 E. J. Noel lives and writes in Victoria, BC Canada, right by the edge of the Pacific Ocean. When she's not happily writing smut, she is working undercover as a mild-mannered office employee. This is her first published piece of erotic fiction, but she has lots more at her personal Web site. Mind Caviar nurtures new writers and is proud to present Ms. Noel's erotic fiction debut. E-mail E. J. Noel. Visit E. J. Noel online.
July Afternoon A drink after work. Robert, a client, pleased, invited a few of us, and sat there, dark and somehow masterful, even then. He took us to a fashionable place, and he bought the drinks. "To thank you," he said, "For all your hard work." He'd smiled. "I know I'm a difficult client." We laughed, but it was true. But at least he knew it - and admitted it. I liked him for that. Robert and his harem, for we were mostly women that first night, became colleagues falling into clique-talk. That left him and me sitting beside each other, quieter than the rest. As boss, I was being careful, giving my assistant a little look now and then, one that said: be careful, too. He's a client. I, too, had to be a little guarded, because the drinks were flowing; our host was generous. And as women often do, we were soon talking about our men. Who had them, who didn't. Girl-gripes. Was he listening, and picking and choosing, even then? Perhaps. "And you?" he asked me, a smile in his eyes that seemed to say I know all your secrets. Though he didn't, of course, I was just being imaginative. And just a little under the influence by then, though still careful of my tongue. "She's single!" Sheryl said, grinning. "How about you?" Bold. Cheeky, undone by the glasses we'd raised, knowing it was Friday night, after all, Friday night in the city, and anything could happen. My warning looks would be ignored now, I knew it. "I am, too," Robert replied, calm as ever, looking around his table with a smile. "Maybe I should ask her out?" "Yes, you should!" Julia exclaimed. Julia, settled with two little boys at home, and a husband who was - I couldn't remember what he was. It seemed very important just then, to remember. I was not a good boss if I couldn't even remember the most basic facts about my employees. It was Julia who had spoken up, always excited by romance, or its possibility. But the conversation turned back to relationships, then to the demands my women made on their men. Whose husband or boyfriend cooked, cleaned, helped with the kids. A best-guy contest, with light-hearted accounting and groans of pretended frustration with spouses they adored. And Robert, even then, smiled at their pretences of shrewishness, announcing that he'd been a complete door-mat for his wife - his former wife - had provoked giggles at the confession. He smiled, sipping his drink, and said that it wouldn't happen again. And I, tongue loosened at last, was telling Julia my own woes about men. I was tired of always being in charge, making decisions, worrying. That it was nice to have a man who understood what it was like to be a working woman, who did his share, but... That was precisely why I was single: I was tired of being the only grown-up in the relationship. What I'd seen as easy-going at first, turned out to be passive - and lazy - with experience. I wanted a man's man. I didn't know Robert was listening. "So, I'm dominant, and you're a bit of a submissive," he said later, leaning closer to me. The noise level of our table had grown with each round of drinks. I noticed he smelled very nice. Something sophisticated, but subtle. "That could be interesting, don't you think?" "Do you think so?" I asked, giddy with flirtation. "It could be..." he smiled again. "Unless you're afraid to give it a try. Or even go out on a date with me." Ah, I thought, a challenge. Looking around at the lounge, full of people now, too much for my eyes. Pretty women, laughter, the shine on the glasses and bottles, the city beyond. A submissive? Me? I didn't think so. I was the boss, in control, burdened and pleased by responsibility. "Are you always so...?" I began, and then didn't know what to say. He is a client, I reminded myself. Careful, now. "What?" Robert seemed more amused than offended. "Bold," I replied, reaching for my purse. Time to go. To gather up my girls, and make sure they all got home safe and sound. "Yes," he said, "I am." Thank goodness, they took my cue, looked at watches, exclaimed at the time. The most sober, I arranged rides home. In charge again, I thought, tucking my girls into taxis and arranging for Beth to take the other two, as she'd hardly had anything to drink. I was going home alone. But not before I thanked Robert for his generosity and assured him we'd enjoyed working with him, and would be happy to do so in the future. I finished my polite recitation standing there by my car - I was dropping Julia off - but he seemed in no hurry to say goodnight. "I agree," he said, calm. "We're off to a... Most satisfactory relationship." "Thank you, again," I said. "Goodnight." Robert nodded, but didn't move away. "Drinks again? And dinner. You and I." And I said yes. And that was how it began. * * * In spring, when the world seemed new. Under Robert's hands-- and well-practiced hands they were-- I bloomed along with April. I learned to submit, and I learned to trust, even while still uncertain of where it would take me. Now it is summertime, and