Under the Mistletoe

Are your feet sore?

Maybe it was a general sense of concern, since I had merely mentioned how angry I felt my shoes were for having to run around the six floors that were his, making sure everything was tight before we closed shop.

Maybe it was a typo. Maybe it was not meant for me.

Just in case, I texted back. One little word that could easily sound innocent, depending on the context. But not in this context.

Very.

I'd like to call you some time, came his response.

Okay, so it had definitely been meant for me. And none of this was innocent at all, for Denue Combey to text at 11 PM on a Monday night.

So, I decide to step it up a notch, sending an inviting text.

But he hasn't responded in hours, and I firmly believe I finally spooked him. Weeks of trying to hint subtext at the man seems to have scared him off.

I just asked if he would like a massage some time, given his hectic online schedule. Did I go too far, or was it not far enough?

I should have done better. Last time I asked him to tell me of the wildest thing he did in his teenage years, and it activated a conversation that ran well past midnight.

Putting the phone face down, I snuggle deeper into my comforter, the words of old poets, the smashing of rain against my window, and the sweet gullible warmth of having nothing more to do for the rest of the day bliss enough.DenueShe has soft black hair, short and supple down her back. It captures her thin, long face perfectly. A silk of it strands down her cheekbone, and ends where her lips engulf veined, hard, flesh that is not hers. It is mine.

Her full lips wrap and pleasure, down and up the shaft, pulsing with each flick of her tongue. Tension wounds about her fingers, as in tandem, in rhythm, hand and mouth slithering in wet and skilled motion.

Big brown eyes look back at me, innocence aflame behind them. Tenderly, I push her forward with my clammy palm from the back of her neck and thrust my hips slightly into her. I try to stifle my moans as I cum. She flicks her tongue once more and pops her mouth off of it, her work done.

Nellie pulls me from the seat and chuckles in my mouth as we fall aimlessly on the bed. Her frame, so small and fragile, feels full and firm under my touch.

Warmth from our centers radiates and calls to the other. Lips mesh, slide and suck on each other. She tastes of coconuts and raw impatience, and her skin, divinely soft, has the scent of a burst of secret femininity. My tip finds her ready, and I promise to never be gentle.

Of course, it’s only a fantasy. I imagine her to feel this way, like sunlight sheathed in her body, as my own gentle strokes around my pulsing cock bring me close to the end. The pouring rain outside intensifies the sound on my voicemail of her soft unadulterated voice.

The report came in early. Please check your inbox.

Everything tightens.

Come on, Denue. I know you're not that busy tonight for a chat.

She whispers my name.

Maybe I should come over, make you some of that famous hot chocolate you're always on about.

Ecstasy erupts through my hand and ends up on my balls, my chest, and my coiling body. I open my eyes to an empty bedroom. Gasping for breath, I calm down to the sound of the recording on my phone.

"Whatever the price, Nellie, you and me are going to happen," I say into the untapped void, evoking hardcore reality into the substance of my fantasy.Chapter OneNellieThere comes a time in every girl's life that she dreams of being free. For a place that is devoid of all the madness and scheming, one that has no sense of the deluded reality that so haunts her in every waking hour. It is in that place I wish, for just this moment, to be in.

Banter, as good as it can get on a podcast, is blasting through my earphones as I stand behind the sink, bathing in sunlight that’s pouring in through my window, as golden as wine on the lips with a lover's letter between one’s fingers.

It’s a glorious morning, one that has found me wishing I could go for a run through the melody of the newly paved park before the first snow comes in. The grass in Booksfield, also known as America's Little Heart, as well as my home, has never been greener, yet the rain, as recent as a sudden urge to floss in the middle of the day, has proved that fact wrong.

To say that the alleys and flatbed pathways and the cafes and the little corner shops with the red and blue flags jutting out from the warped tent roofing don’t miss the flamboyance of family, of friendships and lovers walking, jogging, making love or ending it, out there, in the open, where the blue sky and the omniscient sun see and bless everything, would be a lie.