I closed the door and bolted it. I said, “Bill?”
No answer.
I walked closer to him, looked down at him. He was almost expressionless but when I said his name again he had to fight back a smile. This reassured me. For a moment I had thought he might be sick, or in a trance, or (except that I had just heard him invite me inside) dead.
I understood then. He was there, naked, inert, at my disposal. I could do whatever I wanted. Nothing at all, if I wanted. Or absolutely anything.
For a while I just watched him. Lit a cigarette, walked around the bed looking at him, butted the cigarette after two or three drags. Then took off my own clothes, watching his face to see if he opened his eyes. But he didn’t, his only motion the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed slowly and regularly.
I put my hand out and touched his arm. Just touched him. Then drew away like a child touching a live coal, then took a breath and touched him again.
He did not move.
I touched him, read his body with my hands like a blind man reading a face. I am trying now to recall how I felt. It is hard to say. Like an explorer, I think. I was touching another person, able to do so because of his passive immobility, and I was discovering the novelty of another’s flesh beneath my hands. That, I think, was the initial pleasure.
It became something else. After a few moments of touching him I became at ease with his body. I had not yet touched him intimately, and...
A particularly stupid euphemism. My touch was quite intimate, could not have been more so by virtue of touching his cock. I did touch him intimately, but had not yet touched his cock.
(Although I was not scared to. I was looking forward to it, but had simply not yet done so.)
At ease with his body now, with my hands on him, and the impulse to discover changed to the impulse to excite. He was passive and receptive and immobile, his penis tiny and limp, and it was my task to make that penis grow, to make it lengthen and widen and grow rigid as blood filled it, and to further provoke it until it disgorged its seed.
I took my hands from him and got to my feet. I stood at the head of the bed, my feet on either side of his own head, and I squatted slowly so that my cunt was positioned just over his face. He kept his eyes closed and did not see me, but I hovered over him like that, not touching him, and felt my own juices begin to flow. I stayed like that, not minding that the posture was uncomfortable, and watched as he inhaled the perfume of my sex.
I watched his penis grow. Just fractionally, adding perhaps a half inch of length. But I had done that. My smell had done that.
This dizzied me.
I straightened up, gulped air. Went again to his side and sat down, this time on the edge of the water mattress. My weight made waves and his body rolled on them.
I took his penis in my hand.
I played gently, gently, gently with him. The tips of my fingers on the smooth skin of the shaft, then rubbing at the different texture of the glans. I cupped a hand and took his balls in it and felt their weight.
Watched him grow, felt him growing in my hands. Teased his asshole with the tip of my forefinger. Probed at the base of the scrotum where the prostate gland is hidden. Gave his balls gentle squeezes.
His body remained utterly still. Only his cock moved, growing a little at a time, emerging from its sleeping self like a cobra rising to a snake charmer’s flute. I kept shifting position slightly as I stroked him, not squirming with passion but doing so deliberately so that the bed would continue its wave-like action.
When he was as hard as a bar of steel I began to jerk him with one hand while I felt his balls with the other. I felt his excitement rise, then deliberately changed the pace of my stroking to keep him from reaching his orgasm. The sense of power that came over me was enormous. I could excite him, I could diminish his excitement, I could do anything I wanted with him.
I lowered my face slowly toward his cock, moving closer until it filled my vision. I held one hand tight around the base while the other remained cupped around his scrotum.
I took him in my mouth.
Just the tip at first, sucking the velvet tip. As Wanda had done. And then, unlike Wanda, I lowered my mouth and let the hot hard cock slide deep into my mouth. Filling my mouth, almost making me gag, but I slid it in and out, my mouth jerking him as my hand had done, and the gagging reflex went away.
I cannot call all of the rest to mind. Cannot make the detail sharp. It was too immediate, too totally involving at the time for it to be properly etched in memory. I think it lasted for a very long time but I cannot be sure it was long at all.
Never tasted male seed before.
Wondered, when Wanda drank his gift, what it tasted like. What she felt.
Felt some revulsion. Almost took my mouth away just as he was coming, but wanted the experience more than I was repelled by it. Sucked him as he came. The taste — indescribable, but I remember it perfectly.
Liked it.
Didn’t want to swallow, but it seemed impolite to spit. Swallowed it.
Felt as though I had sort of come. As when I jerked him into Wanda’s mouth, but far more intensely so.
Felt like laughing aloud. Felt sinfully proud of myself. And proudly sinful.
I can close my eyes now and picture him lying there, glowing with satisfaction. I sat watching him, glowing myself, and saw his eyes open and the beam of a smile spread on his face.
“You surprised me.”
“Surprised myself. What did you expect?”
“Didn’t. Oh, a hand job, maybe. Or that you would turn and leave the apartment.”
“Did you really think I would do that?”
“Let’s say I conceded the possibility. How do you feel?”
“Good.”
“You have a natural talent. Unless you’ve had lots of practice.”
No answer from me. We don’t discuss what I have done’ or haven’t done. I have no past in his apartment. Was his suggestion a hint, an attempt to find out more of me?
Actually I yearn some times to tell him everything. But the yearning is never as strong as the compulsion to hide from him. To hide Arlene from him, and leave Jennifer a creature of present time.
“A drink?”
“Fine.”
I wanted and didn’t want the drink. I thought of it as something that would take the taste of him out of my mouth, out of my throat, and I did and didn’t want this to happen. I wanted to erase the taste and yet wanted to savor it, to retain it.
I drank the drink, sipped it, and it did not utterly wash away his flavor.
He talked, I listened. His talk was of other women. Things he had done, things they had done. I wondered as he spoke whether he was talking literal truth or whether he was carefully building scenes he thought would excite me. I was interested, as I am always interested in hearing sex talk, but it was not exciting me.
“Is there anything you would like me to do for you?”
I shook my head. “I would like to lie on the bed.”
“With me?”
“Alone. You can watch me. But don’t touch me.”
“All right.”
“Please don’t.”
“All right.”
“Something I thought might work and wanted to try. Call it an experiment.”
“Call everything an experiment, Jennifer.”
I stretched out on the satin sheet. Lay as motionless as he had lain for some time. And then began to play the scene we had just enacted, an instant replay of it in fantasy. With one change. My role was performed by Jennifer, a Jennifer who looked not like me but as I have always pictured her, a somewhat sleeker and more knowing Wanda, with higher cheekbones and no innocence in her eyes. I was the Jennifer in the fantasy. I wore her body but I was her. And there was a girl off to the side watching us. The girl was Arlene, I’m sure, but in my fantasy her face and figure had no definition. She was merely a voyeuristic presence.