my bargain has been made. We are staying at a vacation house, a simple cabin by the ocean. A friend of Robert's owns it, and it is ours for a long weekend. It's strange to be out of the city with Robert, to see him in another context. But the place he's taken me is beautiful, peaceful and happy. Robert loves the wild, loves the silence and the storms. He tells me that in winter the waves roll in from the Pacific in great crashing explosions against the black and rocky shores. The windows get wet with spray and wind. I wonder with whom he has been here in winter, what woman lay with him by the fire while tempests raged. I do not ask. What future there is, for him and me, does not matter. Only today. It is not stormy now; it is a beautiful July afternoon. We've been sitting on the deck, reading and drinking. Beer for him, gin and tonics for me, simply basking in the freedom of Saturday, soaking up sun and words. The ocean glitters peaceful and blue, and the only sound is birdsong and a plane droning far overhead. Now and again, a boat goes by, but we are set back from the water, and no one approaches the small private dock. I'm stunned with heat and alcohol, and very happy. Robert rises and goes inside, and in a minute I follow, thinking of nothing in particular, only that I have to use the bathroom. That I want more ice. That it is cool and shaded inside, surprisingly dark when one comes in from the prevailing sunshine. I'm very hot. I'd love to go down and swim, but he says no. Not with alcohol in my veins, and not with him drinking as well. It isn't safe. Sober, we swim. Not sober, we lie in the sun, and he trickles an ice cube down my belly, making me gasp, watching it melt. Solid things dissolve, unbecome, with the right heat. After two gins, he persuades me, and my bathing suit top is removed. I feel gloriously wicked, sitting out in the sun, facing the ocean and the possibility of being exposed to any boater with a good pair of binoculars. The sun touches my breasts like a caress. "This skin is delicate," he says, and rubs sun block over my breasts. The lotion is cool and slippery. "Wouldn't want a burn, love," he teases. I wriggle like a cat beneath his touch, wonder when - and how - he will fuck me. Outside? He likes it outside, I know that much. But sometimes I wonder if I know anything at all. He is mystery. Dark mystery, and surprising power. And I have become enthralled. I'm panting and limp and wet between the legs, slightly drunk, when I go inside. He hasn't fucked me yet. And so I long for it. I am not paying attention, my eyes not yet adjusted to the dim inside, when I push the door open again, and step into the small house. I walk right into him, impolite and clumsy, adolescent again. I freeze, uncertain. For Robert is standing there, now nude, his heavy cock half-stirring. Obviously, I have just interrupted him about to do something. To me? Perhaps he has plans for us. "Sorry," I say immediately, backing out onto the deck again. The wood is hot, burning the soles of my feet. I have forgotten my place. "I should have been more careful." "Yes, you should have," Robert says calmly. "I am sorry," I repeat, looking anywhere but at him, standing there, nude, but not diminished in his nakedness. Now I know I will be chastised, for up here, in this new place, I forgot our roles. I feel the first dart of excitement - what will my punishment be? Deciding not to compound my error by lingering when he obviously was planning something for us, I step back further into the sunshine. The heat sinks onto my bare back. "Stay there," Robert says, and his voice tells me that it is an order. "You came in to...?" "Get another drink. Use the bathroom." "Alright." He steps back, motions me to enter his friend's house. I feel excitement deepen to apprehension - and wonder what he has in mind. "Go," Robert orders me. "Ladies first," he adds with a smile I read as sardonic. I do, carefully shutting the door behind me. It's very quiet. When I am done, I wash my hands like a good girl, looking at the woman in the mirror. No makeup, dark hair damp at the forehead from the sun, the flush of summer and gin on my cheeks. Her eyes meet mine. Is that me? Who is this woman, this woman that will do anything for Robert? Has it been me all along, or did he create me? I return to him, still standing in the hall. I return with my questions unanswered. He has a bottle of beer casually in one hand, as if it were perfectly normal to drink beer in the nude. Maybe for men it is. "Outside," he says, and I go back into the sun, blinking against the bright, indolent day. Robert follows a moment or two later, his beer in hand, surveying the Pacific from the railing of the deck. Like a ship, this house perches over the sea, as if we could sail away. It must be so beautiful in a storm-- wild and exciting, wind and water raging. But the Pacific is pacific today. After a moment, he turns from the endless blue and looks at me. "Strip," he says, as if I'm fully clothed, as if I'm not already wearing next to nothing. As if it's not two o'clock in the afternoon, and we are not outside. I cannot do such a thing, not in front of him. Well, that's not, strictly speaking, true. In front of him is a new pleasure, daring the inherent risk of revealing oneself, literally. His appreciation usually soothes me, and stops my fingers from trembling as I unfasten buttons and slide