She starts to give him the full show. She brings her feet together. She grabs her undershirt at its bottom and pulls it up slowly so that it forms loose ribs, bunches of ribbed material, she holds for a minute, arms crossed and prepared to pull, under the bottom rim of her breasts, gives him the hesitation tease she knows he wants, stares at him. Then she pulls the shirt free, up past the neck and head and simultaneously off the arms. Her breasts bob as the shirt rubs past. Her nipples are hard and she brings her fingers up and runs them around the areolas. It’s a show for his benefit and his body continues to visibly respond, but it also feels as good as it looks.
She begins to unbutton and unzip her jeans. She gauges her speed to a midpoint where he’s on the verge of frustration and fulfillment. She pushes the jeans down her legs and steps out of them. She’s wearing white cotton panties, not bikinis, but close enough. Woo doesn’t seem to notice the difference. She smiles at him, places her right hand over her navel for a minute, then inches it downward until her fingertips dip into the waistband. She waits, then teases him with a few more inches of finger sliding downward into still-invisible hair.
He lets out a garbled Oh, starts to rise up to a sitting position, but she gives him a stern shake of the head and he settles back into place.
She bends forward slightly, hovers over his legs. She says, “Don’t speak, Freddy. Don’t open your mouth. No words at all.” She pauses, then says, “Now, do you want me down there? Do you want me on the floor? Do you want me on top of you?”
His mouth opens, then at once snaps closed, all jaw, alligatorlike. His head takes over with a jerking, too-fast nod and she loves it. It’s just the effect she was going for.
“We’re going to need some music,” she says, and turns to the desk area. Woo makes a throat-clearing sound that she ignores. She likes being almost naked in this place. She likes the idea of the huge, open space and the coldness of the brick. She thinks if she lived here, it’d be an effort to throw on clothes and leave each morning.
She fingers the toggle switches at the bottom of the reel-to-reel machine and says, “Let’s see what the doctor likes.” She hits the Play button and the reels start to turn smoothly, at a precise speed, the opposite of Woo’s head. A single, high-pitched electronic tone sounds and she realizes for the first time that she doesn’t know where the speakers are. The tone is followed by silence. She assumes there are probably several speakers, mounted in hidden spots in the study for the best possible acoustics. A guy like Woo would be concerned about sound quality and proper speaker placement.
“Guess we’ve got a blank tape,” she says, but Woo has stopped nodding and now he just stares up at her, maybe impatient, maybe doubtful, insecure.
Lenore slides out of the balance of her underwear, tosses them on top of the desk behind her. She comes down on her knees, in front of his feet, relaxes into a sitting position, ass on heels.
“I’ve always considered getting a tattoo, Freddy. Always wanted one. I’ve debated the question. They’re considered cheap in this country. Biker women. Junkies. Hookers. Every hooker I’ve ever known has had a tattoo. I’m not sure the general public is aware how many tattoos are out there. More than most people would think. But, as you well know, in the Orient it’s a different story. At least for the men. I don’t know what the tattooing standard is for women over there. But with the men it’s considered an art form, right? An enhancement of the skin. And I’ve got to concur. Got to agree with that. I’ve considered placement and for some reason I’m drawn to the erotic areas. I know about the pain involved, but I’m good with pain. No problem there. And, of course, I’ve thought about the design. What would I choose? We can rule out the typical red rose or butterfly right off the bat. I want something unique. Something custom-drawn and more suited to me. And I can’t quite come up with what it should be. So do me a big favor, Freddy, if you would. Give it some thought. Not right now. Don’t say a word right now. But sometime in the future, in the days ahead, give it some thought and tell me what you think would be the best sign for me. Something that would just scream Lenore permanently. From underneath my skin.”
She sits silent for a few seconds and then rises up on her knees again. She makes him spread his legs apart by slapping his feet. When they’ve opened to their widest stretch, she lies down between them, her belly to the floor, and very slowly, with her eyes locked on his face, she takes him in her mouth. He lets out a high, sucking sound and the question kicks in—Is it possible no one’s ever done this to him before? She sucks very slowly, with gradually increasing pressure, for almost a minute, then she climbs forward on her knees and straddles him, first sitting too high, on his stomach, teasing him, licking his chest.
“Remember,” she says, “you speak and it’s all over.”
But it’s not clear whether he hears her or not. He’s letting out these hardly audible whines, his eyes rammed closed. Lenore thinks he sounds something like a miniature dog, quaking near the back door, asking to go out.
When she thinks it’s been long enough, she moves down, pulls him inside, and starts to ride. She’s wet enough and then, in a minute, much more wet, and they fall into a rhythm that she sets but he responds to beautifully, perfectly, without any instruction, without words or gestures.
And then a voice barks into the room:
Ngaatojai
She jolts upright, sits rigid, but leaves him inside. His eyes spring open and an awful terrified look spreads on his face. He can’t speak. She doubts that even if she commanded him to, his vocal chords would respond. It’s clear he wants to tell her something, but he can’t shake the silence.
The voice barks out again. The word sounds foreign. The voice has a slightly clipped, mechanical sound to it. And then it hits her what’s happening: the tape. The reel-to-reel machine. The tape she’s turned on has come to life, hit the recorded stretch, only it’s not music. It’s words. Or maybe one word. All in different languages, a long pause between each loud, crisp, elaborated pronunciation.
“I get it,” she says softly to Woo, trying to be reassuring. “It’s not Teenage Deathcamp, but it’ll do.”
Slowly, she brings them back into their swaying rhythm.
Imperio
His legs come up and cross around her back. They pick up some speed.
Kuhilani
He starts to buck slightly underneath with this flawless timing, as if he could feel exactly what was happening inside her and knew how to facilitate the experience, deepen it, elongate it, intensify it.
Dominante
He reaches up, eyes closed again, searches with his hands until he finds her breasts. He squeezes, just the right force, positions the nipples between the notches that separate his fingers, pulls, twists, just slightly.
Vorherrschen
Lenore’s heart suddenly heaves, gives what feels like an extra, wider pump. In spite of herself she lets out a sound, a nonword, void of attachment to anything physical.
Przewaga
She picks up the speed. A new noise starts to issue at the slapping together of her thighs and ass with his pelvis. His legs around her make a new effort, bear inward, hug her like a sweaty and trembling vice.
Dominio
Woo starts to breathe out through his nose in harsh short bursts, a dragon from his own childhood nightmares. His head is snapping from left to right, his eyes shut so tight that his forehead shows a plain of creases and folds. He’s biting his lips and pushing air in hard between his gums and inner mouth.