The morning dawned with all the hope of the breakthrough promised by my therapist. I stood under the weak flow of Margarite's shower and replayed the events over in my mind. I was becoming comfortable with Max and allowing myself to explore my sexual cravings. His willingness to follow my commands was unbelievable. It seemed he liked being told what to do, as if he was relieved of thinking or imagining--or perhaps the fear of mistakes had been lifted off his shoulders.
I rubbed the bar of scented soap over my breasts, making my hardened nipples yearn for more attention. Perhaps next time I would let Max tongue them. I closed my eyes and let the water cascade over my face.
"Lord, you've missed so much by being repressed," I chuckled to myself.
Although Max had never denied it, I found it difficult to believe he and Margarite had had a platonic relationship. The two of them out here alone, and her writing those erotic fantasies, surely she had penned them for him. Had she read to him by candle light, using her "therapy" to fire his limited libido? What other sexual misfit required healing?
"Just you, Jamie," I laughed out loud.
I turned the water off and grabbed the thick towel awaiting me. Breakfast smells slipped beneath the door, reminding me I was hungry. I pulled on a pair of cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt. Without a bra, my nipples protruded through the cotton as I combed my hair. It was a sexier look than I normally wore. It was already over 90 too. The day dictated as few clothes as possible.
Max was reading the newspaper, his empty plate pushed to the side. His eyes drank in the T-shirt, but then he motioned to a plate of food.
"Hope you don't mind that I ate without you. I was starving."
"Hope you don't mind cooking it by yourself." I sat and sipped the delicious coffee. "You're spoiling me, you know."
"I can handle it." He gave me a quick wink. He looked at his paper and I watched him while I ate. His chest was bare and I found myself wanting to touch it. I wondered if he had any idea how attractive he was. As if realizing that I was staring, he looked over.
"I'm sorry, did you want to talk?"
"No. I was enjoying the view." I gave him a wink and took another bite of scrambled eggs.
"The view?"
"I like your chest," I stared at the smooth, black hair around his nipples.
"Really?" He sat back and gave me a pose.
"Does that surprise you?"
"I guess I never thought about it." He looked at my nipples and grinned. "Guess I was too busy thinking about yours." A heat flushed my cheeks. I hated the fact that he made me blush.
"Touché," I crossed my arms over my chest, and he laughed before standing and taking his dishes to the sink.
"I'm sorry." He rinsed his dishes and smiled at me. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."
"It's OK." I was determined not to recoil from his remark. I carried my dishes to the sink and stood next to him.
"I really like that T-shirt." He continued washing the plate in the water.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He looked at my nipples. They tingled under his stare as I watched his tongue move across his lips. I wanted to feel that tongue on my nipples, but I felt frozen.
"Will you hold me?" I whispered.
"Can I use my hands?" he asked teasingly
"Just this once." I wrapped my arms around his neck as his lips approached mine. It was a repeat of the kiss in the cave. Deep and full of passion, searching for more and finding that special heat. His hands slid under my T-shirt and I let out a tiny cry. His caress was a constant pull between desire and fear as I wanted him to continue and was afraid that he might.
Sensing my conflict, he turned us so that he leaned against the counter and I leaned against him. He slowed his hands, until I squirmed for more. When his fingers finally found my nipple, we both moaned, which caused a simultaneous giggle.
"God, you turn me on," he sighed, biting my lip.
"Kiss them."
He paused and looked into my eyes before pulling my T-shirt up over my head. He ran his palms over my nipples and I watched them harden beneath his touch. I held his head as his hands moved down to my side when he bent to kiss. I closed my eyes and sighed as his tongue flicked one nipple and then the other.
"Oh Max! That feels so good."
Encouraged, he sucked and bit until I was squirming and rubbing my crotch against his thigh. I could feel his cock harden. I couldn't believe that this was me. Ms. Prude not being able to get enough of a guy. Where was my self control?
"Wait..." I panted, pulling his head away. "I think we should stop."
A groan escaped his lips as he raised up and hugged me against his chest. It was electric to feel my naked breast against his chest. He held me tight as if afraid to let me go, or perhaps afraid of what his hands might dare if they weren't holding me. We took a deep breath and calmed our excitement.
"You might have to tie my hands down next time," he joked.
"You did fine." I gave him a quick peck on the lips. "I asked for it, remember?"
"Well, I guess it's time for my first cold shower of the day."
I laughed and stepped away as he headed for the back door. "When do you want to go to town?"
"After lunch." I reached for my T-shirt and slipped it over my head. "I want to do some writing.
"You got it. I'll see you later." He gave me a wink and left. I watched him through the kitchen window as he crossed the back yard. He wasn't the only one needing a cold shower.
"You could have had him, Jamie," I told myself. "You still could. All you have to do it walk over, take off your clothes, and step into that cold shower. You'll make love all day."
The cabin door closed behind him and I let out a long sigh. "Maybe next time." I was making progress. There was no need to push myself. No need except the wet pool in my panties.
I finished the dishes and headed into the living room to work on my book. As I sorted through the outlines, my eye caught the file of Margarite's stories sitting by the couch.
"Just one," I thought. "Maybe it will start my creative juices going."
Sitting on the couch, I flipped to the next story.
The cold penetrates your coat, your skin, biting deep into the heat of your muscles. You can't remember being so cold. Your bones shiver inside your body. Every nerve tingles as the wind whips past. The walk from your car to the door is short, but the freezing cold is relentless. Toes ache, fingers burn, you wonder if you will ever be warm again. How long since Fall? How long before Spring? The winter howl steals every bit of warmth. What you wouldn't give to be warm.
