


Baring Souls

by slyc_willie



Category: Erotic Couplings
Published: 2008-01-30
Updated: 2008-01-30
Packaged: 2017-04-22 21:42:48
Chapters: 1
Publisher: literotica.com
Story URL: https://www.literotica.com/s/baring-souls
Author URL:
https://www.literotica.com/stories/memberpage.php?uid=748325&page=submissions
Summary: There are holes in every relationship.
Erotica Tags: Dancer, Love, Oral, Spying, Stripper, Valentine'S Day, Voyeurism
Average Rating: 4.78






        Baring Souls


_(This story is an official entry into the 2008 Valentine's Day story contest.
It is a long tale of lust and love and the consequences that arise. I hope you
enjoy.)_  
  
_***_  
  
I loved my new apartment. Seventh floor, with a small enclosed balcony, a view
of downtown tourists would envy, concierge service, even a hair salon and
massage parlor on the ground floor. Sure, it cost me twelve hundred a month,
and for only eight hundred square feet, but it was a luxury I could afford. I
had negotiated rather shrewdly with the CFO of the company I now worked for,
and had received the salary I desired.  
  
Life, as they say, was good. I had moved in a few days into the new year, and
the desire to start over hovered around me, palpable as a cloud. I knew I
wanted a different direction to my life. I just was not sure what.  
  
It took me a while to get everything situated at home, mainly because I was
spending so much time hob-nobbing at the office and getting up to date on the
new contracts the company had won. The business I was in was demanding of my
time, and the new company promised to keep me busy. Eventually, however, I
managed to take a weekend to devote to unpacking my boxes and organizing my
apartment.  
  
By the time I was done arranging furniture and taking the empty boxes down the
hall to the trash chute, I had built up a good sweat and needed a shower. The
hot water soothed my muscles, making me feel refreshed . . . and more than a
little randy. It had been several months since Monica and I had divorced, and
I hadn't so much as gotten a playful pass from a woman since then. Of course,
I did work a lot.  
  
Not that I wasn't attractive. Maybe I wasn't the next cover model for GQ, but
neither was I ugly. Throughout college and grad school, I was widely
considered a good catch. I kept in shape, still had my hair, and at the age of
thirty-five, had a pretty good build and a trim waist. I dressed well, spoke
with confidence . . . I got my share of interested looks, but after ending a
long-term relationship, I was often sullen and even shy around women.  
  
I looked at my reflection in the mirror with a sigh. I was too young to be
alone, too old to go pick up some eager bimbo at a club. I hadn't asked a
woman out since Clinton was president. I had, as the kids say, 'no game.' I
figured my best chances for romance lay amongst the women I worked with. But
many were professional, cold, and focused on their careers. With my luck, I
would meet some man-eater who would fuck me raw then turn me out the door. And
then I would be even more depressed.  
  
I considered, peripherally, the idea of calling up an escort service; hell, I
had the money. Two-fifty for an in-call, another two-fifty 'tip,' and I could
get my rocks off. But finding satisfaction in meaningless casual sex had lost
its appeal with my thirtieth birthday. Sure, I wanted to get laid, but I
wanted more than just a cute face and an eager body. But after my heartbreak
with Monica, was I ready for another relationship? What if I wasted another
decade?  
  
_Snap out of it, Will,_ I berated myself, and tossed the towel on the sink_.
Do what other single men your age do. Get on the computer, download some porn,
and beat off while watching an eager young thing take the money shot on her
chin._  
  
"Ouch!"  
  
I looked down to see what I had stumbled upon, and found a loose tile on the
bathroom floor, a couple feet from the toilet. _Great. Something broken
already._ I sat on the toilet, squeezed out a little blood from my big toe,
wiped it with some tissue. I glared at the loose tile as if it had
deliberately attacked me.  
  
The little cut on my toe stopped bleeding quickly enough, so I got down on the
floor and picked up the tile. I arched an eyebrow in interest when I saw the
neat little hole that lay beneath.  
  
_Well, hello . . . ._  
  
Curiosity is a powerful thing, especially when coupled with wishful thinking.
I leaned over, bringing my face close to the floor, and looked down through
the hole. It was only about a quarter of an inch across, about the same size
as your typical door peephole. But . . . .  
  
Obviously, whoever had occupied my apartment before had been a voyeur. Not
only was there a tiny hole in the floor, but it had been fitted with a concave
lens so that I got a broad, if somewhat distorted, view of almost the entire
bathroom below. The apartment under mine was obviously laid out in the same
pattern, or at least as far as the bathroom went.  
  
I felt a strange thrill as I looked down through the hole. The bathroom below
obviously belonged to a woman. The sink counter was cluttered with all manner
of toiletries, bottles and jars and little odds and ends that only women – or
gay men – would keep on hand. There was a flower-print shower curtain, and the
flower motif was repeated in the wall decorations, floor mat, toilet seat
cover, and even the towels.  
  
I sat up, feeling like a teenaged pervert for spying on someone else's private
life. I had no right to do so, of course. I replaced the tile, and told myself
I would get some caulking and whatever else I would need to plug the hole and
put the tile back in place. Then I got up, slipped on some pajama bottoms, and
headed to the corner of my living room that I had designated the 'office.' I
still had some work to do before Monday.  
  
***  
  
My heavy workload made me forget about the voyeur hole in my bathroom, and my
half-hearted promise to secure the hole was pushed from my mind. That is,
until about a week later, as I was getting ready in the morning. I was shaving
in the sink, and splashed water on my face as I always did when finished. But
my elbow hit the canister of shaving cream, knocking it off the counter and to
the floor.  
  
And where else would it land except right on the loose tile, jarring it.  
  
I squatted down to pick up the can of shaving cream, and reached for the tile
as well. I hesitated as I started to put it back.  
  
_Oh, what the hell. What could it hurt?_  
  
I got on my knees, leaned down, looked through the hole. _Oh . . . wow . . .
talk about timing . . . ._  
  
The tenant below me was a slender woman, blonde, small-breasted, with a light
tan and no tan lines. This was all pretty obvious to me because she had
evidently just taken a shower and was now leaning over the sink, in the nude,
as she brushed her teeth. She had a pretty nice ass, with little dimples just
above her cheeks and a 'tramp stamp' tattoo of some tribal design at the base
of her spine. I could very faintly hear some music – something alternative, I
figured – and she was moving along with it.  
  
I watched the woman shake her hips a little to the music, and at one point,
she stood up straight after spitting in the sink. In the reflection of her
mirror, I saw an attractive, angular face. And I could not help but notice how
erect her nipples were. Maybe they were always like that. I remember dating
one girl in college who had little breasts like this woman's, whose nipples
were always stiff.  
  
The little show when on for about a minute or so, before she wiped her face
and pushed away from the sink. She stepped out of view, through the bathroom
door.  
  
I sat up. I was very conscious of the fact that I had an erection.  
  
***  
  
I thought about the skinny blonde all day. I suddenly understood the
attraction of voyeurism. To be able to watch even the most mundane aspects of
someone's life without their knowledge . . . it was a strange sense of power,
but also of helpless resignation. I could do nothing to influence whatever she
might do, and just had to wait until she did something that I _really_ wanted
to watch.  
  
_Eh, hold on there, Will,_ my rational mind said to me as I lingered in
libidinous thought over a grilled chicken sandwich at lunch. _You're not
seriously considering spying on this girl, are you?_  
  
_Um, well . . . of course not. I'm not a pervert . . . ._  
  
_Well, that's settled, then. Buy some caulking on your way home._  
  
_Um . . . okay . . . ._  
  
***  
  
I did no such thing, of course, otherwise this would be a very short story. I
did stop at the local supermarket that evening and grab some groceries, and I
headed down the aisle where caulking was stacked on the shelves, but . . . I
just couldn't do it. Something had begun to infiltrate my mind, something dark
and perverted and impossible to ignore. So I left the aisle empty-handed and
headed home with my stir-fry and six-pack of Warsteiner.  
  
I tried to occupy my mind with some business reports, then a little prime-time
TV. But the little hole in the floor beckoned, as if it had a mind of its own,
and a telepathic mind at that. I managed to resist for a while, until I heard
the faint groaning of pipes through the floor.  
  
I got up, headed to the bathroom, under the pretense of telling myself I
needed to relieve my bladder. The sound of water rushing through the pipes was
faint but noticeable. I used the toilet, flushed, then turned around. I
frowned.  
  
The tile was loose. Had I kicked it subconsciously?  
  
I got down, pulled the tile away, and before I knew it, I was looking down,
spying on Miss Skinny Blonde.  
  
I seemed to have chosen just the right time. The blonde had on a yellow blouse
and tight jeans, and the blouse was coming off. _Hmm, no bra_ . . . not that
she really needed one. Damn, her nipples were like little pieces of pink
bubble gum.  
  
She dropped the blouse on the floor, then unsnapped, unzipped her jeans. She
wiggled her hips a little to get them off, then bent over as she stepped out
of them. _Whoa_. No panties, either. _A chick that goes commando_. I was
definitely hard by that point.  
  
Casually, the blonde stroked her hands up and down her body, over her small
breasts and stiff nipples, down between her legs – my cock twitched as she
rubbed her crotch for a moment – then over her firm round cheeks. Then she
settled her hands atop her hips, and arched her back, tilting her head back .
. . .  
  
The concave lens through which I stared magnified anything directly beneath,
and as it happened, the woman was right under me. Her eyes were closed, but I
could see every detail, every feature of her face as if she were no more than
a few feet from me. She had a sharp, narrow nose, a thin-lipped mouth, and
just the slightest of crow's feet and smoker's wrinkles. I made the instant
conclusion that the blonde in the apartment below mine was older than I
thought, maybe even around my age.  
  
Yet with the body of a teenager. My cock twitched again.  
  
She leaned toward the shower, testing the water, then stepped under the spray.
I watched for several minutes as the woman soaped up, rinsed off, running her
hands all over her body. She kept her eyes closed most of the time, and it
seemed to me that the expression on her face was one of quiet, suppressed
sensuality. She seemed to spend more time washing her breasts and between her
thighs than I would have thought normal.  
  
And then . . . .  
  
The blonde turned off the spray, and I thought my show over. But my heart
pounded as she leaned out from the shower, her body wet and dripping (the
glistening line of her muscular back was incredibly sexy), her shoulder-length
hair dark from the water and slicked back. She grabbed a long-handled brush
sitting on the edge of her counter . . . .  
  
_Oh, man, is she . . . is she really gonna . . . oh, shit . . . yeah, she is .
. . ._  
  
Beneath my amazed and aroused eyes, the blonde woman leaned back in the
shower, bracing her feet on the floor as she spread her slender legs. She
massaged her pussy with her fingers – she had just a tiny dark tuft of blonde
hair right above her slit, I noticed – then began rubbing the handle of the
brush between them, lengthwise. Slowly, steadily, as her face contorted with
self-gratification, she began pushing the handle inside her pussy. At first,
it was just a little, but after several slow, sweet thrusts, she was burying
the thing inside her.  
  
My cock was raging as I watched the woman masturbate. I had not zipped up, and
quite by reflex, I started stroking myself as I watched. I was transfixed,
intensely aroused, mesmerized by the sight of this slender beauty pleasuring
herself.  
  
"Hmmm . . . mmmm . . . ."  
  
I could barely hear her soft moans as she brought herself to orgasm. I almost
came as well, watching the expressions on her face, the way her tight, narrow
body tensed, the way she bent her knees and pushed up and down, sliding her
back along the wall as if riding the fantasy lover in her mind. Her parted
lips trembled when she climaxed. The sight of her beautiful, orgasmic face was
almost enough to make me cum.  
  
But if that wasn't enough, what she did next definitely triggered my rush.
Slipping the brush handle from her satisfied pussy, she brought it to her
face, and without any hesitation – hell, she looked almost desperate – wrapped
her slender little mouth around it and sucked off her own juices. The
expression on her face was one of pure and absolute bliss. She sucked the
brush handle like giving head, sliding it in and out of her mouth.  
  
_Oh, fuck!_ I trembled, and moaned almost too loud as I came, ejaculating all
over the floor. I worried for a moment that the woman might have heard me, for
she pulled the brush from her mouth and looked around with a little confused
look on her face – the kind of look one gets when they _think_ they heard
something, but are not sure – but then she licked her lips, stepped out of the
shower, and washed off the brush in the sink. I noticed the self-satisfied
smile and rosy glow of her cheeks.  
  
I was pretty sure I had a smile to match.  
  
***  
  
Like an addict, I found myself hovering over the illicit peep hole every night
and every morning for the following several days. I caught the blonde in and
out of the shower, and admired her sexy, skinny body. I noticed she had
another tattoo, one I had not detected before, that of a scorpion on her left
ankle. I wondered if that was her astrological sign.  
  
I came to realize that my sexy downstairs neighbor lived alone, and either did
not have a boyfriend, or her lover – or lovers – did not stay long enough to
need to use the toilet or shower.  
  
I started wondering about her, and more than once tried to come up with some
scenario in which I could 'just happen' to meet her. But then what? Seduce
her? What if she wasn't interested? What if she was a lesbian? What if she was
an Eileen Warnos-type serial killer? And if she was interested, what did she
want? What did I want?  
  
I watched her masturbate in the shower again, about five days later, just
before she headed out. This time, she had thought ahead, and after turning off
the shower, took a bright pink dildo from a drawer beneath the sink and sat on
the edge of the tub . . . thankfully facing me. I watched for many long, sweet
moments as the blonde eased the vibrator in and out of her slick pussy,
rubbing her clit in a swift circular motion until she climaxed with faint,
breathless gasps and cries. I timed my own orgasm to match hers and ejaculated
onto the tile as she thrashed in self-induced pleasure.  
  
I learned a few things about her as I watched her morning routines. Aside from
her love of flowers, I figured that she apparently slept in the nude, because
whenever she came into the bathroom in the morning, she was always naked. And
whatever her job was, it evidently demanded a pretty relaxed wardrobe. She
usually wore tight jeans and a simple top, sometimes stretch pants, sometimes
a cotton skirt.  
  
She wore little makeup, from what I could tell. A little base to even out her
complexion, a little mascara or eye shadow, but very rarely lipstick. She
seemed to like pale beer, as evidenced one night when she took a long bath and
sipped on a couple of Coronas while listening to some haunting, melodic music
that featured a woman's voice. I did not recognize the artist.  
  
The more I watched her, the more I wondered about her life. I knew what had
brought a man of my age to be single and alone, but how was it that so pretty
and sexy a woman had no one in her life? Not a night went by in which I did
not see her, except for an occasional Friday or Saturday. Never did I catch a
man in her shower, or for that matter, another woman. She seemed to be alone
in life. But why?  
  
***  
  
I was doing some vacuuming one night in my apartment, picking up the dirt
around the place. Funny that, for a guy who had little or no prospects for
bringing a woman home, I still kept a clean house. But my years with Monica
had made cleaning a habit. Strange how some things remain even when the reason
is gone.  
  
My entire apartment had hard wood floors, which was one of the reasons I
wanted the place (well, that and the wood-burning fireplace), but I had placed
several Persian carpets here and there, to keep the place insulated and to
absorb noise.  
  
I was in the living room, and had pushed back the couch to get underneath.
_Jesus Christ, how did I get so much dirt and crumbs under there in just over
a month?_ I grumbled, passing the vacuum back and forth.  
  
Then it caught on something. _Chunk!_  
  
_Oh, what now?_  
  
I switched off the vacuum, knelt on the floor. A small piece of floorboard was
loose. It was a section about six inches long and four inches wide. I stared
for a moment, feeling an intuition come over me. Carefully, I pulled the board
loose, and leaned over . . . .  
  
_Yep_. Another peep hole, also lens-equipped. Positioned right over a black
vinyl sofa with black and white zebra-striped pillows upon it. A glass-topped
coffee table lay before the couch, and there was a rather impressive
television set in a large entertainment center. A chair to match the couch
faced it over the coffee table. There were candles on the table, a box of
tissues, a couple of books, two empty beer bottles . . . .  
  
_Two?_  
  
A thought occurred to me. I left the vacuum in the living room, padded quietly
toward my bedroom. Carefully, stealthily, I searched the floor, picking up the
two throw rugs I had placed on either side of my bed. Then I found it.  
  
Another hole in the floor, toward one of the corners, furthest from the
bathroom door. And it looked right down onto a queen-sized bed with peach-
colored sheets and a thick white comforter currently pushed to the foot of the
bed.  
  
The blonde wasn't alone.  
  
They were kissing, sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore tight black
stretch pants and a very skimpy red tube-top that barely covered even her tiny
breasts. The man she was kissing, the man who had one hand on her upper thigh
and another groping her breasts, had long, shaggy black hair. He wore a denim
shirt and jeans and seemed rather stocky.  
  
My heart caught in my throat as their kissing became more passionate. The
blonde leaned back on the bed as the dark-haired man kissed his way down her
chest. He zeroed in on her breasts right away, peeling her top down. I watched
the back of his head as he sucked on one of her nipples. The expression on her
face was of mixed passion and consternation. She somewhat awkwardly petted his
head, watching his face. She didn't seem to be enjoying his attention as much
as she would have liked.  
  
Still, the blonde did not protest as he got on his knees and tugged on her
stretch pants. She sort of smiled, looking a little more aroused, and
willingly lifted her hips. Her lover pulled them down, forgetting about her
ankle boots. She rolled her eyes, then laughed as he struggled to get the
boots, then her tight pants, off her feet.  
  
She lay back, closing her eyes, smiling, spreading her lean legs as the man
brought his face closer between her thighs. She obviously anticipated the
sensation of his tongue upon her sex.  
  
He hovered over her thighs, his hands moving up, touching her, spreading her
open. Even with my limited view, I could just see how pink she was, thanks to
the magnifying nature of the lens through which I watched. My cock throbbed in
my sweat pants.  

The blonde's hands reached down, running through her lover's thick hair. She
pulled his head down toward her sex even as she lifted her own, opening her
eyes to watch as his mouth descended on her pussy. Oh, how I would have loved
to be that man at that moment!  
  