fabric down. But it is daylight. We are outside. "Now," he says, advancing the order, and I do not argue. I am aware that I am bare-breasted, and slightly sunburnt even with the lotion on. It smells like summer, like every summer I have known. The touch of air on my breasts is intoxicating, sensitive as they are now, sun-kissed. Robert's eyes linger on my hardening nipples. Hazy with sun and booze, I sit down on my towel, and pull my bikini bottom down my thighs, then over my ankles. I sit primly, legs together. Robert's prick has risen, no doubt becoming aware of sex or me, divested of all clothing. Yet he seems entirely unselfconscious about being out here without his trunks. His cock is like a thing alive. Standing. It has become something new. Wanting me. I am chosen, blessed. Anointed when he comes. The way I'm sitting, he's looming over me. I've never stripped so brazenly in front of anyone before. In front of the whole blue ocean. "Spread your legs," he says. "I want to see you." "Sorry," I say again, automatically, for apology has become my nature. Time is moving slow, thick. I am an actress, and I am passive in the audience. I am neither. When I don't move fast enough, Robert crouches down and opens my legs for me. After, his eyes on my skin are as real as his touch. He lifts me and sets me back further on the towel as if I were a little girl, and spreads my legs wider, as if I were a whore. "Better. Lean back." I do, letting the sun and his eyes sink into my skin. I feel a low throbbing, desire intensifying. For a long moment, he simply looks at me, and I feel the heat increase. "Touch yourself," he says, and I do. Leaning back as he requested, I know I am shamelessly on display, and hope that the deck railing disguises what he is making me do. He wants it this way. Sun, gin and tonic, his authority - all conspire. I have never felt so brazen in my life. Robert is staring at me, staring at my body. I touch my breasts, fingertips lingering over my nipples. That touch sets the rest of me ablaze. He watches me, and his cock steadily hardens, rising higher upward. And my longing deepens, for it all makes me more excited: doing this, being on display for him, and watching him get a stony hard-on. He is not unmoved. He is human. Of course he is. I am drunk, I tell myself, just blitzed from the booze and the sun. I'm drunk and sunburnt and horny. And so far from home. He shifts, and blocks out the sun. As I lie there, captive to his will, I find that it is intensely pleasurable to touch myself. My belly. My inner thighs. A whisper touch on the hair of my sex, brushing lightly. I feel everything. I feel - almost - as if I were on the edge of tottering over the edge of the world. Desire is all. It always was. Is. Robert watches. I touch myself the way I long for him to do. All I know is the heat of the sun, and the heat deep in my body, stoked anew by Robert watching me do this intimate thing. And longing for the thick, stiff cock he is now slowly stroking. I want that cock. We don't speak. I touch myself for him until I can no longer stand it. I don't close my legs, and I don't get up. That is not my role. I put my head back and moan, helpless. I want him. I need him. I want so many things I mustn't ask for. I wait, and then open my eyes, impatient. Robert is closer, and fully erect. He has moved between my open legs and is standing over me, his thick penis in hand. He wants, too. He steps back, and I sit up. Without waiting to be told, I rise to kneel, scrambling in my eagerness. Blood pounds in my ears. He touches my lips with the head of his penis. I open my mouth for his skin. Robert doesn't have to tell me what to do. He slides in, fully hard. Sucking on his cock, I feel complete - almost. Lewdly splayed open for his amusement, I sink low and suck slowly, amazed at how easy it is to take him in deep at this angle. I don't even mind when he speaks softly, telling me what to do, what he likes. I know what he likes. How could I not, tutored so? Yet Robert talks to me as I suck him, his voice quiet, standing in the blazing day, the heat of July bearing down on all outdoors. But the breeze has returned, and I can smell pine as I suck his prick. I'm a girl at summer camp, learning new tricks with a rope. The shape of his penis caresses my tongue, a melody made flesh. I slide down his shaft, my mouth grateful. Aroused by sun, daring, and gin, and now fellatio, I know the wetness between my legs is a demand he cannot ignore. No one could be that cruel. Robert's fingers are gentle in my hair as I suck on his hard penis. He carefully slides into and out of my mouth, as if he were giving me a gift. He is. And he is kind, my lord. I suck harder. And then he is coming. He cries out, knowing no one will hear, even if a boat glides by below. "Yes - suck it, pet. Yes..." All those words, meaning nothing, when we are lost in everything. His words turn to a harsh groan. And I do what he asks, not wanting to fail now. His heavy cock twitches, then pulses, and I taste his semen. Hot and thick, like nothing else. I swallow as his penis jerks in my mouth akin to a thing alive. And then I want to weep because it is over. The man's orgasm is so often the finale, last act, and culmination. The throbbing between my legs is intolerable. I can't put my fingers down there; I dare not until allowed. So I swallow his gift obediently, hoping that it