happy coincidence that we're in such proximity! You answered my invitation to visit with your romantic nature: it should be a date, you wrote, a weekend in Montreal, separate rooms, perhaps a prelude to Paris.

You pass by the mahogany walls, wearing a lovely tie and the jacket I picked out with you. Was it eight years ago already? You kiss me on both cheeks. Your face is less youthful, more handsome for its light creases. You compliment my black dress and tell me that my smile conveys as much optimism as ever.

"Of course it does, now that I'm actually seeing you," I answer.

When I arrived at this elegant old hotel today I was enchanted at your choice, spent hours getting ready, wanting to live up to it, to this moment when we meet in the bar. You order in French, ever impressing me: a dry martini for you, a Riesling for me. You used to tease me for preferring sweet wine, you do it again. I laugh at your sweetness.

You offer me your arm on the way out. You mention a restaurant you know, nearby in the Rue Saint-Denis. I venture, "Can't I show you my room first?" You turn to me, eyes wide, the boyish smile I'm happy to remember so well. You guide me to the elevator.

As soon as the doors close we look at each other, a kiss starts slowly, as comfortable as moonbeams, then accelerates like lightning. The doors open suddenly. It's not our stop, and people get in. Your glasses fall to the floor, you casually pick them up. The people are looking anywhere but at us. We don't dare look at each other until we step out. In the hallway we nearly fall over laughing. Down the hall, your room's first. You put a tape into the boombox you've brought. I can't wait to hear what you've mixed.

Face to face, arms touching, around us mahogany trim and light green, delicately patterned wallpaper. I pull your tie, savor the fine texture of silk; then one of your buttons at a time. You once had the body of a young god. Now, past thirty-five, you're more solid, well defined. I kiss your muscles, your nipples, rub my nose in your fine hair, inhale clean masculinity. I raise my arms as you reach for my dress. You whisper, "Elegance," as you run your fingers over my black lace bra and panties. I don't tell you that I bought them Wednesday.

You stare at me from ankle to neck, kiss me again. I undo your belt, your pants fall. You're wearing black too! I pull down your briefs to see you pointing at the ceiling, open my mouth wide to take you in, brush my lips against the satiny skin. You hold still, become stiffer than I can imagine.You gasp, then gently lift me, undo the front clip of my bra, let it fall. You exclaim, "What pretty pink titties!" I feel your mouth on each of them, on my stomach, sending little sparks down through me.

You walk me to the bed, place my panties on the floor. My heart's leaping and I'm sweating. Your soft lips and tongue are at my crotch. Oh, it's what I've remembered, fantasized, but the reality and maybe your matured skills, are the freshest experience. Years ago I never thought you could get better, but as always you astonish me. You're like a man I've just met and simply must pounce on, with the advantage that you know, intimately, everything I want. You inject me with joy; the way you lick and suck my clit, kiss my pussy all over, leaves me out of breath in moments. A golden sphere grows in me, I'm moaning, you know where you're taking me; the sphere bursts and stardust rains everywhere.

I hear the music, Lucinda Williams singing about her Louisiana Man. I'll take Pennsylvania Man. You lie down next to me, turn me over, kiss your way down my spine to the cheeks of my ass, give your generous attention to each side, then make your way between. I hear you say, "I've wet the bloom, now let me open the bud." Your tongue slides into my anus, in and out, deeper and deeper, starts to fill me, as your hand reaches under to find my clit. I coo, and you respond with more agility in your movements. You could get me off in seconds with just your fingers; your added tenderness in back does it even faster. This time I scream.

Now we hear Johnny Cash singing "Ring of Fire." You praise me for having such a fiery ring. At my side, you tell me I'm the most orgasmic woman you've been with.

"Depends on the company," I answer.