She squeezed her eyes shut, her lips parted around clenched teeth as she
breathed in. He was licking her, that much was obvious. And she was thoroughly
enjoying it. The blonde lifted and spread her legs wider, her little bare feet
touching his broad shoulders. He shook his head back and forth between her
legs, and the blonde grinned. She bit her lip, rolled her hips outward toward
him.  
  
But then he raised his head, and it seemed he was saying something. My
neighbor's face drained of passion, and she opened her eyes. She looked down
to him, and I saw her lips move as she spoke. She looked questioning. She
frowned, then nodded. Her lover lifted up, getting on his knees on the bed. He
began unzipping his jeans even before the blonde curled her body forward and
started pulling off his shirt.  
  
Soon, the man's shirt was on the floor and his jeans were pushed down. His
body was all but covered in tattoos. He had a stiff penis, rather average in
length, but quite thick. The blonde looked up to his face, which gave me a
clear view of her expression. She spoke again, and it seemed to me she was
striking some sort of bargain. Her hands moved to his cock, stroking it
slowly, fondling and massaging his testicles.  
  
The man nodded vehemently, but the expression on the blonde's face was one of
skepticism. I could deduce the tenor of their conversation: "Do me, and I'll
do you." She wasn't convinced. Still, she ducked down, her naked legs spread
wide around his thick thighs, and took him in her mouth.  
  
I watched for the several minutes the blow job lasted. The man, thankfully,
tilted his head back, his face contorted with pleasure, giving me an
unobstructed view of the blonde's bobbing head. She obviously had no trouble
taking him all the way down. Her lover held onto her head, pulling her face
deeper into his groin, and I could faintly hear his moans and some rather rude
comments – "Oh, yeah, suck it, bitch!" – as she serviced him.  
  
After several minutes, he gripped her head in both hands and began thrusting
toward her face. She accepted his movements, keeping his cock locked between
her lips. Finally, he grunted, then cried out – "Fuck yeah! Eat it, baby!" –
and his entire body trembled. The blonde slapped her hands to his hips, tried
to push back, but he held her in place as his spasms ran their course.  
  
Finally, his hold loosened, and the blonde slipped her mouth off his cock. It
was wilted and shiny as it fell from her mouth, and a little bit of grey-white
fluid dribbled from between her lips and down her chin. The man looked down at
her and I heard him laugh. She glared up at him, sucked her bottom lip, wiped
her chin.  
  
With an expression of disgust, she swung her right leg over his head, and
jumped up, darting for the bathroom while cupping her hands over her mouth.
Her lover turned around and fell back on the bed, his broad, round face
grinning with satisfaction. He looked so smug; he had gotten what he wanted. I
suddenly hated him, even as I envied him for the pleasure he had enjoyed.  
  
I scampered to the bathroom, pulling up the tile there and looking down as the
blonde was splashing water on her face, staring at her reflection. In the
mirror, I could just see her lips moving as she spoke to herself. She was
obviously unhappy, and seemed to be arguing with her reflection. Finally
wiping her mouth, she headed back out to the bedroom. I followed.  
  
She started yelling at him. I could make out some of the words, enough to
understand that she was upset that he had already lost his load. He became
irate, sitting up, and pulled up his jeans. He looked for his shirt as they
argued. I heard him use the words 'bitch' and 'slut' and 'whore' over and
over. She glared at him, snapped back a few times, and finally indicated the
door.  
  
He headed out of the bedroom, jerking his shirt on, and she followed. Their
angry voices retreated. I heard a door slam shut. She came back a minute
later, and sagged down on the bed, still naked. She buried her head in her
hands and began crying.  
  
Despite how hot the sight had been of my downstairs neighbor giving a blow
job, I could feel no arousal. My cock, which had been hard the entire time,
now became soft as I vicariously shared her torment.  
  
***  
  
Obviously, it was not difficult to find out which apartment my little blonde
neighbor lived in. I was in 7F, so she would be in 6F. But knowing where she
lived did little for me. What was I supposed to do? Knock on her door?  
  
_"Hi. I'm Will, I live right above you, and I think you're a real sexy woman.
Care for a beer?"_  
  
_"Oh, sure. I was just getting ready for bed. Mind if I change into something
more . . . comfortable?"_  
  
_Cue cheap porno music._  
  
_Yeah, right . . . ._  
  
I felt conflicted in my feelings about what I had witnessed. On the one hand,
there was the pure, unadulterated eroticism of watching my sexy downstairs
neighbor sucking a man to orgasm. But then, there was the sympathy and pity I
felt for her. The act of what she had done was not what had angered her; it
was the sense of being used. She had picked up some guy, brought him home with
the intention of sharing something intimate and passionate and raw and carnal
. . . instead, she was treated as little better than a prostitute.  
  
My sexy little neighbor had issues, that much was obvious. I could see a
pattern, or, at least, extrapolate one. She was pretty, sexy, and probably
flirted a lot. She always seemed to attract the 'wrong' kind of guy, and in a
self-destructive way, always went for them. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe
it was just something she couldn't understand and couldn't help but to do.  
  
And maybe . . . just maybe . . . she was waiting for her 'Mr. Right.'  
  
***  
  
It was a few days later. In that time, I had spied on the blonde, feeling both
guilty and aroused as I did so, through various peep holes through the floor.
There was one in every room, much to my conflicted delight. I just had to find
them. I watched my neighbor as she went about some of the more mundane aspects
of her life – watching TV, chatting on the phone, eating, playing Sudoku on
her computer – and as she masturbated.  
  
Now that I had the opportunity to watch her in any room of her apartment, I
realized that the slender little blonde had quite the heightened libido. In
her bed, in the shower, on her couch, and once in the kitchen, as she waited
for her microwave dinner to heat up, she pleasured herself practically day.
She always, without fail, awoke with her fingers pressed between her thighs,
and true to my earlier assessment, slept in the nude. And she always licked
and sucked her fingers or whatever toy or implement she used afterward.  
  
Sometimes, I just watched, but more often than not, I masturbated along with
her, usually holding back my orgasm until I could erupt with her. In a strange
way, I felt like I was getting close to her. After all, aside from actually
conversing with her, I knew all about her life. I knew what clothes she liked,
what TV shows she watched, her favorite foods . . . and I knew exactly how she
liked to be pleasured.  
  
Still, I was invading her privacy. What I was doing was inherently wrong. But
I just could not help myself.  
  
Anyway, as I said, it was a few days later – after that fateful blow job with
whomever her lover was – and I was in the laundry room in the basement. I was
down to my last pair of socks and my last good shirt, so it was time to give
the facilities a workout. Not sure of whether I could trust all of my fellow
tenants, I remained in the laundry room, perched atop one of the humming
washers as I worked on the USA Today crossword. I was fairly engrossed in the
puzzle, and did not notice at first that someone else had come in.  
  
I looked up, cracking my neck, rolling my shoulders, and saw her standing by
one of the machines about ten feet away from me. For a moment, I just stared,
and felt a moment of anxiety. Here she was, in the flesh so to speak, not seen
through a lens, but with only my own two eyes. And damn if she wasn't more
beautiful.  
  
Not that she had done anything to make herself presentable. No makeup, and she
had slight bags under her eyes – she had come home late the night before, I
knew – and she wore baggy green shorts and a tight, faded yellow tank top. But
still, the natural beauty was there, undeniable and simple. She could not have
been ugly if she tried.  
  
"Um . . . do I know you?" she asked.  
  
I blinked, looked down at my crossword puzzle, then back to her. I felt my
face getting hot. "Uh, no," I said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stare."  
  
She sort of nodded to herself, closed the lid on her washer. "It's okay," she
said. "I get that a lot."  
  
I felt ashamed. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable," I said.  
  
She let out a self-deprecating laugh. "Trust me," she said. "Where I work . .
. you're definitely not making me uncomfortable."  
  
I could not refuse such an obvious segue. "Where do you work?"  
  
She hesitated a moment, looking at me. I noticed she had bright, amber-colored
eyes, almost golden. They had always seemed more hazel through the voyeur
holes, but the reality was striking. The effect of her eyes was both unnerving
and arousing. What had that shaggy-haired man thought as he stared down into
those eyes while she serviced him?  
  
"Blue Velvet Lounge," she responded at last.  
  
I frowned. "Is that a café or something?"  
  
She laughed again, more genuinely this time, and gave me a wondering look.
"You're not from around here, huh?" she asked.  
  
I found myself smiling sheepishly. "No. I moved here on the first."  
  
She held her gaze on mine, with an unnatural intensity that told me she was
used to having her questions answered. "From?"  
  
I slipped down, standing beside my washer. "Ohio."  
  
She chuckled softly. "'Ohio,'" she repeated, as if she had never met anyone
from that state before. "Well, Mr. Ohio, the Blue Velvet Lounge is a
gentleman's club. A strip joint. I'm a topless dancer."  
  
I couldn't think of any other way to respond other than, "Oh."  
  
She tittered. "They got strip joints in Ohio?"  
  
"Um . . . a few," I said.  
  
Her eyes narrowed as she looked me over. "But you don't spend time in those
kinds'a places, huh? No, I bet you wear a suit and tie to work. Only time you
go to a strip club is for some guy's birthday or bachelor party."  
  
I managed a smile. "Guess you got me all figured out."  
  
She gave me a sly smile. "You oughtta come in and see me some time," she said.
"I'm there all the time."  
  
My mouth was dry. I cleared my throat. "I just might."  
  
She smiled flirtatiously. "First lap dance is on me," she said, then headed
out through the door. The little wiggle of her hips was enticing.  
  
***  
  
For whatever reason, I stayed away from all the little peep holes in the floor
for the rest of the week. I covered them up with rugs and furniture and tried
to pretend that my attraction to voyeurism had been abated now that I had met
the real woman who lived beneath me. I focused on my work, which naturally
commanded much of my attention, and tried to put the sexy, skinny blonde from
my mind.  
  
But at night . . . at night, when there were no distractions such as the TV or
work, when I lay wide awake in bed and staring at the ceiling, when I really
wanted to be staring down through the floor . . . I would conjure up images,
fantasies.  
  
In my mind, my sexy blonde neighbor had not left me alone in the laundry room
that day. Instead, she had stripped down to nothing and gotten atop one of the
washers, masturbating to orgasm as I watched.  
  
_"Yeah, baby, you like that? You like watching me finger my wet little pussy?
Mmmm, bet you wanna lick me, huh? Bet you wanna eat my cookie . . . ."_  
  
_"Oh, God, yes, I wanna taste you . . . ."_  
  
Then she would give me the most incredible blow job in the world, and not be
perturbed about it in the slightest. Or I would fuck her over one of the
washers, neither of us caring if anyone might walk in on us.  
  
I would lay in bed every morning with my hand on my flaccid cock and semen
splattered on my belly. I hated the idea that I had become infatuated with the
blonde woman below, but I had. I thought about her all the time, even at work
during those rare moments which I truly had to myself. My emotions were
conflicted about the nameless beauty who lived beneath me. How could I get to
know her better?  
  
And then, serendipity stepped in.  
  
***  
  
We had scheduled a conference call with our South American partners, but it
had fallen through. Technical difficulties or something. After over an hour of
trying, we eventually conveyed through email that the conference would happen
the following Monday. I decided to take a half-day, and left the office at
eleven-thirty.  
  
My fellow officemate, a slight-bodied Hispanic guy named Ramon, suggested we
grab a bite to eat. He and I had become fairly good friends, even though we
were essentially rivals. I was sure that the time would come, at some point in
the future, in which Ramon and I would be forced to stab each other in the
back to get ahead. Such was the business world. Until then, however, he and I
were 'best buds.'  
  
"Hey, I know a great little place that has a steak and fries special for
$5.99," he said as I drove through downtown traffic.  
  
I looked to him dubiously. "Really."  
  
He laughed. "I'm serious, man. Come on, _wedo_, take a chance."  
  
I chuckled. "Yeah, okay, _vato_," I retorted. I knew only enough Spanish to
respond to his jibe. "Tell me where to turn."  
  
Ramon kept laughing as he gave me directions. He told me to park in a garage
along one of the busier avenues of downtown. It was not far from where I
lived, I realized, just about three blocks south and one east.  
  
We took the elevator from the garage down to the ground floor, and I followed
Ramon just up the street to a set of broad double doors, one of them open,
that sat beneath a neon sign which, even in the middle of the day, glowed
garishly. I stared at the legend above me, encased in deep blue light.  
  
"The Blue Velvet Lounge."  
  
"Hottest chicks on any coast, I swear to God," said Ramon. He clapped my
shoulder. "Come on, man, I'm hungry."  
  
I followed Ramon through the doors – the burly bouncer gave us a once-over but
didn't ask for our IDs – and into smoky, blacklit darkness. There was a main
stage and two smaller ones, one made out into the shape of a baby grand with a
brass pole thrust through it, and about twenty tables and booths scatted about
the floor.  
  
The place was, perhaps, about half full. I saw several men in various
uniforms. Couriers, hourly workers, obvious blue collar stock. I understood
what the blonde had meant by me not being the type to spend time in a strip
club. This was her world, and her world consisted of stocky, dark-haired guys
who earned an hourly wage and treated her like a prostitute.  
  
Ramon lead me through the gloominess to a table about twenty feet from the
main stage and sat down in a broad-backed chair that faced an identical one
across a glass-topped table. There was a simple burner in a candle holder and
an ashtray on the table. Ramon immediately produced a pack of cigarettes and
lit up.  
  
"Smoke?" he asked in a loud voice that I barely heard over the pounding music.
On the elevated stage, a busty and fairly attractive brunette was groping her
breasts while a man stood before her, watching.  
  
I shook my head and looked around the place. I was conscious of the fact that
I was searching for _her_. But she did not seem to be around, despite her
proclamation that she worked six days a week. I had assumed that Friday was
one of them.  
  
Ramon and I watched a few girls hit the stage. He was a real outgoing sort,
clapping, whooping, calling out to the dancers, going up to tip each and every
one of them, even the average ones. He pushed a few creased dollar bills my
way, but I remained where I was, eating my overcooked steak and warmed-over
french fries. Still, for six bucks, I guess I could not complain.  
  
I was startled as a slender, lithe, feminine form appeared from behind me and
slid into my lap. I almost choked on my last bite of steak, surprised as I
was. The woman who curled herself atop me wore a tiny red thong and a matching
see-through top which revealed small, firm breasts adorned with stiff pink
nipples. Her hair was slicked back with gel and her face glowed with glitter
and glistening pink lipstick. She had thin, arching eyebrows, wore dangling
diamond earrings and sported stiletto pumps on her little feet.  
  
"Hi. I was wondering when you'd show up."  
  
It took me a moment to recognize her, and when I did, I felt stupid for not
having realized who it was. I finally smiled. "Well . . . it's been busy at
the office," I said stupidly.  
  
She smiled, her amber eyes reflecting the flashing strobe lights. "Isn't it
always?"  
  
I laughed at her comment. Such a simple statement, yet it seemed to me she
meant far more than typical small talk. I nodded. "Yes, it is."  
  
She grinned, her crow's feet wrinkling endearingly. If not for those minimal
wrinkles, I would have sworn that I had an eager teenager in my lap. "Got a
smoke?" she asked.  
  
I quickly reached for Ramon's pack of cigarettes and his lighter, took one out
for her. She kept her gaze on mine, even as she tucked the cigarette between
her lips in a way that was more than a little seductive. I could not help but
remember the sight of her mouth gliding back and forth on the stocky, long-
haired man's cock as she worked him to orgasm. My dick twitched against her
thigh.  
  
"Oo!" she exclaimed, then giggled. "I haven't even given you a table dance
yet!"  
  
I blushed. "Sorry."  
  
She laughed again, smoke trailing from her lips. "Hey, don't be sorry," she
said. "That just tells me I'm doing a good job."  
  
I looked at her pretty little face. _I've seen you do a good 'job,'_ I
thought. "You certainly are."  
  
Her eyes glowed a moment before they darted down. She took my left hand, ran
her fingers over mine. "Hmm . . . no ring," she said. "What're you doing
wrong?"  
  
I chuckled. "As far as I know, nothing," I said.  
  
She smiled back. "Just haven't met the right girl, yet, huh? What are you?
Twenty-nine? Thirty?"  
  
I met her gaze boldly. "Try again."  
  
Her eyes narrowed. Damn, she looked sexy when she did that! "Thirty . . .
two?"  
  
"Keep going," I said with a smirk.  
  
Her eyebrows danced briefly. "Thirty-three? Four? Five?"  
  
"Bingo."  
  
"No way," she said, leaning back. She pulled on her cigarette, looking me
over. "You're looking pretty damn good for thirty-five."  
  
I smirked. "I bet you say that to all the guys," I said.  
  
She smoldered a little, giving me a look that made my cock throb again. I knew
she could feel it pulsing against the underside of her thigh. "Only to sexy
older guys who live in my building," she said.  
  
I breathed in, unsure of what to make of her innuendo. Was she just flirting
with me because it was part of her job, or did she mean it? "So how much older
are we talking about?" I asked.  
  
She took a drag off her cigarette, blew smoke, seductively licked her lips. "A
gentleman doesn't ask a woman her age."  
  
I smiled. "You're right."  
  
"Well, well, hey!" came Ramon's voice as he returned to the table. "Where'd
this _chica_ come from? Yo, baby, what's your name?"  
  
She tilted her head in Ramon's direction, gave him a little smile and a look.
Then she looked back to me. "Candace," she said.  
  
I suddenly felt stupid for not having asked for her name earlier. Candace
seemed to sense that, smiling cattily. "Not my real name, of course," she said
softly. Her eyes bore into mine.  

I was caught between arousal and intimidation. Candace could easily be a man-
eater with her attitude, or a sultry vixen. I got the feeling that being alone
with her would be an experience borderline between heaven and hell. Still, I
could not resist the lure she had thrown to me.  
  
"And that is . . .?"  
  
Her lips curled at the corners, giving her a sexy, catlike look. "Earned," she
said simply.  
  
I managed a smile. "Fair enough."  
  