He's waiting. You know he is, know he's smiling and happy. If he weren't there, the winter would be unbearable. You can't imagine a winter without his warming smile and kneading hands. He is your Spring and Fall in the dark depths of January cold. The sun is pale and cool compared to his heat.
Plodding through the snow, you wonder what he's made for dinner. He cooks and cleans and cares for you in ways you never dreamed possible. He pampers you, dotes on you, sups at the wellspring of your life force. To him, you are a wonderfully beautiful creature, a treasure. You are more valuable than fire. You couldn't be more with him, in his thoughts and mind. Your pleasure is his pleasure. Best of all, he's waiting. He meets you at the door. He smiles and takes your coat, and as you melt into his body, you feel the utter heat of him. He is your personal furnace, a heater that never cools. Kissing your hair, he holds you tight, and you remember how good he smells, how right. You miss his smell in the cold. Smells don't seem to exist in the cold. You bury your face in his chest and feast on him. You know that if you hold him long enough, you'll be warm again.
"I have a surprise," he says.
You don't want a surprise. You don't need a surprise. You want to bask in his glow, absorb his heat.
He takes your hand and gently pulls you. You follow, drawn by that wonderful smile, the playfulness you've come to love. He's creative and inventive, and you're wondering what he's done, especially when he opens the door to the basement. What's in the basement beside the washer and dryer? He can see the doubt in your face, and he squeezes your hand. He assures you that this will be better than OK, this will be wondrous.
Black plastic walls off one whole side of the basement, and you wonder when he found time to hang the plastic. He grins, that choir boy grin that breaks over his face when he thinks he's clever. You want to ask, but he hushes you. He guides you to the plastic and pulls it aside, and the moist, warm air greets you..
What he pulls you into isn't a basement. This is a jungle. Amazed, you gape at the lush plants, the blooming flowers, the pastel tapestries hiding the black plastic. The green artificial turf hides ugly concrete. Powerful lamps provide a heat you haven't felt since July. Humidifiers shoot soothing mist into the air, and for the first time in months your face feels moist and supple. Your wide smile causes no pain.
Heat and humidity inundate you, and your pores open. He pulls you close. With a calm and love you hardly believe, he begins to strip away your clothes. Blouse, pants, bra, panties, until you're naked. And instead of freezing, you feel your body perspire. Like some South Sea island native, you shed all vestiges of civilization and wallow in the sheer wanton wonderfulness of heat. You pull your hair back and watch him strip. You have dreamed of a hot, island adventure, and this sweating, muscular man fulfills your every fantasy.
Half hidden by mist sits a spa, bubbling with heat and soothing massage. You start for it, but he stops you. He pushes you toward a lounge, a summer thing you have never used in winter--until now. He eases you down, spreading you, touching. You allow yourself to be moved, wondering what's he doing until you smell coconut. You hear him rub the oil in his palms before he applies it to your skin. He spreads and kneads and grabs and pushes. The heat lamps are an tropical inflamed tropical sun. A fan wafts moisture over you. Coconut lingers on the air. His hands roam your back, melting away any traces of cold.
He works your neck and shoulders, then he carefully oils one arm, taking care to coat each finger. You smell his sweat mixed with the coconut. A sheen of moisture coats your face. Those hands oil your other arm, drowning the dry, flaky skin that winter has grown. He works through your underarms and down your back. You hear him chuckle and leave, and you wonder where he's going. Then, the lazy lilt of an island melody fills the room. Hula girls and large flowers fill your mind. When he returns, he touches your tush, and where the heat was external before, his touch lights an internal fire. Slowly, methodically, he oils your bottom, sneaking between your legs to brush against you. You know he's testing, touching to see if his ministrations have elicited a response. They have. You're moist with desire. Yet you lie still and let him work.
First one leg, from thigh to toes. Oiled, relaxed, soft. Then, the other leg, and the soles of your feet. Every inch feels light and stretchy, baby skin. With a gentleness born of love, he turns you. His oily hands begin on your neck, shoulders. Then, those wonderful fingers find your breasts. Slick, slippery, his hands stroke and squeeze and moisten, until you feel limp and slick. Your hard nipples glisten with oil. His hands move down, over your tummy, anointing. You glance at his face, sheened with sweat. The heat is luxurious, the massage divine. One leg, down over the knee. The other leg, oil shimmering. His fingers touch you, seeking that moist heat. As they sink into you, you moan with pleasure. You arch your hips for his touch.
But he stops.
He smiles at you and stands, and you notice your effect on him. He desires you more than you ever dreamed possible. He pulls you out of the lounge, and you move close, feeling his hardness against you. Then, he lifts you with an ease you find exhilarating. Strong, he carries you to the spa, and gently lowers you into the bubbling water. The sex will come later, after the love. You sink into the water, the currents caressing pampered skin. So warm, so nice. You turn, and he hands you a glass of champagne.
You laugh.
He climbs into the spa and kisses you. The heat, the tropical isle. It's him. It always will be.
I closed the folder and fanned myself. That wasn't Max. He lacked the imagination and courage to transform the basement into an island of delight. Margarite could imagine such a vision but not Max, never Max.
"Damn," I said out loud. "Who was she writing about?"
I tossed the folder on the coffee table and stared at the typewriter. Time to begin. I grabbed a sheet of paper and slipped it under the carriage. I typed non-stop for three hours until Max knocked on the front door.
©Copyright 1996 - 1998 Angela Preston. These stories may not be reprinted in any form without written permission.