You embrace me and roll, placing me on top of you: the moment I've been waiting for. I lift my hips, caress your amazing cock with my hand, put it at the mouth of my pussy. I push down on all your length, all the veins, the tendons. I start to pound, you pound back, there's even a crack when our pubic bones collide. My clit loves your hand and your hand loves it
back. You kiss me on the mouth, on my tits. Already I feel the explosion approaching; I want to hold it back, let it build, have a big one once I've brought you there. You're wriggling with so much energy, in front of my face your eyes go wide, your mouth drops open. I press my breasts against you; you let out a wonderful sigh, the one I've heard so often in my dreams. Your cock palpitates inside me; I feel your come squirting into my cunt, and it breaks through my dam. We scream together, your gushing knows no end, nor do my convulsions. I land on you, you hold me, kiss me. Quietly, I ask you when you started liking Frank Sinatra. You say just a few months ago. I tell you "I Believe" is one of my favorite songs.

You reach for a book; I see it's in French. You read to me, one stanza of a love sonnet, pronouncing each word carefully:

     Je vis, je meurs: je me brule et me noye.
     J'ay chaut estreme en endurant froidure:
     La vie m'est et trop molle et trop dure.
     J'ay grans ennuis entremeslez de joye.

Louise Labé, you say, from the mid-sixteenth century. Then you movingly recite your own translation:

     I live and I am dying: drowning, burning;
     I feel too hot, my limbs begin to freeze;
     My life grows soft, and much too harsh is turning;
     I bask in cheer; the pain leaves me no ease.

I tell you that those words so describe my feelings soon after I heard from you again, when it sank in that I might see you soon. I couldn't stand it, so long ago, when you told me you had to end it. But I couldn't blame you. I wasn't giving you what you deserved. I kiss your lovely mouth, as lovingly as it asks for.

You say, "You're giving me more than I deserve now."

"Let me give you more!"

Your cock's quickly rising again; at thirty you had a teenager's resilience, and it hasn't faded. I'm on it fast, go down until I feel the head in my throat. And I feel you maneuvering your face to my crotch-- you're spoiling me, but I'm not going to be the one to stop you. Your hardness and heat break records, I suck and suck, direct my concentration even as you distract me with your tongue, fingers up my cunt, a few more in my ass, so very gentle, so very exhilarating. Even more of you is going into me, it seems, than when you fucked me. I keep it up as long as I can. When the wave comes over me I have to pull my head back or I might bite you. You keep going until I've completely finished, your tongue like a feather, your fingers moving like pistons in two holes.

I'm a rag doll; you flip me onto my stomach, straddle my thighs from behind. I just catch the music: a stunning female voice in French. You tell me it's Josephine Baker, The Dark Star of Paris, in the twenties. I feel your stiffness tickling between the cheeks of my ass, moving down into the cleft. Your rod touches my anus, which you've slicked and loosened up so nicely. You nudge your way in; and, oh, I feel your size filling me up. You push your cock deep into me. You're so turned on, out of breath, your hips sliding in my sweat with each impact. And your masterful hand is at my pussy. The intensity of all the sensations drives home how real they are, that the fantasies I've had of you over the years are coming true at this very moment; as hard as I've tried to picture us together it never seemed this good. I catch Josephine Baker singing something about "La Seine." As your cock shoots into my asshole, the Eiffel Tower pops into my head. The association makes me laugh to myself, even as I approach rapture. I imagine us in Paris together, an old dream we're moving toward, by way of Montreal.

You're going to come soon. You kiss my neck and whisper, "You're pouring pussy juice all over my hand!" One finger pushes my clit like a button, and it sends the wave rushing over me. I feel your excited reaction to me, feel you thrust so forcefully, sense your come filling up my rectum. Our screaming lasts and lasts.

In my arms, you ask if I'm hungry yet. I answer, "I'm famished!" While you're on the phone to room service I walk, half-stumbling, to the bathroom. Sitting down, I drip you from both orifices, another thrill with little spasms. As I pee I hear Ella sing to Louis, "Porgy, I is your woman now..." What a great collection of songs, of course only on your tape.

I'm your woman, now, this weekend, here, in this wonderful hotel in Montreal.

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