Candace toyed casually with her transparent blouse, shifting a little on my
lap . . . which, conveniently, allowed my cock to become tucked between her
firm cheeks. She smiled slyly, then, in an erotic display of agility, swung
her left leg around until she was straddling me, her legs hanging over the arm
rests of the chair. My eyes naturally wandered down, noting how tight her
thong was over the puffy lips of her sex.  
  
I barely heard Ramon's voice as he chuckled. "Guess, uh, I'll leave you two
alone," he said.  
  
I did not respond. I couldn't. Candace captured my attention completely. Her
limber, lithe form wiggled a little in my lap as she got comfortable, the
muscles of her abdomen standing out as she held herself up. She hooked her
left hand around the back of my neck, idly stroking the short hair there, as
she smoked her cigarette.  
  
"So . . . you wanna do it here, or in private?" she asked.  
  
I blinked. _Damn, she can't be that bold, that easy, can she?_ "Wh-what?"  
  
Candace laughed softly, leaned in close. For some reason, the aroma of
nicotine wafting from her lips, mingled with her perfume, was suddenly and
irrevocably arousing. My dick throbbed again, pushing through my slacks and
her tiny thong, against her warm sex.  
  
Her eyes drilled into mine. "Lap dance," she said.  
  
I could feel myself blushing in embarrassment. _Of course that's what she
meant_. "Oh . . . right."  
  
Candace chuckled softly, leaned back – damn, every little shift in movement
worked wonders on me – and crushed out her cigarette. The small, firm mounds
of her breasts thrust straight up to the ceiling, those eternally-stiff
nipples showcased by the shimmering, translucent fabric encasing them. She
blew out a last plume of smoke, settled back on my lap, locking her hands
behind my neck. "Come on," she said, and cocked her head, indicating a dark
hallway not far past the main stage.  
  
I glanced to the shadowed archway – _the doorway to Heaven . . . or Hell?_ –
then back to Candace. "What's in there?"  
  
She bit her lip in a way that was way too sexy. "Wanna find out?"  
  
I took a breath. "Sure."  
  
***  
  
Candace held my hand in both of hers as she walked before me, swaying those
sexy little hips of hers. I watched the flashing lights play across her glossy
hair, the muscles beneath her tanned skin. Especially those that rippled above
the firm cheeks of her perfect, round butt. I could not have cared less if she
was leading me into Hell; I was captivated by this sultry woman, this
seductress.  
  
"Have a seat," she said as we stepped into a small booth, about five feet
square, with a single, broad, low-backed chair. There was a large mirror along
one wall that seemed to catch the light from the end of the hall. Candace gave
me an expectant look.  
  
I settled into the chair as Candace stood before me, looking me over. I
noticed her fingers twitching slightly. Was she nervous, as well?  
  
"You never told me your name," she said.  
  
"Will."  
  
She smiled again. "Hmm, Will," she said, considering my name. With another of
those I-can-melt-you-with-a-look expressions, Candace reached behind her neck.
"Normally, I'd wait for the next song to start, but I figure, what's another
minute or two?"  
  
I couldn't speak as Candace let her sheer top flutter to the ground.
Practically naked, she stood before me, smoothing her hands up from her hips
and along her sides. She kept her eyes on mine as she cupped her firm,
upturned breasts. Her rosy nipples seemed to be pointed at me, especially when
she pulled on them with her fingers, making them distend and darken.  
  
"I'm flattered," I finally managed to squeak out.  
  
Sexily, Candace slid onto my lap, straddling me once more. In private, and
with Candace practically nude, the situation was exponentially more erotic
than it had been on the main floor. She arched her back, bringing those firm,
perfectly round breasts in line with my face, looping her arms around my neck.  
  
"You should be," she whispered, and then she slid down and began moving,
rolling her hips, grinding herself into my groin. My cock had not lost any
firmness, and the stimulation of her barely-covered sex against me was
maddening. I couldn't help but sigh, and even moaned when she leaned in,
raking her stiff nipples up my chest to my neck. I smelled the sharp, spicy
perfume on her neck, her flesh so close I could have easily licked it. But I
wasn't sure how far I could go.  
  
"So, tell me, Will," she breathed into my ear, her left hand gracing my cheek.
"Is it just me, or do you always get hard when you see a girl in a thong?"  
  
I swallowed, enjoying the feel of her undulating body. My hands automatically
settled onto her hips for wont of any other place to go. Candace made no move
to push them away; indeed, she seemed encouraged, really bearing into me. Her
breath was warm and moist on my ear and neck. Had it not been for the presence
of our clothing, I would have sworn we were fucking.  
  
"Just you," I whispered back.  
  
"Hmmm," she mumbled contemplatively.  
  
Just then, the music changed, to something dark and industrial, something I
remembered from days spent in night clubs long before. _Nine Inch Nails_ at
its' finest.  
  
Candace reared back, her cheeks glowing, eyes flashing brilliantly. "I always
loved this song," she declared, then slid off my lap. She turned about,
settling that perfect ass back over my groin, supporting herself with her
hands on my knees as she ground into me once more.  
  
_"Bow down before the one you serve/You're going to get what you deserve . . .
."_  
  
The words echoed around us, permeating the air, seeping into our skin. Candace
seemed to be getting into it as much as I was. Inspired, turned on, and bold
from the two beers I'd had, I let my hands roam over Candace's back, her hips,
her firm, round cheeks. I stared at the snaking tribal pattern tattooed above
her delectable ass. There was a tiny red heart in the center, surrounded by
flames. I passed my thumb over it. Candace cast a look over her shoulder at
me, eyes heavy and lips spread by a broad grin. She wanted me to do what I was
doing.  
  
Abruptly, she leaned back against my chest, sliding up and down my body. One
of her hands slid up behind my head, pulling my face toward her neck. I took
that as an invitation, and kissed and sucked lightly at her neck. A gentle,
aroused sigh escaped her lips. Then she surprised me.  
  
Candace took my left hand, lacing her fingers in mine, and cupped it over her
left breast. I breathed in sharply, feeling her stiff nipple push into my
palm. Then she really did it.  
  
"Bite me," she whispered, her tongue snaking out to tickle my ear. "Bite my
neck. Do it, baby."  
  
I groaned in arousal. I was caught up in the moment. I didn't care for the
reasons regarding Candace's request; at the time, they seemed the hottest
words a woman could utter. My cock throbbed, punching up between her cheeks.
Her heat was searing and insistent, and I felt – either truly or imagined –
her wetness.  
  
I kissed, sucked harder at her neck. I loved the taste of her skin. "You want
me to bite you, Candace?"  
  
She squirmed against me, panting hot breath in my ear. "Please," she pleaded.  
  
I felt a sense of control in that moment. At the time, I did not truly
understand it other than through a simple transfer of roles. But, for that
moment, Candace was giving herself to me. I cupped her other breast with my
right hand, squeezed them both, pinching her nipples hard. Candace emitted a
high-pitched, girlish sound and ground harder into my crotch. Her hand behind
my neck gripped a fistful of hair.  
  
"Tell me your name," I whispered, then gave her neck a little nip with my
teeth.  
  
She gasped. "Mmm," she moaned, and slid her hand beneath her, lifting up just
enough to grope my cock through my slacks. "Bite me, _please_."  
  
I groaned, squeezed her tits roughly. "Tell me, first," I said.  
  
"Will you do it if I tell you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
She whimpered heatedly, sliding her hand back and forth along my stiff cock.
"Michelle," she sighed. "M-my name's . . . Michelle."  
  
I dragged the tip of my tongue along the side of her neck, feeling the muscles
move beneath, the pumping of her blood through her jugular. I felt like a
vampire taking his next victim. "Nice to meet you," I whispered, then sucked
her flesh into my mouth, trapping it between my cuspids. Viciously, I bit
down, penetrating her skin.  
  
"Ah!" she gasped, catching her breath. She writhed against me, gasping and
shuddering, and I realized, even as I tasted something warm and metallic
trickling into my mouth, that Michelle was cumming.  
  
She squirmed and shook, rolling her hips hard into my cock, almost insistently
enough to make me cum. But then, suddenly, as the song reached its apex,
Michelle jerked away and stood, whirling around to face me.  
  
I was instantly shocked back to reality. I stared at Michelle as she stood,
naked save for her tiny thong and stiletto heels, a dark trail of blood
dripping from her neck and down over her left breast. Wide amber eyes stared
at me inscrutably.  
  
The flavor of her blood lingered in my mouth. I felt it on my lips, thick and
rich, as I touched them. "I'm sorry," was all I could say.  
  
She lifted her hand, never taking her accusing eyes from mine, and touched her
neck. For a moment, as she pulled her hand away and held it up, she looked to
the blood on her fingers, then gave me an emotional look.  
  
"No you're not," she said bitingly, and abruptly fled from the cubicle.  
  
***  
  
I was in a daze as I headed back to the table. Ramon was chatting it up with
an attractive Hispanic girl who sat topless in his lap, making her breasts
jiggle through muscle control. He was pretty much captivated, barely noticing
I had returned until I sank down in my chair.  
  
He grinned at me. "That was quick," he said with a chuckle. "Seriously, man,
you guys were gone, like, fifteen minutes. What'd you do in there, anyway?"  
  
The girl in his lap giggled, giving me a curious look.  
  
I felt suddenly disgusted, and sat up. I took up Ramon's pack of cigarettes,
lit one. I hadn't had a cigarette in over eight years. Monica had asked me to
quit, and being the devoted man I was, I had.  
  
Ramon frowned, then laughed. "Thought you didn't smoke," he said.  
  
I lit up, inhaled, feeling my throat constrict slightly. But my body
remembered the sensation, and welcomed it. I sighed, blowing out smoke. "I
don't," I said.  
  
Ramon laughed. "So where's your girl?"  
  
I met his eyes a moment, then looked around. I couldn't see Michelle anywhere.
The feeling of disgust remained and only grew stronger. In an instant, I
decided I couldn't stand where I was, the environment I was in. I pushed up
quickly, startling Ramon and the girl in his lap.  
  
"I gotta go," I said.  
  
***  
  
Ramon was not ready to leave, so I left him twenty bucks to cover his cab fare
and took off. He tried to call after me, but the girl wiggling her butt in his
crotch kept him where he was. I was glad for that, in all actuality; that just
made my escape easier.  
  
I made my way back to the car in a daze, feeling conflicted in my emotions.
Michelle had wanted what we had done, so why did she act that way? Why did she
act as if I had practically raped her?  
  
_And why the fuck do you care, Will? She's pyscho, man, can't you see that?_  
  
I tried to get Michelle out of my head as I drove home, but it was useless. I
wanted to know what possessed a woman to act the way Michelle did, to
encourage me to bite her, only to become repulsed and disgusted afterward. And
what made me want to do it in the first place? Why I had I acquiesced so
easily?  
  
These were questions deeper than what I wanted to think about. I decided to
head home and have a couple of beers, maybe work on my next account to take my
mind off what had happened.  
  
On the way to my apartment, I stopped off at a corner store and bought a pack
of cigarettes.  
  
***  
  
_Seven o'clock, and I'm buzzed_, I thought. I chuckled darkly as I watched
some banal program on TV and sipped from my fifth beer of the day.
Peripherally, I eyed the glowing light from my bathroom. Again, that eerie,
telepathic call came to my mind.  
  
_Fuck it._  
  
I got up, headed to the bathroom, crouched on the floor. I eyed the loose tile
a moment, Feeling for a moment that I was balanced on the blade of a razor. If
I didn't choose a side, I'd be split in half. So I made a decision, lifted the
tile away and peered down.  
  
Michelle was there, leaning over the sink as she stared at her neck in the
mirror, her chin cocked to one side. She wore only a pair of loose grey
sweatpants. Her expression seemed blank to me as she touched the welt on her
neck.  
  
The welt I had given her.  
  
I saw her shoulders roll as she took a deep breath. She washed her hands,
wetted a towel and rubbed a bar of soap into it. She dabbed at the wound,
washed it off, then straightened. Her lips moved as she said something to her
reflection, a hard and angry look on her face. Then she stepped from view.  
  
I followed her into the bedroom, watching from above as she slipped out of her
sweatpants and slipped on a pair of simple cotton panties and a loose T-shirt.
Her next stop was the kitchen, where she took a Corona from the fridge. She
found her purse on the counter. Michelle talked on her cell-phone for several
minutes, grimacing and sighing often, blowing strands of damp blonde hair from
her face. Then she hung up and fell into the chair across from her TV.  
  
I watched for several minutes, and Michelle did not move. I was suddenly
struck with a sense of self-loathing. _Bad enough you hurt her, now you have
to invade her privacy?_  
  
I slipped the board back in place over the spyhole in the living room and
climbed onto my couch.  
  
_Tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . tock . . . ._  
  
***  
  
I was surprised to find that over two hours had passed since I had left my
voyeuristic perch. Two more beers had rekindled both my libido and curiosity.
I scrambled to the floor and pulled back the board, looking down . . . .  
  
She wasn't in the living room. The TV flickered, casting ghostly light across
the reflective surface of the glass coffee table. It seemed to accentuate the
loneliness of the room. I moved to the kitchen, the bathroom. Nothing. Then I
pulled up the little square section in my bedroom, and gazed down upon
Michelle's bed.  
  
She lay upon her back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open as her features twisted
slightly. Her hands massaged her naked breasts. Her legs were spread wide
open. And between them was the dark-maned head of another woman, her mouth
obviously and fervently pressed to Michelle's shaved sex.  
  
The woman was more buxom, more curvaceous than Michelle, her only similarity
to my slender blonde neighbor being her complete nudity. Her head moved only
slightly, long black hair spread out across a muscular back. Hands stroked
slowly up and down Michelle's lean thighs. A full, round ass flexed now and
then as her well-toned legs kicked slowly in the air.  
  
After only a few moments of watching, Michelle reached down and grabbed her
lover's head, her face flushed, her mouth slack. She pushed her hips up
repeatedly, and I heard her faint gasps and moans as she came. Michelle's body
tensed, and she squeezed her eyes, looking almost in pain. Then she fell back,
sagging into her bed, her raven-haired lover remaining between her legs.  
  
I could not help but think how beautiful Michelle looked at that moment, how
satisfied. She panted as she recovered her breath, then smiled and giggled,
stroking the other girl's hair. As she languished in bliss, her eyes fluttered
open, and for a moment, I felt that she was looking directly at me . . .
teasing me, perhaps, or . . . _punishing_ me for having seen her at such an
intimate moment.  
  
I covered up the spyhole, got into bed, and spent the next few hours trying to
sleep while listening to faint, muffled moans and giggles through the floor.  
  
***  
  
"Hey, Will, you okay?"  
  
I looked up from my desk at Ramon's question. He and I had been busy with our
own accounts for the previous few days, ever since that afternoon at the Blue
Velvet Lounge. I tried not to think that I was purposely avoiding him, as if I
blamed him in some way for what had happened between myself and Michelle.  
  
I forced a smile, shuffled some papers. "Fine."  
  
He gave me a funny look, stepped closer in my small office. "You been acting
kind'a funny ever since we went to that strip club."  
  
I tried to pass off my feelings with a shrug. "I just really don't like those
places," I said. "I'm not into exploiting women." My response had been
rehearsed; I rattled it off a little too quickly, I thought.  
  
He scoffed. "What, you got a problem with chicks who like showing off their
tits?" he asked.  
  
I stared at him a moment, wanting to retort with something belligerent and
politically correct. But I didn't. "Just some of them."  
  
Ramon laughed. "Oh, don't tell me you're hung up on that bitch from the club.
What happened? She give you a little somethin'-somethin' during the table
dance? She—"  
  
I glared. "You know what bothers me?" I asked curtly, cutting him off.  
  
He frowned, his mirth vanishing. "What?"  
  
"Guys who look at women like that and only see a pair of tits and a cute
little ass. You don't know anything about them, you just assume they like what
they're doing."  
  
Ramon gave me a denigrating look. "Man, you've been working too hard," he
said. "Chicks like that, that's all they know. Cocktease the guys, get their
money, then they go home to whatever sugar-daddy or dyke bitch is waiting for
them. That's what those chicks are all about. Who cares if they like what
they're doing? They wanna show it off, I'm gonna look. And once in a while,
when I get lucky, I do more than look."  
  
He turned away from my desk, paused at the door. "You know, you oughtta try it
some time, Will. Ain't never met someone who needed to get laid as bad as you
do."  
  
I frowned, my ire rising faster than I could control it. "What the fuck's that
supposed to mean?"  
  
Ramon fixed his dark eyes on mine. "Tell you what," he said. "You go back
there, find that skinny little blonde you like. Then ask her how much it takes
to buy her out. Guarantee she'll give you a price."  
  
I ground my teeth. "A price for what?" I asked.  
  
He laughed. "I know you ain't that stupid. Just ask her, Will. Then you'll
know."  
  
***  
  
I hadn't watched Michelle in days, ever since that sapphic night with her
dark-haired friend. I had mustered my willpower and decided I wouldn't violate
her privacy any longer. That, and . . . maybe a part of me did not want to see
someone else making her happy, or at least satisfied.  
  
But Ramon's words rang in my ears for days. I tried to occupy myself with
work, but all I could think about was Michelle. I could smell her, taste her,
feel her against me, hear those sexy whimpers and girl-like squeals. I had
gone back to smoking, and every time I lit up, I couldn't help but think of
how sexy Michelle looked when she sucked on a filter.  
  
I was obsessed, not necessarily with Michelle, but with what had happened that
day. I needed some answers. I needed to know why she was the way she was . . .
or at least a reason as to why that day had happened the way it had.  
  
So on an overcast Sunday afternoon, finally giving myself a break from work, I
went back to the Blue Velvet Lounge and took a little booth to myself. There
wasn't much business in the place, and it seemed only a few girls were
working. Cocktail waitresses in tight, sleeveless tuxedo shirts and tiny black
shorts lounged around the bar, looking bored.  

I was dressed casually that day, and had not even bothered to shave. I ordered
a Guinness on tap from my waitress and lit up a cigarette as I watched the
girls on the stages. In a basic, male way, I could acknowledge that most were
pretty, and some were even porn-model quality. But they didn't interest me.  
  