will please him enough to forgive my transgression. It wipes the taste of gin clean away. Robert says nothing, only sighs, and stands there. After a moment, I begin to rise. "No," he says. He stays, trapping me. I sink down, close my thighs. My skin is hot. He brushes his palm lightly across my bare breasts. I moan again, desire never forgotten. He crouches lower, his hands on the outside wall by my shoulders, and touches the head of his cock against one hard nipple. The shakes on the wall must burn his palms, but he doesn't flinch. His penis is soft and done. I'm so hot. He's hot. Sweat trickles down my hairline, making me itchy. "Stand up," he says, and I do, feeling dizzy. He and I look at each other; he doesn't speak. The clarity of the moment halts my breath. His eyes are darker, gone deeper colours of the woods, green and brown. A forest in his eyes. I feel his fingertip tracing my breasts. I gasp. He strokes my belly, then his fingers dance over my pussy. "Please," is all I can manage. His finger is lightly, lightly tracing my labia. Into my dampness. I make a mournful sound. I feel him hardening again, imagine his penis rising to touch my belly. He spreads his legs, and touches my pussy with his cock. Robert moves now as if he were a ballet dancer, barely raising and lowering himself. His control briefly amazes me. It might look ludicrous, but it feels wonderful. I cannot believe how strong he is, to be able to do that. His muscles must be made of iron. He tilts his hips forward and back, and rubs against my pussy, and I feel his penis stiffen more. He nudges down past the damp curls, to the slick, wet opening of my sex, and I wonder when I will feel his skin enter mine. I want to be possessed. I sigh, imagining it. Anticipating it. I have never longed for anything like I have for him. I open my legs wider for him, half-wondering if we can manage it standing up like this. I don't think so. He prods me with his prick, and I wriggle against it, gone wanton. I touch my breasts again, pull lightly at my nipples. I will do anything to finish this. Anything. "Ok," he says abruptly, and I wonder if he can read my mind. It wouldn't surprise me. His cock still teases me, blunt and warm. Even though I'm hot, I'm burning hotter yet between my legs. "Please," I say, closing my eyes, the sun burning through my lids, flimsy as gauze, turning everything red. My skin is insubstantial, and yet my skin is sun-touched and sensitive to Robert's lightest touch. I will beg for it now. For I am a tunnel of yearning, and still he will not give me what I want. And I want it so, even here against the wall, scorched and exposed. I want his cock, but he's just come. He won't fuck me, I know it. "Please," I say, and I don't mind being supplicant. He pulls away and grins as I slump, thighs still spread. His fingertips slide along my vulva, tease me open, find me oyster-slick and hot. "Ok," he says again, and finds the pearl in the oyster. Circles the treasure, and I rock against his finger. "Out here?" I ask, as if I haven't just serviced him right where we stand. Robert shrugs. "Your choice," he replies, "But my rules, love. Always - my rules." He is looking at me as the sun burns overhead and the water laps at the rough rocks below. Here? Here, then. He drops to the towel at our feet and now it is Robert who kneels, murmuring: "I'm going to taste you..." It is the second sweetest promise. He makes good his word. I quiver at the touch of the tip of his tongue, reach for his shoulders. I want to drag his mouth to my sex, to force him to make me orgasm. He only laughs, kneeling, and uses the tip of his tongue to demand my surrender. I sit down on the deck, and the wood is hot where the towel ends. He lifts my legs up over his shoulders, and I am his. Kissing my belly, making me wait even more, then trailing down to my mound with his tongue. If a boat were to go by now, what a sight they'd have. And I wouldn't care, not one bit, because Robert is licking me at last. Licking my soft, swollen skin, gently teasing his way between my labia, finding every secret. I am so wet for him. My clit is hard, a little nugget, and he traps it and gently, softly, licks all around it. In seconds I am moaning and writhing on the wood deck, the water lapping the rocks as Robert laps at me. I beg him to continue. It is pure pleasure under the blue sky. I want to come so badly - I've been waiting all afternoon - and soon I am beyond desire and on the verge. His tongue is hot and wicked and he licks all over my pussy, even sliding down the cleft to probe lower, fearless. He is so good at this, he is worth everything. I push my wet and open pussy against his mouth and feel it gather. My fingers in his hair as I break open into bliss. I cry out, and hope I sound like just another screeching gull. All afternoon - bastard. All this joy - my king. Robert rises, and takes my hand, making me a lady once more. He kisses my mouth and I taste the ocean - myself - on his lips. "Shall we play these games again sometime, pet?" I don't answer. He only smiles. Always his sure smile. I won't say yes. This is the beauty of it: the choice is not mine. "If you want," I tell his back when he turns away, and leave it in his hands. I won't say no, either. Copyright
© 2001-2002 E. J. Noel. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.
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