Breaking Ground

“You know, my father isn't going to be happy that we skipped out on Allegro,” Edward says holding onto the warm paper bag and soft drinks.

I shrug.

“That is your father's choice of restaurant. It is very nice, but 'ardly fitting. Nor do I think you were really keen on it.”

“Was it that obvious,” he asks, frowning at me. Good, he is at least looking my way now.

I shake my head. “Not really, but it was a hunch.”

He turns his eyes back out the side window. I can almost his brow knitting as the closed shoppes and boutiques of the North Shore's picturesque urban landscape slip passed the car.

I take the opportunity to shift slightly in my seat, enough to cause the hem of my skirt to rise slightly – just an inch or two, not enough to display the darker band of my stocking tops, but give the boy a little more of a view of my legs. It does not escape his notice when he turns his eyes back to me.

I can almost feel his eyes stroking the sheer, dark stockings that encase my legs.

“Uhhh… where are we going?” he finally asks.

I glance over at him, his eyes dart up to mine. He flusters, like a schoolboy suddenly caught pulling all the fire alarms.

“A quiet place I know,” I say, and cut a corner that takes us away from the water and up towards the coastal mountains that frame in this area of the city. He is perplexed, but says nothing, settling into his seat. After another short glance at my legs, he watches out the window as I merge us into the late evening traffic.

Ten minutes later we leave the heavy city traffic behind and turn onto the wide, switch back road up one of the mountain slopes. Free from the constraints of city traffic, I kick the car up a notch, and accelerate, zipping up the dark road with a gleeful laugh. I am not a speed freak of any sort, but sometimes it is just fun to let the car perform. Keeping up the speed, we race up the switchbacks to a picnic and viewing area perched on the edge of the mountain. The city is splayed out below us, its lights twinkling and shimmering in the night air.

Only one other car is here, a young couple making use of the scenery for some night-time romance. Not wanting to infringe on their business, I park on the other side of the narrow lot.

“Here?” Edward asks. I nod and get out. He looks a little dubious, but follows me. It is a cool night, but not cold. The wind is mild and carries the scent of the salt air. We make our way to a picnic table with a good view of the city below and sit opposite each other. He takes the honour of tearing open the bag to lay out our fare.

I nibble on my share. Fast food is not something that agrees with me in any quantity, but that doesn't stop the boy. I smile at him, he is actually very cute.

The other car, apparently bashful to continue their rendez-vous with strangers nearby, starts up and departs, leaving us alone.

“I'm surprised you turned down Allegro for McDonald's,” he says after finishing off a sizable mouthful of his burger.

“It is not about me.”

“Pardon?”

“I told you. That was your father's choice for us. You did not agree with it, so we did something more to your liking.”

“Oh, yes… well, I'm a student. Exam times and homework can get very busy, you have to eat what you have time for.”

I nod to him, smiling, “of course. And what are your studies?”

“It is not especially interesting,” he says.

“Ah, well 'arvard itself always is,” I reply.

He blushes a little, bashfully flattered that I know where he takes his studies. This allows us to move into a more comfortable mood. We talk for a bit, not really about anything of import, just directed small talk so that I can feel him out a bit – his studies, his time at Harvard, and a little about his friends, of which he does not have many.

He relaxes more with the conversation, and becomes actually able to look me in the eyes for an extended time.

So, it is time to make him uncomfortable again.

I have been sitting upright, my back straight and neutral. Clasping my fingers together, I lean forward, resting my elbows on the picnic table and my chin on my hands. I only gain about two inches, but the gesture becomes suddenly much more intimate.

He looks at me curiously, once again nervous and unsure.

Perfect.

Then he spots the ring on my finger.

“You're married?”

I glance at it, then nod.

“Does… does he know you go on fast food dates with other guys?”

I smile slightly, “I do not recall saying that they were a man.”

“Oh.” He looks down at his hands. I smile as that statement will get his mind churning out various scenarios. I take the time to study him further.

“That is bothering you?” I then say after several moments of silence.

He glances up at me, “that you're married?”

“Mmmm… that you 'ave been wanting to put yourself inside a married woman.”

He sputters.

“Come now, monsieur,” I say, tilting my voice into a more challenging tone, “you 'ave been staring at my legs since we got in car. You would pretend now that you 'ave not thought what it would be like to be between them?”

“I… what? I thought this was not about… sex.”

I give him a slight smile, “it is not, it is about 'onesty. Admitting to yourself what you feel.”

“Does it matter?” he asks.

I nod.

Pushing what remains of my food away, I stand up and circle the table. He shifts to the side, not really certain what I am doing but politely tries to make room. I do not sit beside him, but step up to perch myself on the table – a difficult task to do with dignity in heels and a tight skirt. But the height over him gives me a mental advantage.

“Why do you not touch me? I am right 'ere.”

“Uh… you're married?”

I laugh. He furrows his brow.

“Monsieur, my spouse knew what my career was before we married, and they are accepting of it now.”

“Still…”

“There is no still, monsieur,” I say, leaning in, “do you not think yourself good enough? Do you think you are just some student, and 'ow can you 'ave a hope with a woman like me because I am so gorgeous, sophisticated, and very, very sexy? 'ow could you even dream of satisfying a goddess of sexual energy such as myself?”

He is silent, looking suddenly like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

I lean further to whisper in his ear, “you are supposed to say “yes,” else I will be very cross with you.”

His moistens his lips with his tongue, and asks in a shaking tone, “are… are you insane?”

I arrive at home, having returned the boy to his father's house up in the Properties with the promise of a meeting the following day at the park.