"Okay, gents, how 'bout a round of applause for Fallon!" urged the deejay in
his hidden booth. Scattered clapping greeted his words as the dyed blonde on
the stage climbed down, clutching a pitiable amount of ones in her fist.  
  
"Now let's hear it for our very own golden girl, but you ain't gonna see her
in a nursing home any time soon . . . he-e-ere's Candace!"  
  
There was some applause at the deejay's introduction, but I did not join in.
Instead, I fixed my attention on the main stage as the shimmering curtain
shifted and fluttered. Amid the squeal of guitars from a classic glam-rock
song from the eighties, the curtain was flung open wide.  
  
Strutting like she was the Queen of the Nile, 'Candace' took the stage, moving
perfectly in time with a venerable Poison song. She wore a purple teddy and
matching thong, the muscles of her legs tensing and rippling as she balanced
herself on glass platform shoes. Michelle moved energetically according to the
cadence of the song, barely looking out at her audience; she danced more for
her benefit than for those who ogled her with lustful eyes.  
  
I smiled. At least for the moment, Michelle looked like she was enjoying
herself. Doing something she loved. Not teasing, not being the sex kitten,
just . . . dancing, and loving it. The men watching her could have been
cardboard cutouts for all she cared.  
  
I watched, rooted to my chair, as Michelle commanded the stage. She was
sensuous and playful, sexy and energetic, matching every movement, from the
flip of a wrist to the toss of her head, to the beat of the song. A few men
approached to tip her, and she gave them professional, almost predatory,
smiles. She would touch their face or chest, lay on her back and spread her
legs to provide a 'look but don't touch' view of her minimally-covered crotch.
Then she would let them slip a dollar bill or two into her tiny G-string
before whirling away.  
  
I did not notice at first, but at one point, as the light hit her just so
while she moved, I saw a tiny bandage on her neck, nearly matching the tone of
her skin. And in that same moment, her eyes found me.  
  
It really was one of 'those moments,' the kind you hear about and see in
Hollywood movies, but never really think would happen to you. But it did, to
me, right then. Michelle looked at me, her eyes widening a bit, revealing a
brief flash of gorgeous amber illuminated in the strobe lights. I stared back.
Everything else seemed drowned out, as if the rest of the world momentarily
ceased to exist.  
  
I felt drawn, compelled. Leaving my table, I stepped to the stage, feeling
like I was gliding across the floor. I stood at the head of the broad, glossy
runway, looking up at her. Michelle hesitated briefly, her hand reflexively
touching her neck. I felt a quick surge of guilt that, strangely enough,
vanished as soon as I felt it. Michelle's eyes dipped for a moment. Was it
reticence, I wondered, or regret?  
  
Then she was there, before me, squatting down, touching my chin with her
fingers. "Hi."  
  
I took in a breath. _Jesus, she's beautiful_. "Hi."  
  
Her eyes studied mine a moment, her expression unreadable. "I'll be down in a
minute," she finally said, and with that simple statement, she swiveled a
slender hip toward me, pulling out her G-string. I slipped a couple of bills
beneath the elastic, watched her dance away. I turned robotically and headed
back to my table.  
  
I drummed my fingers, smoked another cigarette, sipped on my second beer as I
waited for Michelle. I felt foolish, stupid, intrusive. I was aware that . . .
_something_ had happened between us, but I had no real idea as to what that
was, nor what it meant.  
  
"Want some company?"  
  
I lifted my eyes, momentarily startled that Michelle had so suddenly appeared
before me, standing across the little round table. I got the immediate feeling
she wanted to keep her distance, at least for the moment.  
  
I pushed up to my feet quickly, indicated the chair across from me. "Please."  
  
Michelle gave me a funny smile and slid into the seat, setting a little black
purse on the table. She already had her pack of cigarettes out, and lit up
quickly. "Buy a girl a drink?"  
  
"Of course," I said, settling back down across from her.  
  
Michelle looked amused by my mannerisms, but said nothing as the waitress
approached and asked what 'Candace' wanted. I didn't take my eyes of Michelle.
"Anything the lady wants," I said.  
  
"Grey Goose and tonic," Michelle ordered, keeping her eyes trained on my face.  
  
"Be right back," the waitress quipped, and headed off.  
  
Michelle blew a plume of smoke. "What do you want, Will?" she asked.  
  
I frowned. "Did I . . . do something wrong?" I asked hesitantly in return.  
  
Michelle looked like she was about to berate me a moment, then blushed and
looked down. "No, I guess not."  
  
"You guess?"  
  
Her head snapped back up. "Who the fuck are you?" she asked belligerently,
then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I mean, why are you even in this place?"  
  
I felt defensive. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
Michelle sighed. "Look around, dude," she said. "Guys that come in here . . .
they're fucking mechanics and dock workers and waiters and bartenders . . .
blue-collar guys. And then there's _you_."  
  
I bristled slightly at her tone. _And then there's you_ . . . she'd said it
like I was an unwelcome foreigner. "What about me?"  
  
"Yeah, that's what I wanna know," she said, leaning aggressively on the table,
her eyes glaring. "Guys like you and your friend . . . you come in here every
once in a while, like you're slumming or some shit. What, make you feel
fucking _superior_ or something to come in here, see how the lower half
lives?"  
  
Defensive anger spiked through me. "Hey, unless I'm wrong, you invited me to
come see you, with that 'first dance is on me' line," I snapped.  
  
Michelle held my gaze a moment, then dropped her eyes abruptly. She tapped
some ash off her cigarette, pulled on it, tapped again. "Yeah, I guess I did,"
she said in a small voice that I barely heard over the music.  
  
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Look, what happened last time? What
was that about?"  
  
Michelle was quiet a long moment. She took her drink when the waitress arrived
with it, sucked down half of it right away and sighed heavily. She didn't look
at me, just smoked her cigarette, holding it with mildly shaking fingers. I
waited for her to speak.  
  
"You know, most of the time, I think I've got it so good," she said, speaking
as if talking to herself. "Got a nice place, some nice shit . . . I make a
fuckload of money. I don't need nobody."  
  
Her amber eyes finally drifted up, glowing with an inner light. "The guys I
meet here, they're all like me. Simple. Half these dudes . . . they dropped
out'a high school, just like I did. Maybe got a GED, like me. The other half .
. . maybe they went all the way, went to tech school and shit. But they're
still just like me."  
  
She ground out her cigarette, immediately lit another one. "Then there's guys
like you. High-rollers. Guys with money and a real life. And you come in here,
slumming with the trailer-trash girls, looking to get your rocks off—"  
  
"What makes you think I'm like that?"  
  
Michelle faltered, blinked, gave me a confused look. "Because you are."  
  
I suddenly laughed. "Do you really have that low an opinion of me?"  
  
Michelle's eyes flickered as she tried to read me. I wasn't sure what my eyes
or expression were telling her. "Then, why did you come in? I mean . . . you
came to see me, right?"  
  
I couldn't suppress my amused smile. "No, I didn't," I said. "Ramon – the guy
I was with – it was his idea to come here."  
  
She almost looked insulted. "So you didn't want to—"  
  
"I did," I said hurriedly, and automatically reached out to settle my hand on
her wrist. "I just . . . I didn't want it to happen that way."  
  
Michelle didn't pull her arm back, although I felt a momentary tensing of her
muscles beneath my hand. "How did you want it to happen?" she asked.  
  
I stared, trying to form my thoughts. "If I had my way, it wouldn't have been
. . . like that," I said, thinking about the events in that little booth.  
  
Her gaze was unwavering. "So how would it have been? Roses? Dinner? Limo?" Her
questions rolled out on an air of skepticism and insult.  
  
"Yes," I said simply.  
  
Her jaw quivered slightly. "What do you want from me?" she asked in a
quivering voice.  
  
"What do you want from me?" I asked back.  
  
She swallowed nervously. "I don't know."  
  
"I don't, either."  
  
She barked out a laugh. "But you still wanna fuck me."  
  
I read her face, and the tiredness there, the pain. "No," I said after a
moment, and pushed back, trailing my fingers away from her arm. "I don't want
to fuck you."  
  
I stood, taking up my cigarettes. Michelle gave me a confused, startled look
as she watched me rise. I took a last gulp of my beer, then left the table. A
sour taste formed in my mouth and only intensified as I headed to the door. By
the time I was halfway down the street to the apartment building, I felt like
I was going to throw up.  
  
***  
  
I took a long bath, soaking in the hot water and letting the beer seep out
through my pores. I stepped out onto the balcony in my bathrobe, thankful for
the relatively warm February air in my new southwestern home. The same time of
year in Ohio was cause for parkas and long-johns. But here, it was almost
tropical in comparison.  
  
I listened to the traffic and distant police sirens, the wordless jumble of
faintly-shouted conversations seven stories below. There were a few stores on
the street below, most of them loudly decorated in red and pink, broad windows
gaudily advertising the imminent Valentine's Day. I soured; I had all but
forgotten about the romantic holiday. The sky overhead glowed orange as
streetlights reflected off cloud cover. The moon was a vague, glowing disc
through the atmospheric mist.  
  
_Knock, knock._  
  
My ears perked, and I looked back through the balcony door, into the shadows
of my apartment. I didn't have a single light on. I sometimes felt comfort in
the darkness, but not because of any sense of morbidity. The world just seemed
smaller when it was swallowed up in shadow. Less hectic. Simple.  
  
_Knock, knock._  
  
I pushed away from the railing, heading inside. A single lamp on the end table
beside my couch bathed the room in a soft golden glow. I flipped the latch on
the door, withdrew the chain, turned the knob.  
  
"Hi."  
  
I started, a little surprised to see Michelle on my doorstep. It had been a
few hours, I figured, since she had come home from work. She had obviously
showered; the clean aroma of soap and jasmine bath oil surrounded her like an
invisible mist. She wore clothes I had never seen upon her before: a denim
skirt that came to mid-thigh, and a tan-colored peasant blouse that tied up
the front. Gone was the sparkle and glitter from her face, and her wheat-
colored hair looked loose, relaxed, soft and clean.  
  
"Hi," I said back.  
  
Michelle looked sheepish, almost timid. "I'm in pretty good with Mrs. Dobbs,"
she said, invoking the name of our landlady.  
  
I nodded shortly, still half-hiding behind the door. "She told you where I am,
huh?"  
  
Michelle nodded, smiled embarrassingly. "All this time, and you're right on
top of me," she said.  
  
I wasn't sure if her statement was double-entendre, innuendo, or what. "Yeah.
Imagine that."  
  
Michelle fidgeted, picking at her nails, biting her lip. She didn't look at
me, not directly. "Um . . . I wanna apologize."  
  
That surprised me. "For what?"  
  
She laughed sharply. "For being a bitch," she said bluntly.  
  
I smiled. "You're not a bitch," I said.  
  
She inhaled deeply, let it out with a huff. "No, I'm just a white-trash
topless dancer," she said.  
  
"I don't see you that way."  
  
Michelle raised her eyes slowly. They were a little red, a little swollen.
"So, how do you see me?" she asked, pushing her words out. "Or how do you
wanna see me?"  
  
I suddenly heard Ramon's voice in my head: _You go back there, find that
skinny little blonde you like. Then ask her how much it takes to buy her out.
Guarantee she'll give you a price._ "I hope this isn't what I'm afraid it is,"
I said.  
  
"What the fuck does that mean?"  
  
I shifted on my feet. "I mean, you show up out of nowhere, and . . . after
what happened . . . ."  
  
Michelle frowned. She was silent as she searched my face, then finally
sputtered out a rude laugh. "Holy fuck," she said under her breath. She looked
back to me with an angry expression. "You think that's what I am? You think
I'm a fucking _whore_?"  
  
I sighed, realizing I had said the wrong words. "No, I—"  
  
"Yeah, I bet," she snapped. She straightened, gave me a haughty, angry look.
"Look, _asshole_. I dance topless, I shove my tits and twat in a guy's face to
make my money. Maybe I get freaky sometimes. But if you think I'm gonna strip
it off and spread it for you just 'cause you got money—"  
  
"Look, I didn't—"  
  
She scoffed harshly. "Oh, yeah? Then why'd say that?"  
  
I stared at her, trying to respond, trying to find a delicate way of
explaining myself . . . but I couldn't find the words.  
  
Michelle shook her head in disgust. "Just like every other fucking guy in the
world," she said derisively. "Fuck you. And that's not a God damned invite."  
  
I looked after her hopelessly as she strode back along the hallway. This time,
the sexy wiggle in her hips was painful to watch.  
  
***  
  
It took me half an hour and a beer to get up the courage to head down to her
apartment. I paused before her door, fingers curled in my raised hand, ready
to knock. Over a dozen different speeches had been prepared in my head,
ranging from the humble to the confrontational. Every one of them floated away
like ashes on a stiff breeze as I stared at Michelle's apartment door.  
  
I almost knocked, then hesitated. My knuckles brushed the surface of her door,
barely hard enough to evoke a noise. I lowered my hand. _You're an idiot,
Will, _I told myself_. She'll just get mad at you again. She's already made up
her mind about you, and there's not a damn thing you can do to change it._  
  
I took a step away, then stopped and turned back. My hand lifted again,
paused. A frustrated huff left my lips. _Either you do it, and get slapped, or
you don't and spend the night staring at the ceiling. You know how you are.
For better or for worse, you gotta know._  
  
I sighed. _God damn it . . . ._  
  
_Knock knock knock._  
  
I almost ran back to my apartment after rapping on the door. It was a childish
impulse, but a powerful one nonetheless. Michelle represented what I both did
and didn't want from life. She was a woman who could give me more trouble than
I wanted . . . at the same time, she might possibly be the sort of woman to
give me what I needed. My thoughts were admittedly selfish, but with the
dichotomy Michelle had shown me thus far concerning her own personality, I did
not know what to think of her . . . or what I might be able to do to please
and satisfy her.  
  
As it was, I waited for nearly a minute, glancing to the tiny aperture of the
spyhole in the door now and then. I thought I heard some shuffling behind the
door, perhaps the whisper of slender fingers on the other side. I chalked that
up to imagination and wishful thinking, and was just turning away when I heard
the locks disengage.  
  
The door jerked open, just a few inches. I only saw half of Michelle's
glowering face. "What."  
  
I sighed, then took a breath. "I want to apologize," I said.  
  
The one eye I could see flickered. "It's no big deal," she said with some
disdain. "Guess I come off that way, huh? Strippers and whores, no big
difference, right?"  
  
I frowned. "Don't you ever get tired of feeling sorry for yourself?"  
  
Michelle jerked open the door wide, revealing that she wore only a long white
T-shirt. "Fuck you!"  
  
"Fuck you," I shot back. "And that's not an invite, either."  
  
She sputtered a moment, gesturing chaotically with her hands. "What the fuck
do you want, Will?" she asked me. "Look, I get enough psycho guys at work, I
don't need another one, especially where I live."  
  
I made an effort to remain calm. "I'm not psycho," I said. "And I don't think
you're a . . . ."  
  
"I'm a what?" she asked, still being confrontational.  
  
I took a moment, considering my words, then met her eyes. "I don't think
you're anything but a woman who just wants to be appreciated for who she is."  
  
Michelle stared at me for a moment, then rolled her eyes with a rueful shake
of her head. "I ain't got time for lines," she said, and started to close her
door.  
  
"It's not a line," I said quickly. My hand slapped to the door before I knew
what I was doing. Michelle stared at me, looking both frightened and angry. "I
just want to know who you are," I finished.  
  
She set her jaw. "No you don't," she said. "You just wanna fuck me. Just like
every guy in the whole fucking world I ever met—"  
  
"_God damn it!_" I shouted, making her flinch. I forced myself to be calm once
more. "Look, you want the truth? Yeah, I want you. I think that's pretty
obvious. But not . . . _like that._"  
  
Michelle blinked, looking away. "I don't wanna go through this shit again,"
she said.  
  
"Go through what?" I asked.  
  
Michelle stared at me for a long moment, her shoulders falling. "There was a
guy," she said heavily. "He used to live in the building. In your apartment,
as a matter of fact."  
  
Dread flowed through me. My intuition was filling in some of the gaps already.
"Was he your—"  
  
Michelle laughed sharply. "No. But that's what he wanted. And he . . . he knew
so much about me, it fucking freaked me out! It's like he was watching me
somehow!"  
  
I nodded, looking away as shame welled up within me like the pressure behind a
boiler. "I don't want you to think I'm like that, Michelle," I said. I let my
eyes trail back toward her face. "I really don't know much about you." I felt
that my words were at least partly true; I knew some things about her life,
from her simple affectations to what kind of beer she preferred. But beyond
that, I knew little, I realized.  
  
Her lips quivered a moment. She looked like she was torn between telling me
off and inviting me in. "Then why'd you think I was a fucking whore?"  
  
"I didn't." I sighed, then laughed sharply to myself. _You fucking asshole,
Ramon_. "You were right about me, Michelle. I don't hang out in strip clubs. I
don't know girls like you. The only women I ever dated were the nice, normal,
go-to-church-on-Sundays girls. My ex was everything you're not: refined,
educated, wore dresses all the time and blushed at every swear word. The way I
grew up, that was the kind of woman I was supposed to be with."  
  
Michelle gave me a spiteful look, crossing her arms defensively. "Then why
don't you go back to her?"  
  
I met her gaze boldly. "Because there was one thing she didn't do," I said.  
  
Michelle scoffed. "What? Suck your dick?" she asked rudely.  
  
I stared. "She didn't turn me on," I said.  
  
She regarded me dubiously. "And . . . I _do_?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Michelle looked away, massaging her arms as if she was cold. "That still
doesn't tell me why . . . why you thought I was—"  
  
I sighed. "You know that guy I was with, the first time I went in?"  
  
Michelle frowned. "Yeah. I've seen him," she said, then laughed softly. "I
hear he can't keep his hands to himself."  
  
I nodded. "I made the mistake of believing him when he said that dancers can
be . . . _bought out_." I watched her face carefully.  

She frowned, lips twitching. "Right."  
  
"But, you know what's funny? I never thought that about you. I didn't _want_
to think that about you. It was a stupid thing I said when you came up to see
me. I really am sorry, Michelle." I backed away from the door, started down
the hall to the stairwell. I almost felt like smiling. At least some weight, I
realized, had been lifted from my shoulders.  
  
"Will."  
  
I paused at the frosted glass door marked 'Stairs' in gold stencil. I
considered just jerking open the door and leaving Michelle behind. But I
didn't.  
  
"Will!"  
  
I turned back. Michelle's face was apologetic, though I was fairly certain she
would not admit her feelings with words. I stepped away from the stairwell and
faced her. "What."  
  
She stood in her doorway, illuminated from behind by soft light. "You, uh . .
. want a beer?"  
  
I hesitated a moment, regarding the stairs, torn between returning to my safe
and comfortable home, turning the locks and not letting the outside world in,
or . . . or . . . .  
  
I glanced back to her, briefly, found myself smiling. "You have any dark
beer?"  
  
Michelle laughed softly. "Just Corona."  
  
_I knew that_, I thought. I gripped the handle to the stairwell door. "I'm
gonna get my own," I said. "I'll be right back."  
  
***  
  
Michelle's apartment looked different in a first-hand view, as opposed to the
voyeuristic one I had been privy to. She styled her living room with all the
furniture facing the glass-topped coffee table in the middle, as opposed to my
couch and chair facing the entertainment center. There were a few books
beneath her table, mainly dog-eared paperbacks with the names of Cornwell and
Grisham on the covers.  
  
There were pictures on the walls, not the usual and mundane decorations one
might find at Ross or TJ Maxx. These were personal photographs, ones I had
never noticed before. A man and woman, blurred by color, with a little blonde
girl between them. And others, mainly featuring just the man and woman.
Michelle's parents, I deduced.  
  
I found myself looking to the ceiling, when Michelle's attention wasn't on me.
I had always wondered how the spyholes went unnoticed, and now I knew: her
ceiling was heavily stuccoed, the light of the room casting shadows across the
jagged surface that did well to hide the little holes through which I had
watched my neighbor.  
  
"I started dancing when I was sixteen," Michelle was saying, staring at the TV
as she cradled a bottle of Corona against her chest. "I could've been working
for five bucks an hour at Burger King or some shit, but . . . ."  
  
"But, what?" I prodded.  
  
Michelle sighed, sipped from her beer. "I _did_ work at Burger King," she
said, in a way that made me think it was a low point in her life. "Me,
Lindsey, Maria . . . we all got hired, and then this guy came in. Took one
look at me and told me I was 'hot.' Turns out he owned a few bars."  
  
I watched her pull from her bottle again, watching the flickering images on
the TV.  
  
"I started dancing," she continued. "It was a shit-hole, really. Used to be a
gas station on the southside. Tiny stage, nothing but greasers and tool-
monkeys . . . _God_. But it was a hell of a lot more money than doing fast
food. The only part I didn't like was the private shows. They called it
'table-dancing,' but it was really in this little booth, where nobody could
see what was going on." She shot me a look, conveying more meaning than any
words ever could.  
  
Michelle took a breath and kept going. "I made enough money, and after a
while, took a bus to the north side of town. Worked my way through a bunch of
clubs, made enough money to get a fucking car and a place to live. Not like
this place, though. Shacked up with another girl for a while." She gave me a
little smile and a wink.  
  
"Then, I made it here," she said at last, stretching her arms above her head.
Her long shirt rode up along slender thighs, briefly exposing her sexy hips
and the swell of a panty-covered pubic mound. Michelle jerked her shirt down
and looked at me. "Been a long ride."  
  
"So why tell me all that?" I asked.  
  
Michelle sat up, holding her beer between her legs. She studied me with her
eyes for a long moment. "You know what Thursday is?" she asked.  
  
I frowned, shaking my head at her unexpected question. "What?"  
  
Michelle smiled. "Valentine's Day," she said. She gave me wistful look. "I've
never really had a _real_ Valentine's Day."  
  
I met her amber-colored eyes, then looked down, lighting a cigarette. I blew
smoke in the air, peripherally watching as it was carried out through the
balcony door. "In tenth grade, I sent flowers to Mandy Reed," I said with a
self-admonishing smile. "She didn't even know who I was."  
  
Michelle laughed under her breath. "Shit. That would've at least rated a
blowjob where I went to school," she said.  
  
I chuckled. "I sent flowers the next year," I continued. "She had a
boyfriend."  
  
Michelle gave me a funny look. "Same chick? Dude—"  
  
"I know; I've always been an incurable romantic. But I was sixteen, what do
you expect? I thought I was in love."  
  
A soft smile crossed her face. "I can see that about you."  
  
I shrugged. "I ran into her about three years later, in college," I continued.
"I was still the same old romantic. Happened to be around Valentine's Day,
too, so I sent her flowers again."  
  
Michelle shook her head with a smile. "You're hopeless, you know that?"  
  
I smirked. "She called me that night," I said. "Found my name and number in
the student directory. I met her half an hour later at a pizza place, and we
ended up having sex in her car."  
  
Michelle looked surprised. "No way."  
  
I laughed. "Serious. We saw each other every day for about two weeks. Then she
went back to her jock boyfriend."  
  
Michelle's face soured. "Sounds like some girls I know," she remarked.  
  
I shrugged. "Yeah. Should'a seen it coming. But it was my first time and all.
I really thought I was in love. Then she dumps me, just like that. Talk about
devastated."  
  
A curious frown distorted Michelle's lips. "Wait a sec. 'First time?' How old
were you?"  
  
"Twenty," I said. I sipped my beer. "I was a late bloomer."  
  
"No shit," Michelle muttered. "Jeez, by the time I was twenty, I already . . .
." She looked down at her bottle, a pained look crossing her face. "Never
mind."  
  
"You already what?"  
  
She sighed. "I had a baby," she said. "When I was eighteen. But she, uh, died
about four months after she was born. They called it 'crib death.'"  
  
My heart sank. I could literally feel it dropping in my chest. "Oh, God,
Michelle, I'm sorry."  
  
She put on a brave smile. "'Sokay. I've had thirteen years to get used to it."  
  
"That's a hell of a thing to get used to. I really am sorry."  
  
Michelle took a heavy breath, then slipped her legs off the couch and faced
me, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "You have any kids?"  
  
I shook my head, also leaning forward, as I had been since we sat down. "We
tried, for a while. Turned out Monica was barren."  
  
"'Monica?'" asked Michelle. "That was your girlfriend, or what?"  
  
I smiled sheepishly, flashing my unadorned ring finger. "My wife."  
  
Michelle looked a little surprised, her lips parted. "Oh. How long were you
married?"  
  
"Eight years," I said. "We were together for ten, all told."  
  
"Wow. That's a long time. I mean, these days, it is."  
  
I swallowed thickly. "I used to think I wanted it to last forever. But when
her attorney gave me the divorce papers, I really wasn't that surprised."  
  
Michelle's eyes flashed brilliantly, just for a moment. "Did you cheat on
her?"  
  
I shook my head. "Not once," I said. "But I'll admit I thought about it. A
lot. Especially during the last few years. Once a month isn't enough for this
boy."  
  
Michelle laughed vicariously. "Or this girl," she said, her mouth curling
impishly.  
  
For a moment, images of Michelle masturbating in the shower, her bed, on the
furniture in her living room – including the very chair upon which I sat –
filled my mind. I could feel myself getting hard, as well as the teasing rush
of anticipation. For a long moment, Michelle and I just stared at one another,
both of us simmering in silence.  
  
I finally spoke. "Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Why, um . . . why did you want me to bite you?"  
  
Michelle nibbled her lip, eyes dipping for a moment. A little color tinted her
cheeks. "Freaked you out a little, didn't it?"  
  
I smiled nervously. "A little, but . . . ."  
  
"But what?"  
  
I stared into her glittering amber orbs. "It turned me on, too."  
  
More color rose to her face, and Michelle breathed in. "Seriously?"  
  
"Yeah. Don't know why, but it did."  
  
Michelle fidgeted with her hands, rolling the bottle of beer between them.
"I've always wanted to try that," she said. "I just . . . I mean, I didn't
think it would happen like that, with a guy I didn't really know. I guess
that's why I freaked."  
  
"I thought I did something wrong."  
  
Her eyes were unflinching. "No."  
  
It was another one of those moments, then, as I fell into her eyes. A moment
in which I could have said and done what I really wanted at that moment, and I
knew Michelle would let me.  
  
But then, of course, her phone rang.  
  
Michelle sighed, muttering "Fuck" under her breath as some hip-hop song filled
the air. She apologized with her eyes, then leaned toward the end of the
couch, where her phone lay. I was treated to a flash of the tiny red thong
that barely covered her sex before Michelle straightened, ending the song by
flipping her phone open.  
  
"Hey, Dar," she said, looking perturbed. ". . . just having a beer. What's
up?"  
  
I watched as Michelle listened to her friend. I could just make out what
sounded like an excited female voice, but could not discern any words.
Michelle rolled her eyes, then frowned.  
  
"What? Oh, come on, bitch, you know I don't do that shit anymore!" She huffed
angrily, gritting her teeth as she stared at the TV. She reached for her
cigarettes and lit one as 'Dar' prattled on in her ear. Michelle finally spoke
again. "Look, I'll go with you, all right? But I'm not partying, period . . .
Fine. Half an hour, but you're dropping me off back at my place, got it?
Okay." She snapped the phone closed, drew on her cigarette, and sighed. Her
eyes drifted to me.  
  
"It's okay," I said, pushing to my feet. "You've got things to do."  
  
Michelle looked reticent, eyes blinking up at me gently. "Darla's such a
selfish bitch," she said. "She's gotta have her fucking fix, but she's afraid
to go to her dealer alone."  
  
_Darla?_ I thought. _Wonder if she's got long, curly black hair . . . ._ "But
you don't do that stuff, right?"  
  
"I used to," she admitted. "I used to be really fucked up. I've been trying to
get Dar cleaned up, but . . . guess that fucking monkey's got a real serious
hold on her."  
  
I smiled. "Well, I'm glad it doesn't have a hold on you anymore."  
  
Michelle smiled back. "Nah. I kicked my monkey in the balls and threw him out
the door."  
  
I laughed. "Guess I'll see you later, huh?"  
  
Michelle bit her lip. "Guess so." She remained seated as I turned to the door.
But just as I was about to leave, I turned back. "You know what you were
saying about never having had a real Valentine's Day?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
I smiled, my heart hammering with nervousness. I had never been anxious at the
prospect of asking a woman out before. But neither had I ever asked out a
woman like Michelle. "I was just thinking . . . how about dinner?"  
  
Michelle stared at me, her expression blank. For a moment, I wondered if I had
said the wrong thing, or misconstrued her words and body language.  
  
"Dinner?" she asked, starting to smile. "You mean, like, a real date?"  
  
"Yeah," I said with a small laugh. "A date. I'll make reservations."  
  
"'Reservations,'" she repeated. She laughed suddenly. "Are we going some place
fancy?"  
  
I shrugged. "Maybe," I said. "Would it bother you?"  
  
Michelle blushed, looking so much at that moment like the teenager I had
originally mistaken her for. She finally shook her head. "Guess not."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
She laughed. "Yeah. I'd love to go out on a _date_ with you, Will," she said.  
  
I matched her laugh. "I'll pick you up at seven?"  
  
Michelle nodded. She was smiling in a way I had never seen before, her eyes
sparkling beautifully. "Okay."  
  
A warm feeling flowed through me like the waters of the River Jordan. "Okay."
I felt like a teenager myself, nervous, anxious, elated and awkward. I
indicated the door behind me. "Um, I, uh . . . well, you got stuff to do."  
  
Michelle giggled. "Good night, Will."  
  
"Good night."  
  
Heading away from Michelle's apartment, I felt like I could fly. The grin on
my face couldn't have been dispelled if a school bus crashed on the street
below. _I've got a date! I thought. I've got a real freakin' date!_  
  
_Looks like life is looking up, Will . . . ._  
  
***  
  
I made a firm and final decision, and headed down to the supermarket.
Caulking, spackle, putty knives and scrapers, I got everything I figured I
would need to not only cover all the voyeur holes in my apartment, but to seal
them up for good. I felt good about myself as I started with the hole in the
living room, and each one I covered up cemented my decision, reinforcing the
fact that Michelle was now a real presence in my life, and not just a
tantalizing peep show.  
  
I took a break, lighting up a cigarette and letting the windows open to allow
the air to circulate. The sharp, acrid aroma of caulk filled my apartment. I
never knew how much that stuff smelled. Nor had I been prepared for the effort
involved; I was sweating, and had stripped down to just my jeans. Little
pieces of white spackle decorated my hands and forearms. I had even managed,
somehow, to get a little of the stuff on my stomach and jeans.  
  
_Knock, knock . . . ._  
  
I looked to the door. _Huh?_ I checked the time on my watch: nine-thirty. _Who
the hell . . . oh, man, it sure as hell better not be Ramon, bothering me with
the Arredondo account. I told him three times what he had to do before Monday
. . . ._  
  
"Hi."  
  
I was a little startled to see Michelle standing before me, clad in tight
little boy shorts and a loose white top. She smelled clean and sweet, a little
spicy. Whatever her perfume was, I instantly vowed to write the manufacturer a
thank-you note.  
  
"Uh . . . hi," I said back, feeling self-conscious in my partial nudity. Not
to mention the aroma of sweat that I was sure wafted off me like the odor off
a pig.  
  
She chuckled softly, eyes wandering over my chest. One of her thin, nearly
invisible eyebrows arched with interest. Evidently, Michelle wasn't put off by
my appearance in the slightest. "Um . . . you busy?"  
  
"No," I said quickly. "I was just, uh, you know. Fixing stuff," I said
awkwardly. _Well, it's not as if I can tell her I was covering up the spyholes
that allowed me to watch her for the past month and a half . . . good thing
I've been covering up as I went along._  
  
Michelle's eyes smoldered sexily. "Wanna take a break?" she asked, in a way
that, to me, seemed to promise something. She held up a six-pack of
Warsteiner.  
  
I smiled. "Sure."  
  
***  
  
Michelle complimented me on my apartment and furnishings, poking around a
little, but in a way that wasn't intrusive. She was really interested in the
collection of masks that I'd hung on one of my walls. They ranged from African
tribal masks to Italian masquerade-style works. She listened as I explained
the significance of some of them. Only rarely was she not smiling.  
  
Well, not until she kissed me.  
  
We were standing out on the balcony. The air was crisp, more than a little
cool from the receding winter, a glow coming up from the street below. We
peripherally heard the traffic below as we talked about ourselves. Michelle
had been orphaned when she was seven, and from her account, her parents had
been fairly affluent. She had been promised a trust fund once she turned
eighteen, but over the following eleven years, her aunt and uncle, with whom
she went to live, had squandered it away. I got the impression, as well, that
her uncle had taken advantage of more than just his niece's money.  
  
"I didn't exactly have the best life growing up," Michelle said. "Guess that's
why I turned into such a bitch."  
  
I leaned against the railing, having donned a T-shirt in an effort to retain
my modesty. "I don't think you're a bitch," I said.  
  
Michelle curled her mouth, glancing to me from the corner of her eye. "You
didn't know me when I was sixteen," she said meaningfully. "A real Hellraiser,
that was me. I got into all sorts of shit. Smoking pot, drinking, hanging out
with older guys just 'cause they had cool cars and would buy me what I wanted.
And what they didn't buy, I stole. I got to be pretty good at shoplifting.
Well, until I was caught."  
  
"Worst thing I ever did was take money out of my mom's purse because I wanted
to buy a game," I said.  
  
Michelle laughed, shaking her head. "Man, I wish I'd had your life," she said
wishfully, taking a drag off her cigarette. Our beers remained barely touched.  
  
"Sometimes I wish I'd had yours," I said.  
  
Michelle frowned skeptically. "Bullshit."  
  
I laughed. "I'm serious," I said. "Hell, I don't think I grew up until I was
almost thirty. I could have used a few good kicks in the ass."  
  
Her smile faded, eyes remaining on mine. "Trust me, you wouldn't have wanted
my life."  
  
I looked down, chastised, and suitably so. "You're right," I said. "And I'm
sorry you had to live it. I wish there was something I could do."  
  
Michelle smiled thinly, looking down at the world below us. She flicked her
cigarette, watching it fall. "There is."  
  
I slid a little closer. "You want me to guess?"  
  
Michelle smiled more genuinely, then turned to face me. "Kiss me."  
  
They were just two simple words, ones I had heard before, but never in such a
context, and never from a woman who so utterly exuded sexiness the way
Michelle did. Beyond merely encouraging and compelling me, those two little
words aroused me more than any impassioned utterance of "fuck me, baby," ever
had.  
  
More words would only have ruined the moment, so I said nothing. I just moved
a little closer, watching Michelle lick her lips in anticipation. I leaned in,
inhaling the sweet spiciness of her perfume along with the strangely carnal
aroma of nicotine . . . .  
  
"Mmm . . . ."  
  
Michelle's gentle moan fueled me, urged me on. I loved the taste of her lips,
the slick softness of them, the way the tip of her tongue snaked out, just a
little, to touch mine. The kiss was soft, passionate, neither desperate nor
yearning. The kiss of imminent lovers who knew not to rush the moment.  
  
Our arms lifted to encase each other at the same time. Michelle yielded with
more moans and grateful sighs, pressing herself against me. Her right leg slid
up along the outside of my thigh, and I felt the slow but steady grind of her
sex against mine. My arousal was obvious to her; she had to feel it, I was
certain.  
  
"I want you," she whispered with a heated breath, drawing back a little. Her
eyes slowly opened, so beautifully golden and wet.  
  
I shuddered. "I want you, too," I said.  
  