My smartphone says 11:58 as I step off the elevator. Right on time.

I let myself into the dark apartment. Most of the lights have been turned off or down, allowing the illumination of the night-time cityscape to shine through the floor to ceiling windows and into the open design of the neomodernist upper levels apartment. I discard my suit jacket on the back of the couch, leaving me with the silk blouse, and head to the glass doors that lead out onto the gardened patio.

The night's fare has been laid out on the patio table, still steaming in the cool air. It looks like dim sum. The hostess stands at the railing, looking out over the city, and the water in the distance. I take a moment to appreciate her form, slim and lithe, with a trim waist. She is attired in a short white cocktail dress. Smooth ivory stockings cling to her long legs – legs made more shapely by her high white pumps. She looks young and virginal, and the decor is topped off with a neat and trim cap of shock pink hair. A slim wine glass hangs in her hand.

“You're late,” she says, sensing me behind her.

I smile. She knows well enough that I am not, but it is a need for her. It is her means of establishing some control over me, making her feel stronger. I told the boy that she accepts my line of work – but acceptance is not akin to liking.

“I am sorry, L,” I say to her.

“Dinner is probably cold now,” she berates me, turning around to lean back on the railing, “and I spent two hours in the kitchen putting it all together for our special night.”

I cannot help but smile again – it is from the Cantonese restaurant on the second floor.

She turns her face away and frowns, “screw you. Fine. I hate that stupid stove.”

I step up to her. Even with my own heels, she has a slight height advantage over me. My arms slide around her trim waist, and my hands lock behind her, pulling her to me.

“Break any hearts tonight?” she says with a slight pout.

“No, he was very polite and dignified about everything.”

Her eyes slide back to mine, “do I want to know?”

I nuzzle against her cheek, “we kissed, that was all. I was to bring him out of his shell, to give him confidence. Not break him.”

She turns back to me, “that was it?”

I nod, “that was it.”

“I missed you,” she whispers.

I smile and lean into her, our breasts pressing together as our lips lightly touch and caress each other. She tastes like cherries.

I intended only a gentle kiss, but her hands lift to cup my head, holding me in place as her lips move against mine with sudden earnest intensity. I groan as her desire infects me, and forces me to pull her hips to mine, compressing our bodies together. Against my thigh, I can feel her special secret hidden beneath the fabric of her cocktail dress.

“L,” I say between breaths, “what of dinner?”

“Forget it,” she replies, locking her cherry lips with mine again. Our mouths open, our tongues teasing and exploring, twirling and flicking as our passion ignites. I keep it calm and cool all day – professionalism is something I always force myself to portray, even if a client desires something more than the standard personal assistant duties. I do not let the emotions run free, but they do build  up.

At first I was not sure that marriage was the best for me, my life is already unusual as it is. But it has since become a column of support and something I apparently needed – to have one person, a different sort of person in her own right, that I can pour all my pent up sexual and emotional frustrations into, and who delights in the intensity I give back to her as a result.

She has saved my sanity, though my clothing does not fare as well.

I am pushed back to the table, and the dishes clatter when I bump into it. I lift my bottom to prop myself on the edge. She is so aggressive, I can tell something is gnawing at her, but I do not question it now – now is not the time for talking. I release control of myself, kissing her back with unbridled ferocity, my lust and love forcing dirty words from my smeared, painted lips into her ears

Her hands leave my head. My skirt is pushed up, and the cool night air caresses the smooth skin of my thighs above the stocking tops. I can feel her fingers trace a path up my thighs, tickling me through the nylons, then tugging on the garter belt straps playfully. Without ceremony, my panties are hooked and pulled off my legs.

I cannot help but moan as I feel myself exposed to the cool air. My thighs part for her, my legs hooking around behind hers and pulling her to me. Her bulge, now fully engorged, presses against me through her dress. With my hands shaking and eager, I yank up her cocktail dress as she did to my business skirt and free her from the confines of her pantyhose.

“Don't need a warm up?” she asks with a grin.

I answer her only by gripping her buttock with one hand, and guiding her to my entrance with the other. She only needs to push twice, then she is inside me. I stifled my cries into her neck as I feel every inch of her spreading me, sliding and penetrating. She wraps me in her arms, pulling me to her, fully embedding herself. My thighs quiver, the muscles tightening around her, holding her as she holds me.

Once we have our breaths again, she draws herself back out, slowly… then pushes, once more slipping back inside with ease. Her hips roll rhythmically as she thrusts, moving herself inside me. Our lips lock, feverous and heated, my own moans of pleasure vibrating and reverberating with her own.

Bound as we are in each other's limbs, she cannot move much, but it is enough. I feel her touch and stimulate every part of my inner core, as my own vaginal contractions stimulate her.

It is exquisite.

It is the only Heaven I would ever need.

The raw thrust and sheer animalistic nature of the act… the passion and pleasure of pure unadulterated lust. My entire world, for this brief moment of time, is condensed down into that singular sensation of a lover, my lover, releasing her desire for me – into me.

It seems to go on without end, pushing me to greater heights. My own hips roll back against her, urging, wanton.

And yet the moment can remain only for so long. After the raw intensity of our passion, our kiss breaks, her arms tensing around me as she rests her chin on my shoulder, her thrusts become more demanding, her breathing more insistent and wanting. I pull her into me with my thighs, in tune with her own gyrations.

I whisper in her ear, “do it.”

With only two more thrusts, she pushes into me as deeply as she can and her whole body shakes. A long, low groan escapes from her lips. In my mind's eye, I sense her ejaculate filling me.

Then with a gasp, she collapses into my arms, and I hold her there.