Michelle stepped back, her lips parted and moist, eyes mischievous with
passion. Carefully, she took my hand. "Come on." Her voice was barely audible,
but I didn't have to hear her words. I followed her into my living room. We
set our beers upon the small bistro table I had placed beside the balcony
door, and Michelle held both of my hands behind her, as she had done when
leading me to the private booth in the strip club. But this was not the same
situation; this seduction was more palpable.  
  
She pushed me down onto the couch, leaning over me. The hungry glow in her
eyes was unmistakable, the look of a tigress before pouncing upon her kill. To
say that I was not intimidated would be a lie; yet, my arousal never abated.
In fact, it intensified.  

"I want you," she said again, pushing my shirt up, exposing my chest. For an
instant, I considered warning her, since I had not yet showered. But Michelle
didn't care; she buried her face in my chest, kissing, licking, nipping at my
skin. Her tongue slipped out, tracing the shape of the muscles on my chest. I
breathed in when she captured one of my nipples between her teeth and bit.  
  
Slowly, teasingly, Michelle made her way down my torso, leaving kisses here
and there that were kept warm by her breath. She settled to her knees between
my legs, placing her hands upon my thighs. My cock was painfully engorged,
confined in my jeans, forming an obvious bulge that captured my lover's
attention. With an impulsive growl, Michelle pressed her mouth to it, pushing
her teeth into the fabric. I gasped from the heat and pressure of her mouth.  
  
"God, Michelle . . . ."  
  
"Hmm," she murmured, looking up to me impishly. She rubbed her cheek against
my erection, eyes glowing as she studied my face. "Just enjoy, baby."  
  
I could only groan in response; passion had stripped me of everything but my
libido. My hips rolled with need, wanting more of Michelle's attention. My
lover responded with a sultry smile of promise, slowly pulling on the button
of my jeans. I emitted a moan once it was released, then a sigh of pleasure
when Michelle tugged on my zipper with her teeth. Tooth by tooth, the denim
fabric parted, revealing my nakedness beneath.  
  
"No underwear," she commented with a sly look, then lowered her face and
pressed her lips to my lower abdomen, just above my cock. Yet another moan.
Her jaw worked a little, moving up and down, her chin rubbing the base of my
shaft. I brought up my hands reflexively, wanting to push Michelle down,
wanting to feel her lips lower.  
  
But she intercepted my hands with her own, lifting her head with a sexy lick
of her lips. "Uh-uh," she uttered. Keeping her eyes locked on mine, she
returned my hands to the couch. "It'll be so much better if you don't rush it,
baby."  
  
I swallowed with effort, and nodded. I still couldn't speak. I had never been
so aroused. The kind of passion I had only ever read about was now engulfing
my mind and body, making me shake with anticipation.  
  
"Lift your hips," she whispered. I eagerly complied, letting out a guttural
sigh as my cock was finally released. It sprang in the air for a moment before
slapping to my abdomen, then just hovered, waiting.  
  
"Oh, baby," Michelle purred, and descended once more, dragging her tongue
along the length of me. The feel of her tongue, the moist heat of her breath .
. . nothing could have described Heaven more completely in that moment.  
  
Michelle licked up and down, sometimes with broad, lapping strokes, sometimes
just tickling the nerves beneath my foreskin with the tip of her tongue. She
made her way down to the swollen sacks beneath, taking them one at a time into
her mouth and sucking gently, as if they were pieces of candy from which she
wanted to draw out the flavor. Her tongue even wormed lower, beneath my balls,
massaging the firm root of my cock. I had never been licked there before.  
  
"M-Michelle," I managed to croak, as a fleeting moment's rationality entered
my mind.  
  
She pulled her face back slowly, allowing a glistening sack of flesh to pop
out of her mouth. "Yes, baby?"  
  
I tried to speak, tried to form a coherent thought. But I couldn't. I had been
seduced by an angel, a vampire, a succubus. "Oh, fuck," was all I managed to
say.  
  
"Do you want me to suck your cock, Will?"  
  
Jesus! Thirty-five years, and never had I heard those words. My dick twitched,
dancing before Michelle's face. She was enjoying the exquisite torture she was
putting me through, that much was obvious. "Y-yes," I stammered. "Please."  
  
Michelle giggled like a schoolgirl, confounding the image of the sultry vixen
she had been up to that point. Her hands slid up my naked thighs, slender
fingers encircling my cock. She tilted it toward her face, and grinned. "Well,
okay," she said coyly. "If you really want me to."  
  
I trembled. "I want you to."  
  
Michelle stroked the length of my cock with slow, firm strokes. She shifted,
lifting up until her head was poised over the glistening head. "Good," she
whispered, the vixen-like look returning. "Because I really wanna do it." To
punctuate her statement, Michelle pressed her lips to the head of my cock,
letting them spread apart as she pushed down, sucking me in. The heat of her
mouth was maddening, the effect magnified by the way she kept her eyes on mine
as she submerged my cock, inch by inch.  
  
I moaned, groaned, thrashed and shook as Michelle feasted on me. I babbled
like a baby, digging my fingers into the couch, luxuriating in the slow,
exquisite pumping of Michelle's talented mouth. Up and down, down and up, she
kept me trapped in a wet seal of massaging heat. My back arched, and I lifted
my hips, wanting to give her more. To my amazed delight, she took it.  
  
Without any discomfort at all, and only the barest of hesitation, Michelle
pushed down, taking me to the root. I felt a slightly rough opening against
the head of my cock, then the sweet, sublime tautness of her throat. I
quivered, panting, feeling the automatic rippling motions as she reflexively
swallowed. No words could describe that sensation.  
  
Michelle held me deep for several wonderful moments, closing her mouth around
the base of my cock, her nose nudging my abdomen. Her hands smoothed up my
thighs; nails raked as she dragged them back down. The gentle pain was a
perfect complement to the wet sheath of velvet her throat had become. I would
have been happy to spend the rest of my life like that.  
  
She slid back up, sucking and slurping loudly as she went so as not to allow a
single dribble of saliva to escape. She swallowed, then moaned around my cock,
suckling just the head, then plunged back down, sucking hard. Slick from her
mouth, my shaft glided effortlessly between her glossy lips. Between the
physical sensations and the erotic thrill of watching her, my rush was not
long in coming.  
  
"Michelle!" I gasped, warning her. I remembered how disgusted she had been
when her shaggy-haired, tattooed lover had ejaculated in her mouth. As much as
I wanted to enjoy that for myself, I wanted more for Michelle to enjoy
herself. "Stop, baby! I'm gonna cum!"  
  
She kept pumping up and down, eyes flashing open briefly. She murmured around
her mouthful of stiff flesh, then suddenly plunged all the way down, taking me
to the root. Unable to stop myself, I clasped my hands to her head, shaking
uncontrollably as euphoric bliss began.  
  
But Michelle was doing something I had never heard of before. With my cock
fully seated in her mouth and throat, she tightened the seal of her lips
around the base, squeezing snugly, stemming the eruption that threatened to
burst. She didn't move for several moments as the pressure welled up within my
groin. I felt like I was ejaculating, even as I was aware that my orgasm was
being held in check.  
  
Michelle struggled for a few moments more, clutching my thighs. She held on as
long as she could, making sure I did not erupt, then jerked back, releasing my
cock. It slipped from her mouth, shiny and dripping. Michelle heaved for
breath, smacked and licked her lips. She wiped her mouth, looked up to me.  
  
"You didn't cum," she said.  
  
I panted as well, my vision momentarily blotched. "Almost."  
  
Michelle grinned, then crawled up my body. While she still wore her loose top,
she had, at some point, removed her shorts. The heat of her passion, the
wetness of her sleek lips, soaked into me as she straddled my lap. "Don't
worry, baby," she whispered, reaching between us. "I won't stop you next
time."  
  
I ran my hands up her body, pushing Michelle's shirt to her shoulders. As she
positioned my cock beneath her pussy, rubbing the head against her slick
folds, I paid homage to her firm little breasts, finding a stiff, needy nipple
with my lips and tongue. Michelle sighed in pleasure, then moaned – echoing my
own – when she pushed down, impaling herself upon me.  
  
"Oh-h-h, Will . . . Oh, baby . . . ."  
  
I gripped her hips tightly as Michelle rode me with slow, massaging rolls of
her hips. She seemed to savor the feel of my cock inside her, stretching her
narrow inner walls. Her eyes were closed, her jaw set, lips slack. She
whimpered and seethed through her teeth, grinding against me. I felt every
ripple of her vaginal muscles, the squeezing, the pulling. I pushed up against
her, loving the heat that swallowed me up. Michelle's mouth had been
incredible, but being inside her was indescribably exquisite.  
  
She gripped my head, kissed me fiercely as sexual urgency spurred us on. Her
firm cheeks smacked against my thighs over and over. "Fuck me," she whispered
hotly between kisses. "Oh, God, baby, fuck me!"  
  
I grunted and groaned, driving up inside her as eagerly as Michelle bore down.
Michelle scratched my shoulders and arms with her nails, her face contorting
with pleasure. She arched her back deeply, looking almost like she was in
pain. Not a sound escaped her open mouth as she started cumming; indeed, the
only real indication of her orgasm was the sudden constriction of her pussy,
clenching my cock almost painfully.  
  
Knowing she was cumming spurred on my own orgasm, and I clutched her close,
sucking on her neck, pinching her skin between my teeth as I joined her in
rapture. My cock pulsed in her womb, sending my seed deep within. I felt like
it would never end; I certainly wished it wouldn't.  
  
For long moments, neither of us said a word. We recovered, holding each other
close, kissing affectionately. Michelle quivered with aftershocks, looking
dazed. Her eyes barely fluttered open when she tried to look upon my face.  
  
"W-Will," she mumbled.  
  
I stroked her sweaty back, kissed her chin. "Yeah."  
  
"It . . . It's always gonna . . . be like this . . . right?"  
  
I smiled, brushed back strands of fine blonde hair from her eyes. God, was she
sexy right then, her face glowing with orgasmic blush and sweat, her lips
pouting, eyes glazed. "I hope so," I said.  
  
She smiled weakly. "Good." She settled her head beside mine, breathing against
my ear. I held her tightly, and for the first time since that fateful day in
the back seat of my car with Mandy Reed, I felt that I was in love.  
  
***  
  
I nodded off, and barely noticed as Michelle slid off me. I remained on the
couch, relishing the lingering afterglow of the most intense sex I had ever
known. My limbs were weak, my mind was like slowly-churning butter. It was all
I could do to muster the wherewithal to find my cigarettes and light one up.  
  
_Ah, nicotine . . ._ I chuckled. Life was good. I had finally made it. I had a
good job, a great place, and the most incredibly sexy woman I could ever dream
of.  
  
Something landed beside me on the couch. I blinked, frowned, glanced over. The
three-inch square of Mediterranean tile looked out of place. It took me a
moment to realize where it had come from. And when that realization hit . . .
.  
  
_Oh, shit._  
  
My eyes shot up, the brain behind them suddenly lucid. Michelle stood before
me, still naked, but that fact obviously did not bother her. Her face was
hard-set, her eyes glowering angrily.  
  
"I figured I'd go wash up," she said, her voice quivering. She was doing all
she could to keep her anger in check. "Thought maybe . . . maybe we'd relax a
little while, have a beer . . . ."  
  
"Michelle—" I began.  
  
"So I'm sitting on the toilet, right?" she continued, interrupting me. Her
lower lip trembled as if she stood in her current state on an Arctic tundra.
"And I see a loose tile on the floor. No big deal; shit like that happens,
right? But there's this little hole . . . so I look down . . . and I'm looking
at my _own_ _fucking bathroom!_"  
  
I cringed for a moment under her outburst, then sat up, pleading with my eyes.
"I didn't put them there," I said quickly, not thinking about my words. I
immediately regretted them.  
  
Michelle stepped back, staring at me as if I had just killed her dog.
"_'Them?'_" she cried. "There are _more_?"  
  
"I covered them all up!"  
  
Michelle backed away, wrapping her arms around herself. Her features
contorted, eyes swelling. A few tears began dripping down her cheeks.  
  
"Michelle, wait—" I began, getting to my feet.  
  
"Stay away," she whispered at first. Then her body trembled with rage, her
face twisted and flushed. "_Stay the fuck away from me!_"  
  
Her scream pierced my ears and reverberated off the walls. I could still hear
them even after Michelle ran from my apartment, naked and uncaring, down the
hall to the stairs. The door slammed, the faint sound of her bare feet
slapping down the stairs retreated. I stood in the doorway, cursing my luck,
my life, my choices.  
  
***  
  
The following day, I could barely concentrate on work. Business contracts
worth millions of dollars were suddenly less important than what a thirty-one-
year-old high school dropout and topless dancer thought of me. That Monday was
the longest day of my life. I had barely slept the night before, and it was
telling amongst my coworkers when I showed up in a wrinkled shirt and unshaven
face.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Will, you look like shit," Ramon commented as he stepped into
my office. "What the fuck happened to you?"  
  
I didn't look to him as I stared at the computer screen before me. My fingers
tapped without inspiration on the edge of the keyboard. "Nothing. Just had a
rough weekend, that's all."  
  
Ramon chuckled. "You picked up that little _puta_, huh?" he asked. "Bet she
took a chunk outta your checkbook, but I'm thinking it was worth it, right?"  
  
I shot up from my chair faster than Ramon could react and grabbed his tie. His
eyes flared open in shock and fear as I jerked his head down and seethed in
his ear.  
  
"Don't fuck with me, Ramon."  
  
I released his tie, and Ramon jerked back, stumbling upon his feet. He fixed
his tie with trembling fingers, backpedaling slowly to the door. "Hey, man . .
. you gotta lighten up."  
  
I just stared after him as he left.  
  
***  
  
That night, my eyes were on the door as I sat on the edge of my recliner. I
had left a card stuck in Michelle's doorframe, inscribed with an apology. I
included both my phone number and an invitation to come up to hear me out.  
  
Seven o'clock came and went.  
  
Then eight o'clock . . . .  
  
Nine o'clock . . . .  
  
I made a couple of grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, tried to divert my
attention through an episode of _Dirty Jobs_ on Discovery. But I kept glancing
to the door, thinking I had heard a knock. But each time I opened the door, I
saw only an empty, dark hallway.  
  
My apartment was dark, everything turned off, when I finally went to bed. The
darkness wasn't as comforting anymore. It just made me feel more alone.  
  
***  
  
I threw myself into work with a ruthlessness that frightened those around me.
For weeks since my arrival to the company, I had been widely seen as 'a pretty
cool guy.' But that image was shattered as I focused on nothing but my
accounts. I went in to work at nine and did not leave until Security knocked
on my door some twelve hours later.  
  
I knew that I was working as much as I was because I wanted to avoid Michelle.
I had betrayed her, and she had spurned me. I couldn't fault her for her
reaction, but neither did I want to risk that she might take me up on my offer
of reconciliation. I told myself we came from different worlds, and neither
should the 'twain meet. I almost made myself believe it.  
  
My sudden perceived passion for my work did not go unnoticed. In just three
days, I had completed more accounts than most would have finished in two
weeks. It was as if I had been possessed, and the devil who had invaded my
body was obviously admired by those above.  
  
The phone rang that Thursday afternoon as I was diligently finishing yet
another account. I almost ignored the annoying trilling, but finally snatched
up the receiver on the third ring. "Hargener," I snapped. I always answered
the phone with my last name.  
  
"Will," came a grating, slightly familiar voice. The voice of a man with a
passion for cigars.  
  
My fingers stopped their mad dance on the keyboard before me. "Mr. Lupo."  
  
"Hard at work?" he asked.  
  
I smirked mirthlessly. "Always."  
  
"I like that," my boss said. "You've proven to be an efficient man."  
  
I took a breath and leaned back a little in my chair. "Well, that's what I
promised you."  
  
"I admire a man who delivers on his promises," Lupo said. "I was hoping you
would have time for a break."  
  
I frowned. "I don't really need to take breaks, sir," I said.  
  
"Take one for me," he said, his voice like gravel. "My office."  
  
I blinked. "Of course. I'll be right there."  
  
***  
  
I had only seen the office of Francesco Lupo – 'Frank' to those few who could
call themselves either friends or peers – once, and that had been shortly
before I was hired. It was a lavish room, rather like the Oval Office of the
White House. During my interview with Lupo, I had garnered the distinct
impression that he liked to think of himself along presidential lines. His
sense of self-importance had been thick enough to touch.  
  
Phyllis, a matronly woman in her fifties who served as Lupo's personal
secretary, gave me only a simple nod before hitting the buzzer that unlocked
the door to the boss' office. I returned the gesture before pushing through
the door and into the chamber beyond.  
  
The first thing I noticed as Ramon, seated in one of two low-backed leather
chairs that sat before Lupo's mammoth desk. My business rival gave me a
smirking look before slowly turning his attention back to Lupo.  
  
"Have a seat, Hargener," my employer said with a gesture of his hand. The
round-bodied man wore a voluminous suit that seemed too large for him. The
cloying essence of an expensive cigar filled the air; the source of that aroma
was held between two stubby fingers.  
  
I approached the unoccupied seat and slid into it, giving Ramon a brief
glance. The smug expression on his face gave me cause to wonder. "What can I
do for you, Mr. Lupo?"  
  
The man grunted, his double chin and jowls ruffling. I suddenly understood why
so many in the company referred to him as 'the bulldog.'  
  
"There are very few men in the world who appreciate the value of hard work,"
he said. His words sounded like those of a practiced speech. "It gets harder,
every year, to find those few who understand the value of sacrifice."  
  
_Sacrifice_, I thought. That single word sounded rude, blunt, offensive.  
  
Lupo stood, his leather-backed chair creaking in relief, and came around his
desk. His beady dark eyes wandered back and forth between Ramon and I. "I see
a lot of me in the two of you," he said. "You remind me of myself when I was
younger."  
  
Ramon was quick to rise to the bait. "I'm flattered, Mr. Lupo," he said. "I do
what I can."  
  
Lupo smiled amusingly. "Eager," he commented. His eyes darted to me briefly
before he leaned back against his desk.  
  
"The business world is all about sharks and fishes," he said. "The fishes get
eaten; the sharks do the eating. I pride myself on the idea that I employ more
sharks than fishes."  
  
"Guess that explains why you hired me," said Ramon with an exaggerated grin.  
  
Lupo didn't respond to him. His attention was focused on me. "And you, Will?"  
  
I shrugged. I felt numb and cold, like a naked man who had been left outside
in winter. "I just do my job."  
  
My boss smiled slowly, revealing stained teeth beneath thick, dry lips. "Good
answer. I like that."  
  
He turned away, stepping back around the desk. I felt Ramon's eyes upon me,
and I gave him a brief look. The way we regarded one another made it obvious
that we were now rivals, and no longer friends. It was eat or be eaten time.  
  
"I have a position to fill," Lupo announced once he fell back into his
creaking chair. He puffed on his cigar. "But only one. And you two are my best
candidates."  

"I'll take it," Ramon said quickly, shooting me a brief glance. "You know I
can handle it."  
  
Lupo arched a thick brow. "Can you? You don't even know what it is."  
  
Ramon's face colored a bit. He lowered his face.  
  
"I'm not above competition," I said. "But I'd like to know what I'm competing
for."  
  
Lupo smiled. "Smart man," he said. He took another pull off his cigar, tilting
his head back to blow a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "There is one thing
a man needs. Just one thing."  
  
"What's that?" Ramon asked.  
  
Lupo lowered his head, his eyes dark and penetrating. "_Drive_," he said
pointedly. He let that single word sink in before continuing. "The will to
sacrifice everything to succeed. Forty years ago, I worked for minimum wage.
Now I own one of the most successful corporations in the world. That's what
drive does for you."  
  
_Not to mention three failed marriages_, I thought, calling upon what I knew
of my employer.  
  
"The old saying, 'money makes the world go 'round' is true," Lupo was saying.
"_Money_ gets you what you want. _Money_ makes doors open wide. _Money_ makes
a woman spread her legs."  
  
Ramon chuckled, nodding. I felt a knot form in my stomach.  
  
"A position is open . . . and one of you will fill it. The only question is,
which one?" Lupo asked. The way he spoke, he was obviously provoking both
Ramon and I. Predictably, Ramon took the offensive immediately.  
  
"I'm the obvious choice," he said, shooting me a contemptuous look. "I don't
buckle under pressure. _I_ don't assault my peers when the pressure gets to be
too much."  
  
Lupo's brow twitched in interest. "Oh?"  
  
I chuckled. "He's referring to a . . . disagreement he and I had a few days
ago," I said simply. I gave Ramon a sidelong look.  
  
Lupo breathed in, then smiled thinly. "Well, I never heard of any blood being
spilled, so I assume it was a minor incident." He paused, puffed on his cigar.
"The man I am looking for is ambitious, driven. Willing to give his all for
the company. That means more work, of course, more sacrifice. Say goodbye to
your weekends. But trust me when I say the rewards are worth it. Well into six
figures. And that's just for starters."  
  
A spike of excitement stabbed through me. This was the opportunity I had
always worked for. To be one of the elite. The big house, the expensive cars,
caviar for breakfast and vacations in the Mediterranean. The life that wealth
could provide.  
  
_The life . . . ._  
  
I suddenly found myself transported back in time, to a little room in a county
courthouse, looking at my wife as our lawyers finished the details of the
divorce. She had been despondent and regretful as she gazed upon me.  
  
_"I just wish you didn't work so much, Will," _she had said. _ "I wish you had
time for us."_  
  
At the time, I had responded with typical defensiveness and acidity. _"I had
plenty of time,"_ I had said. _"You just didn't appreciate the sacrifices I
made. Eventually, it would have all been worth it."_  
  
_"I couldn't wait for 'eventually,' Will."_  
  
Suddenly, the harsh poignancy of those words struck me with all the force of a
baseball bat swung by Barry Bonds. And suddenly, the idea of 'sacrifice' was
no longer appealing. I realized I had never wanted to be a martyr for the gods
of material gain. The epiphany was sudden and startling.  
  
All those thoughts, complete with that powerful revelation, flashed through my
mind in the time it took me to blink. As Ramon contemplated something to say,
I pushed myself to my feet.  
  
"I'm your man, Mr. Lupo," I said with confidence. "I'm the man you can give
any project, any account to, and you know it will be done."  
  
Lupo smiled and nodded. "I already knew that," he said. "I just wanted to hear
it."  
  
"Hey!" exclaimed Ramon, shooting to his feet. "I've put in my dues, and then
some!"  
  
I continued, ignoring Ramon's outburst: "But I just realized something.
Something I've always known about myself."  
  
Lupo frowned. "And that is?"  
  
I felt my mouth being tugged by a confident smile. "How old are you, Mr.
Lupo?"  
  
He jerked back slightly, his frown deepening. "Fifty-nine."  
  
"How many times have you been married?"  
  
He worked his jaw. "I don't see as how this means anything—"  
  
"Indulge me," I said, with just enough forcefulness.  
  
He sighed. "Three times. Gold-digging bitches, each of them."  
  
"Like all women," remarked Ramon dryly.  
  
I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. A strange sense of calm lucidity
rolled through me. For the first time in my life, the road ahead of me was
much more comfortable than the one behind. "As I said, I'm the man for the
job," I continued, looking down, contemplating my hands . . . my future, my
past. I finally looked up and stared into Mr. Lupo's dark little eyes. "And I
don't want it."  
  
"What?" asked Lupo and Ramon at the same time.  
  
I laughed. Recklessness fueled me, suffusing my mind. "Go with Ramon. He's a
good little soldier. Heartless, selfish and rude, just like you."  
  
Lupo was obviously insulted, as was Ramon.  
  
"I think I've finally realized something about myself. I don't want to be like
_you_. I don't want to be a robot. I don't want to think that my life is
entirely about making money."  
  
Lupo chewed his cigar for a moment as Ramon watched, stunned and wondering.  
  
"I'm disappointed, Hargener," Lupo said. "Thought you had drive."  
  
I laughed again, which seemed to annoy him. "That's the funny thing," I said.
"I do. More than you, in fact. I'm just not going to waste my life before I
finally realize it."  
  
***  
  
Lupo's words resounded in my mind as I drove home that afternoon. _Drive_ . .
. that single word, the way my boss had used it, conveyed a feeling of cold
ruthlessness, such as what Lupo himself possessed. I wasn't sure what bothered
me more, the idea that I really was like Lupo, or the idea that I needed money
and 'drive' in order to get what I wanted.  
  
Rush hour was just starting as I left the office, and the closer I got to my
apartment, the more congested traffic became. That was frustrating enough, but
what confounded me more were the constant Valentine's Day reminders splashed
gaudily in store fronts and on bulletin boards. The entire world seemed bathed
in red and pink, with hearts, cupids and flowers everywhere.  
  
I should have felt good about myself; granted, my self-realization had come
too late to save my marriage, but at least it had come. I did not doubt that I
had done the right thing. Sure, I was now unemployed, but I had enough money
to coast for a few months. Time enough to contemplate what to do with my life.
I should have been proud of myself.  
  
But I wasn't. I was still thinking about Michelle.  
  
Michelle, my sexy neighbor, my tortured lover . . . Michelle, who only wanted
to be thought of as a woman, and not just a sex object.  
  
Michelle . . . who worked at the Blue Velvet Lounge.  
  
Traffic had slowed to an inchworm's pace along the busy avenue upon which my
building lay. Lost to my melancholic reverie, I did not notice at first that
the tires of my sedan were slowly rolling past the glowing blue sign poised
above the dark-tinted glass doors of the strip club. But I had been staring at
the personalized license plate of a Mercedes in front of me, and needed
something other than 'MY MONY' to look at. Naturally, I glanced about outside
the windows of my car.  
  
My heart sank at the sight of that sign, those doors. Beyond those doors, I
knew, was Michelle. It just seemed appropriate that she would be working that
day. I could just imagine her, sullen and sulking, putting on a brave smile
for all the lonely men who would be looking for a little feminine attention on
the most romantic day of the year.  
  
I wondered if she was thinking about me, or if she had closed out the memories
of our coupling from her mind, writing me off as just another manipulating
male in her life.  
  
_Are you just going to let her do that, Will?_ Asked a tiny, seductive voice
inside my head.  
  
_Not much else I can do._  
  
_You don't believe that._  
  
_So what am I supposed to do? Walk in there and tell her that I . . . ._  
  
_That you what?_  
  
_Christ, I barely know her!_  
  
_You know her enough._  
  
_Enough? What do you mean, 'enough?'_  
  
_Enough to tell her . . . that you're in love with her._  
  
I ground my teeth, staring at the dark, opaque doors of the club. I only
looked away due to the obnoxious blaring of a horn from behind me.  
  
I hit the gas, realizing that 'MY MONY' had rolled forward a few car lengths.
The gap thus afforded revealed a narrow alley beside the building in which the
strip club was located. An alley, I knew, which lead to the parking garage
just a block away.  
  
I glanced to my rear-view window, seeing an angry man's face behind the wheel
of a white SUV, yelling at me silently to move forward.  
  
_Move forward,_ I thought, and jerked the wheel. _That's just what I'm doing_.  
  
***  
  
I wasn't really thinking about what I was doing as I entered the club. The
aromas of cigarettes, alcohol, and perfume washed over me like a mist, soaking
into my skin, my senses. There was something incredibly erotic about that
scent. It was equal parts seduction and desperation, hope and despair. It was
the smell of chance.  
  
My eyes adjusted as I found a little table along one wall, near the Baby Grand
stage upon which a bone-skinny brunette danced. Her expression was blank, her
movements unmotivated. She was just doing her job, taking no more pleasure
from it than I had from mine.  
  
A waitress stopped by my table after I had lit a cigarette. I ordered a beer
and surreptitiously looked about the place. There appeared to be only a
handful of dancers on duty, and most were occupied with customers. Some simply
sat with men, others gave table dances out in the open. I watched as a buxxom
redhead ground her nearly-naked hips in the lap of a lucky beau, playfully
smacking his face with her abundant breasts.  
  
"Here you go," my waitress said, setting a cold Guinness before me.  
  
I pushed out a smile, handing her a five. "Thanks. Keep it."  
  
The girl – pretty enough to be a dancer, I noticed – took the bill with a wink
and a quick 'thank you' before prancing away. Just as I was reaching for the
beer, I froze.  
  
She emerged from a door beside the stage, clad in a shimmering red teddy,
matching thong, and glass-heeled shoes. A glowing cigarette in her right hand
trailed nearly invisible wisps of smoke as she made her way through the room.
I felt a lump rise in my throat when she paused at the table of a round-bodied
man in a mechanic's coverall. She said something to him; he smiled, then shook
his head slowly, all the while ogling Michelle's body.  
  
"Hey, honey, want some company?"  
  
The voice startled me. I looked up to find a buxom, black-haired girl at my
shoulder. The fishnet body suit looked good on her, especially considering how
her naked nipples poked through the mesh. I managed a sheepish smile, and
remembered my cigarette.  
  
"I'm, uh . . . waiting for someone," I said, and took a drag.  
  
"Oh yeah? Who?" she asked, then followed my eyes. She smiled knowingly. "Oh,
Candace. She's pretty cool. I'll tell her you're here."  
  
Anxiety erupted in my chest, and I started to protest. But the dancer was
already walking away, approaching Michelle. My heart pounded as I watched. The
two women smiled, hugged each other and chatted a moment, and it suddenly
dawned on me that the raven-haired girl was the same one I had watched
pleasure Michelle. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, glanced back to me,
and Michelle looked.  
  
The smile stretching her soft pink lips vanished. Her beautiful eyes – their
brilliance, I noticed, was obvious in even such dim surroundings – narrowed.
Her lips moved a little as she said something to her fellow dancer. Her friend
spoke back, then looked to me quizzically. Michelle shook her head, then
forced a smile out for her friend. I did not need to hear their words to
understand the tenor of their conversation.  
  
For a long moment, Michelle remained where she was, staring at me. Her
expression held less vitriol than I had expected; indeed, she looked more
regretful than anything else. Finally, with an obvious sigh of resignation,
Michelle approached.  
  
I stood as she neared my table, making her hesitate. She stopped a few feet
away, just outside of arm's reach.  
  
"All I gotta do is call the bouncer," she said warningly.  
  
"I don't want you to do that," I said. "I just want to talk."  
  
"_Talk_," she said, as if it was a word she had never heard before. She
laughed ruefully, giving me a perturbed look. "Talk about what? You got what
you wanted, right?"  
  
I sighed. "Not every man in the world wants to use you, Michelle."  
  
She set her jaw, swallowed thickly. Her eyes flickered away as she drew off
her cigarette. "I really thought you were different," she said through a thick
haze of smoke. "I thought you were the kind of guy I could . . . _be_ with."  
  
"I want to be."  
  
She laughed sharply. "Yeah, right. How the fuck am I supposed to believe that?
I don't want a fucking peeping tom perv for a boyfriend!"  
  
I made an effort not to let myself get riled up. "I know you don't," I said.
My gaze wavered. "I'm sorry I did that to you."  
  
Michelle stepped closer, her voice acidic. "I was gonna call the cops," she
said. "I was gonna get your fucking ass arrested."  
  
It struck me, then, that I had never considered the possibility of arrest. I
met her eyes once me. "Why didn't you?"  
  
For a moment, we were both silent, looking into one another's bared soul.
Michelle's shoulders slumped, and she took the other chair at my table. I sat
back down, watching her over my untouched Guinness.  
  
"The guy who used to live in your place," she said. "Tim. He was there for a
couple years before I moved in. Turns out he did some work for Dora, in
exchange for lower rent. Fixing pipes, doing maintenance shit, that kind of
stuff. He also remodeled the ceiling for the girl who used to live in my
apartment." She paused, giving me a meaningful look.  
  
"He's the one who . . . who installed the holes," I said.  
  
Michelle's jaw worked angrily. "Yeah. Lucky for the mother fucker that I moved
in after he chased that other girl off, right?"  
  
I frowned. "He chased her off?"  
  
Michelle looked down, smoked her cigarette, tapped her cigarette over the
black plastic ashtray. "Tim was fucking psycho," she said. "I found out from
Dora that the girl who used to live in my apartment broke her lease about
three months after Tim 'remodeled' her ceiling. Never said why. Then, I move
in, and a few months later, I start seeing Tim all over the place. Like, he
knows when I do my laundry, when I'm going to work, when I come home . . . I
just thought it was . . . like fate, you know? And he was a good-looking guy.
So we went out. Got kind'a serious."  
  
"So what happened?"  
  
Michelle took one last puff on her cigarette and ground it out as she blew
smoke. "He started getting possessive and shit. Jealous. He'd come in here and
watch me, and get uptight whenever I did a table dance. Took me forever to get
rid of him. When I got a restraining order against him, he had to move out.
Still took a while before he stopped bothering me."  
  
I settled my hands together on the table, leaning forward. "I'm not like
that," I said.  
  
Her eyes narrowed. "Did you really watch me?" she asked.  
  
I couldn't answer right away. I didn't want to admit the truth to her, even
though I knew I had to. "Yeah," I said at last. "I did."  
  
Michelle tilted her head back, blinking. Her eyes were wet, blurry, brimming
with tears. "Why?"  
  
I let out a long, heavy breath. "I don't know. I found the one in the bathroom
by accident one day. Then, when I was cleaning, I found the others. I kept
thinking I should have covered them up right away, or told Dora, or –"  
  
Her tone was accusatory. "But you _didn't_."  
  
"No. I didn't. And I can't explain why."  
  
Michelle trembled, crossing her arms and rubbing her shoulders. "I should
really hate you right now," she said, her voice small and wavering, scarcely
audible over the music in the club.  
  
"And I wouldn't blame you if you did," I said. I leaned a little closer across
the table. "I'll move."  
  
She lifted her head, frowning. "What?"  
  
"I'll move," I repeated. "I'll get a different apartment in the same building,
or move to another place. I don't care. I just . . . I don't want you to think
that I'm just another guy who wants to take advantage of you."  
  
Her eyes, so beautiful, so radiant, were piercing as she stared back. "Even
though you already did."  
  
Shame forced my head down. "Yeah."  
  
We were both quiet. Michelle took another cigarette from her pack and lit up.
I contemplated my beer, took a tentative sip. It tasted sour.  
  
"Did you really cover them all up?" she asked at last.  
  
My eyes darted back up to her face. "Yes. Including the one in the bathroom."  
  
Michelle smoked in silence, looking at the wall beside us, then the ceiling.
She sniffled once, and I noticed her eyes were ringed with red. "I don't put
up with bullshit," she finally declared. Her eyes settled onto mine.  
  
I nodded. "I know."  
  
She laughed again, an almost painful sound, as she shook her head. "Fucking
Christ," she muttered. "I really wanna fucking hate you, you know?"  
  
I took a chance, and slid my hands toward her across the tiny table, palms up.
I held her gaze with my own as I spoke. "Maybe the reason you can't hate me is
the same reason why I had to come see you today."  
  
The lump rising in her throat was practically visible as she bravely tried to
remain strong and composed. "And what's that? Because you're in love with me
or something?"  
  
I didn't say a word. I let my eyes speak for me.  
  
Michelle shuddered, her emotions welling to the boiling point. She fell back
in her chair. "You don't even know me," she bemoaned, crossing her arms.
"You're fucking crazy, you know that?"  
  
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just honest."  
  
"Yeah, right."  
  
"I am."  
  
Her fingers shook as she brought her cigarette to her lips. "You don't want
me," she said. "I'm a fucking white trash stripper, and you're . . . you're
Mr. Wall Street, and—"  
  
"I want you."  
  
Michelle clamped her mouth shut for a moment, breathing in and out through her
nose. "Yeah. You wanna fuck me."  
  
I was surprised at my boldness. "No. I want to make love to you. I want to
wake up in the morning with you."  
  
"No you don't!" she cried, glaring at me, lurching up and slapping her hand to
the tabletop. Her eyes brimmed with tears. A single trickle escaped and rolled
down her cheek. Her voice fell to a harsh whisper. "You don't fucking love
me."  
  
I grabbed her hand quickly with both of mine, all the while searching her
eyes. "Maybe I do."  
  
Michelle tugged on my hand, but not forcefully enough to remove it from my
grip. "Let go," she said feebly.  
  
"You could always call for the bouncer."  
  
Her features contorted. "I might," she said weakly.  
  
I massaged her hand gently, fingers caressing slender fingers, feeling the
fine bones beneath the surface of her skin. "If you really want me to leave,
Michelle, I will," I said earnestly. "I promise. I'll break the lease tomorrow
and move out. I'll never come in here again. You'll never see me; I'll just go
away. If that's what you want."  
  
Michelle shuddered, her hand flexing. Her fingers curled around mine and
squeezed tightly. "Why are you doing this?"  
  
I smiled. "Because we had a date, remember?"  
  
Michelle slowly lifted her face. I let her read me for as long as she wanted,
waiting for her to speak.  
  
"You break my heart, and I swear I'll kill you."  
  
I nodded, my smile never fading. "That's a fair deal."  
  
***  
  
I could only stare at the beautiful woman before me. Aphrodite had been
reborn.  

Michelle stared back, the smile upon her made-up face fading. "Something
wrong?" she asked. "Y-you don't like the dress, or something? I could change—"  
  
"God, no," I finally managed to say, having regained my breath. "You are
absolutely stunning, Michelle."  
  
She smiled again, blushing deeply. "Thanks," she said in a small voice, then
did a pirouette in the doorway of her apartment. The little black dress was
snug upon her body, with a short, flaring skirt that began just below the
level of her hips. Her sleek, tanned legs shimmered, showcased by the nude
stockings she wore. Black heels completed her outfit, bringing her height to
match mine. Diamond earrings, a glittering white gold bracelet and matching
necklace sparkled against her skin. Her hair was secured atop her head with
silver chopsticks, the makeup she had applied made her eyes vivid and lips
lush.  
  
It was all I could do to not take her right there, in the open doorway of her
home.  
  
"You look pretty good, too, stud," she said with a playful smile, stepping
close. "I knew you'd look sexy in black."  
  
I reached for her hand, lifting it. I stared into Michelle's eyes as I kissed
her fingers. "As long as you think so, that's enough for me."  
  
She looked emotional, just for a moment, reluctantly taking her hand back.
"I'm not gonna get hurt again," she said.  
  
"No, you won't," I promised.  
  
***  
  
I wasn't trying to show off; I only wanted to prove how seriously I took our
burgeoning relationship. I wanted to show Michelle something of my world,
since I had seen so much of hers.  
  
She was, strangely enough, quietly demure in my car as I drove across town to
a fancy steakhouse. Michelle looked a little surprised when the valet opened
the door for her, but said nothing once I came around and took her hand. The
firm squeeze she gave my hand should have been my first indication that she
felt out of her element. I tried to assuage her anxiety with a smile.  
  
The foyer was small, indirectly lit, with wood-paneled walls and a couple of
small padded benches. There were several couples waiting for a table, but I
had called earlier for a reservation, 'casually' dropping Lupo's name. Maybe I
no longer worked for the man, but no one had to know that.  
  
"God damn, look at this place," mused Michelle beside me as we were lead past
a massive roaring fireplace. "It's like a fucking castle or something."  
  
I chuckled in response and directed her into the booth as the Maitre'D stood
professionally silent and impassive. Michelle glanced around skittishly,
tucking her skirt under her legs as she slid in. I sat across from her, took
the menu presented to me.  
  
"Chef Georges suggests the pan-seared Ahi tuna," the Maitre'D informed us. "It
is squisito! Bon appetit, mesdame, monsieur."  
  
I nodded a thank-you as Michelle opened her menu. Her beautiful eyes bulged,
and she snapped her head up after just a few seconds. "Will! Jesus! This place
is fucking expensive!"  
  
"And it's my treat," I said dismissively. "Don't worry about it."  
  
Michelle took a breath and returned to her menu. "I don't know what half this
shit is. _'Boursin?'_ What the fuck?"  
  
I chuckled. "Maybe I should order."  
  
Michelle huffed. "Is this menu even in English?"  
  
A smartly-dressed young man appeared at the end of our table. Behind him, off
to the side, were two other young men, wearing different colored Mandarin
shirts.  
  
"Good evening, sir and lady," he said. "My name is Vincent, and I will be
catering to your needs tonight. May I suggest a cocktail from the bar? We make
the best martinis that will ever grace such lovely lips." His eyes were on
Michelle as he delivered those last few words.  
  
Michelle's eyes flickered to mine. Despite her beauty, she looked nervous and
intimidated, taken away from the comfortable molds into which her life had
been poured. Instantly, I felt chastised.  
  
"Can you give us a minute, Vincent?" I asked. I smiled at him disarmingly. "We
just sat down."  
  
The waiter nodded courteously. "Of course, sir. Signal me when you are ready."
He stepped away, his two attendants following.  
  
I leaned across the table. "I'm sorry."  
  
Michelle's jaw worked a moment as she stared at her menu. "I just . . . I
don't know what the fuck I'm doing."  
  
I smiled suddenly. "Wanna get a burger?"  
  
She snapped her head up. "They have burgers here?" she asked, sounding
hopeful.  
  
I laughed. "No. But there's a place down the street."  
  
Michelle blushed again, her face apologetic. "I just . . . I mean . . . I
never been to a place like this. It's not my scene."  
  
My eyes dipped. "I know. I'm sorry."  
  
She reached across the table and touched my hand. "You don't have to impress
me."  
  
I met her gaze again, finding a smile there. "Beer and burgers?"  
  
Michelle laughed. "Good enough for me."  
  
***  
  
An hour later, we were feeding each other steak fries in a booth with ripped
green vinyl padding, rock music blaring overhead and the sounds of laughter
and conversation mingling in the air. While definitely overdressed for a place
like Bennigan's, Michelle was obviously more at ease.  
  
"Were you trying to show off or something?" she asked me, after slipping a fry
smothered in mustard and ketchup into my mouth.  
  
I shook my head sheepishly, chewing. "Really, I wasn't," I said. I sipped from
my iced tea. "I guess . . . I don't know. I thought that maybe you might want
to see a little of how I live."  
  
Michelle gave me a dubious look. "What, you have eighty-dollar steaks for
lunch every day?"  
  
I laughed. "No."  
  
She touched my hand again. "Baby, I don't want your money. Maybe I was like
that ten years ago, but I'm not now. I couldn't care less if you were Bill
fuckin' Gates or Bill the janitor."  
  
I chuckled. "That's good," I said, lightly squeezing her hand. It was both
alarming and comforting how easily our fingers wrapped around each other's. "I
quit my job today."  
  
Michelle froze as she was taking a bite. Mustard was smeared along her lower
lip. "What?"  
  
I nodded. "Funny. All this time . . . ." I took a moment, considering my
thoughts. "I used to think that the only way to be successful in life was to
make as much money as possible. Get that big house and those two cars in the
garage, fill the living room with a Hi-Def TV and thousand-collar sofas. Never
mind that I'd end up in debt for the rest of my life; it was all about money,
and what I owned."  
  
Michelle watched my face as I spoke, her hand gently squeezing mine. She
sucked her bottom lip, giving me a sympathetic look.  
  
"I ruined my marriage because I thought that way," I continued. "I could have
ruined my life."  
  
"So . . . what are you gonna do now?"  
  
I shrugged. "Haven't the slightest idea," I said with a smile. "But I have a
few months to think about it." I narrowed my eyes a bit, a fleeting feeling of
despair entering my mind. "You're disappointed."  
  
"No," she said, adding her other hand. "I'm just kind'a surprised. Okay, I'm a
lot surprised. Guys like you don't do shit like that."  
  
I laughed through my closed mouth. "I don't think I'm that kind of guy
anymore."  
  
She studied my face for a long time, running her hands along mine. "What kind
of guy are you?" she asked at last.  
  
"I . . . I don't want to be defined by how much money I make, or where I live.
I want to enjoy my life. And I want to enjoy being with someone, and have the
time for her. For you."  
  
Michelle shuddered as she sucked in a breath. "Will . . . ."  
  
I squeezed her hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."  
  
"Um . . . it's not that," she said softly.  
  
I frowned. "Then, what is it?"  
  
Her eyes lifted slowly, heady with passion. "Take me home. Now."  
  
I swallowed, both from nervousness and arousal.  
  
***  
  
Not a word escaped Michelle's lips as we headed out to my car, hand in hand.
Michelle kept her head down, yet walked close beside me; so close, in fact,
that we nearly tripped a few times over one another's feet. Michelle smiled
and blushed at such instances, her cheeks glowing, golden eyes radiant with an
expression which I had come to recognize as pure sexual arousal.  
  
I opened the door for her, and she slid in, giving me a sly look and smile
that held a sexual promise. I stepped around, got behind the wheel. A minute
later, we were on the highway.  
  
"Will."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
She slid across her seat, nuzzling my ear with her lips while her hand
simultaneously settled upon the bulge in my slacks. Her breath was warm and
sweet. "Can you drive if I'm sucking your cock?" she asked in a sexy whisper.  
  
I shivered. "Jesus . . . ."  
  
She chuckled, nipped at my ear lobe, pulling on my zipper with her fingers.
"Sounds like a 'yes' to me," she said, then fished inside my slacks. I moaned
once she found my cock and pulled it out through the fly.  
  
"Just keep your eyes on the road, baby," she muttered, then slid down my body,
sliding her hot, slick lips down the shaft of my cock.  
  
I grunted in pleasure, gripping the steering wheel firmly with both hands. My
eyes were focused on the road ahead, but my attention was on the wet, velvety
feel of Michelle's lips and tongue caressing my cock, her mouth pulling and
sucking with soft wet sounds.  
  
Cars passed us by as Michelle bobbed her head in my lap. Her right hand
stroked my shaft, fingers trailing across my balls now and then. She moaned
occasionally, sighing now and then when she licked up and down my engorged
length. I began to smell the aroma of her arousal after a while; it turned me
on to realize that Michelle was getting wet from sucking my cock.  
  
"M-Michelle," I grunted as we neared our building. Traffic was relatively
slow, even at this time of night; there were cars all around us, and my sedan
did not offer tinted windows to disguise what Michelle was doing. Anyone could
have glanced over and would have deduced instantly what was going on.  
  
"Hmm?" she mumbled, her mouth full.  
  
"I'm gonna cum," I gasped.  
  
"Mm-hmm," she moaned, and sucked harder, pumping with her hand and mouth in
tandem.  
  
I shook in the driver's seat; it was all I could do to keep the car rolling
forward in a straight line. My body tingled, my toes curled, my cock throbbed
and pulsed in Michelle's mouth. "Oh, fuck!"  
  
Michelle moaned again as she tasted the thick rush of my orgasm. I could feel
every contraction of my PC muscle as I sent spurt after spurt of warm semen
into her mouth. She hung on, sucking and slurping, gripping my cock tightly
and forcing out every last drop. Her lips never left my spewing cock
throughout the long, blissful moments of release.  
  
Finally, desperately, I pulled on her head. The talents of her mouth were
burning into me, making me squirm. "Stop, baby, stop! Stop!"  
  
With a gentle laugh, Michelle slipped her mouth off me and sat up, She gave me
a demure look, wiping the edges of her lips. She smiled, smacked her lips, and
sighed. The fragrance of semen was palpable on her breath; I realized she had
swallowed my gift. That simple knowledge made me tremble in continued arousal.  
  
Michelle leaned against me as I pulled into the garage beneath our building. I
heard her licking her lips and sucking her fingers. "Your place or mine,
baby?" she asked, then giggled.  
  
I pulled the car into my assigned space and jerked the key. "Mine," I growled.  
  
***  
  
I shoved her against the wall in the elevator as it bore us to the seventh
floor. Michelle hissed, eagerly lifting one of her legs as I fell to my knees.
She pulled up her skirt, holding it against her flat stomach, as I pulled
aside the black thong that barely covered her sex. As eagerly as she had
serviced me, I gave it back to her with long swipes of my tongue and fierce
sucks upon her swollen pink pussy.  
  
"Oh, God, Will!" she exclaimed, slapping her hands to the walls of the
elevator, pushing her juicy sex against my mouth. Her breath escaped her mouth
amid tortured moans and gasps. I stared up at her face as I feasted between
her thighs. Her taste was once again addicting. I loved the feel of her fleshy
lips as my tongue delved between them.  
  
"Suck it, baby!" she cried, as the elevator chime marked the passing of the
floors. "I wanna cum!"  
  
I engulfed her clit with my mouth, covering the majority of her pussy, and
sucked fervently, massaging my tongue back and forth. Michelle shook and
pushed down, her face twisted with ecstasy.  
  
"Oh, God . . . ." She convulsed when she came, her inner walls pinching the
tip of my tongue. I tasted a thick sweetness, and licked eagerly to get it
all. Michelle clutched my head, seething and moaning, finally pushing me away.  
  
I rose to my feet, with Michelle's urging hands on either side of my face. She
sucked and licked her own effluence from my lips and cheeks in between panting
and grateful breaths.  
  
Supporting one another as we walked, we made our way to my apartment.  
  
***  
  
Few words were spoken. It seemed that Michelle and I did not need to talk to
know what the other wanted. Once inside my apartment, Michelle stripped off
her dress and stockings. Nude save for the tiny thong that just covered her
swollen sex, she lead me to the bedroom.  
  
The thong was soon tossed to the floor, joining my own discarded clothes.  
  
Michelle was an enthusiastic, energetic lover. We roamed all over the bed, our
passion for one another escalating with each moment. The more we fucked, the
more we wanted. I had never seen a woman explode the way Michelle did, the way
she shook and bucked, screaming and clawing. Her short, stiff nails raked my
flesh, leaving bloody welts along my arms and shoulders. I didn't care.  
  
Finally, I pinned her to the bed, with Michelle on her stomach as I drove into
her with ferocious thrusts. I gripped her sweat-soaked hair in one hand and
clutched her throat with another. Michelle spasmed beneath me, crying,
moaning, trying to catch her breath. Never had I made love with such
intensity, such animalistic passion. Yet I reveled with each thrust of my cock
deep inside her quivering, sucking pussy.  
  
"I'm gonna cum," I groaned, panting in her ear. "I want you to cum with me."  
  
"Oh-h-h, God," she murmured, her face slack and sweaty.  
  
I lowered my head, sucking the tender flesh at the base of her neck between my
lips. I pinched it between my teeth.  
  
"Oh, God, Will," she sputtered, bucking back against me. "Do it, baby! Do it!"  
  
I could only moan, feeling my release building. I shoved deep inside her, even
as I pressed my teeth into her skin, biting down.  
  
Michelle's orgasmic cry shook the walls, echoing out through the open windows
of my apartment. I sucked on her flesh, her blood, even as my seed gushed deep
inside her womb.  
  
She slapped a hand back behind her, clutching my head. She caught, then
expelled her breath, caught it again. Her body spasmed almost violently
beneath mine. I shook over her, my cock burning in her depths. Drops of blood
fell from my lips as I lifted up. I fell to the side, looking at stars dancing
in my field of vision.  
  
"Oh-h-h . . . b-b-baby," Michelle stammered, sinking into the mattress. She
stared at me, face slick with sweat, eyes dazed and mouth open. Weakly, she
touched my chest, my neck, my chin. I caught her hand, squeezing it as I
recovered as well. For several minutes, neither of us could speak, much less
move.  
  
"Michelle," I managed to say at last.  
  
"Uh . . . yeah?"  
  
I rolled onto my side, facing her. Jesus, with her face wet and hair tangled,
her cheeks glowing and eyes barely open, she was beyond beautiful, beyond sexy
. . . _I have made love to a goddess,_ I thought.  
  
"I love you."  
  
Michelle blinked at first, then shifted on her side. Her eyes cleared,
becoming more alert. "What?"  
  
I smiled, touched her chin. "I love you, Michelle."  
  
Her eyes swelled. She sniffled back tears. "Don't say that."  
  
"I love you."  
  
Her eyes dripped. "Stop it!" she cried, bolting up in my bed.  
  
I shot up as well, and grabbed her shoulders. I stared intently into her eyes.
"I love you."  
  
Michelle shook, tears streaming down her face. She clutched my arms, her face
twisted and pained. "Will . . . don't."  
  
I pulled her to me, feeling her sobbing and trembling. I lay back down, taking
Michelle with me. Her head settled to my chest, tears soaking into my skin. I
petted her hair for a while until she stopped shaking. Finally, she lifted her
head, her face streaming with tears.  
  
"Do you really?"  
  
I nodded with a smile. "I do."  
  
"You know, you're scaring the shit outta me right now."  
  
I chuckled, brushing back slick, damp hair from her face. "Believe it or not,
I'm scared, too. And it's about damned time."  
  
Michelle suddenly laughed. "You're crazy, you know that?"  
  
I nodded. "Think you can put up with me for . . . say, the rest of your life?"  
  
Michelle leaned back abruptly, regarding me with an inscrutable expression.
Her eyes darted back and forth across my face, beautiful amber orbs that
sought my soul. I let her, waiting to hear what she had to say.  
  
"You're serious."  
  
I nodded. "I am."  
  
Her hands trailed from my torso to my face and back again. "I-I've never been
in love," she said, her voice faint.  
  
I lifted up and slid my hand behind her head, pulling her down for a kiss.
"That's why you're scared," I said. I tasted her lips. "And that's why I am,
too. But we can make it work, Michelle."  
  
Slowly, her lips twitched, eventually forming a smile. "Yeah?"  
  
I nodded, with more confidence than I had ever felt before. I wiped away the
tears from her cheeks. "Yeah."  
  
Michelle sighed with a growing smile. "Will?"  
  
"What."  
  
She lowered her face, brushing her lips against mine. "I love you, too," she
whispered.  
  
_-finis-_  
  
_(Thanks for reading. I leave the life of Will and Michelle to your
imagination. Suffice to say that they are two lost souls who found one another
at just the right time. Don't forget to vote, and if you like, leave me a
comment. I'll get back to you. Oh, and, happy Valentine's Day.)_




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