Just another day at work

"Two-by-two."

Two hours writing two essays.

Two dollars for the subway. Two chapters read in Tess.

Two blocks east, side-stepping to avoid wandering hoardes of boys loosed from schools. Two-hundred variations of "Ay, mamita chula..."

Two rings, then a voice--chipper, bright. Significantly less Vincent Price/Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs than I'd imagined.

Two-by-two, two black boots tromp up too many flights of worn marble stairs.

Two-and-a-half knocks. My hands are shaking. One holds daisies.

Two smiles--one gracious and friendly, the other slightly strained with nerves.

Two of us.

Two chairs. Perfect.

Two pairs of eyes. Both admittedly pretty. Yin and yang.

Two hands, large, with thick, long, lovely fingers. Two palms, broad, roughened to perfection. The back of each hand, a tangle of swirling veins and ligaments, visibly stretching onward beneath translucently fair skin towards flattened fingernails--a roadmap of where these hands have been.

Two legendary hands on little old me, fingertips moving in whispers over my skin.

Two lips, pursed, brush a kiss on the pulse point just beneath my ear. He can feel it now. My heart is rocketing out of my chest.

Two bodies stacked in one chair--one, fully clothed; the other, not so much.

Two hands clasp, his with mine. Two pairs of feet shuffle across creaking hardwood.

Two bottles of beer left open, forgotten, fat drops of condensation lazily running down the sides, collecting in two neat little rings on the floor...

"Mariella, pay attention! Where's your suction!?"

Suction. Sweet Christ, that mouth of his.

It just latches on and won't let go.

My mouth...my lips...my tongue...my jaw...my throat...my neck...my ear...my shoulder...my breasts...my nipples...my torso...my hip...my inner thighs...my labia...my clitoris...my anus...my knees...my calves...my ankles...my heels...my toes...

He's everywhere at once.

First, a nuzzle, a faint brush of scratchy stubble. He exhales, his warm, moist breath all-but fogging up my skin. Those pillowy soft lips now, cool and wet as they close around my flesh. Then the gentle scrape of teeth, as that velvety tongue finally makes exquisite contact, undulating, flicking, before coming to rest at the floor of his mouth.

The suction.

He pulls me in deep; teeth closing hard around my skin, their grip tightens as he siphons more air into the back of his throat, letting his cheeks cave around me. Tighter and tighter the seal becomes. He doesn't stop. He doesn't ease off...

"She's puddling up!"

Balanced precariously on my shoulders, bent at the waist, he pushes my legs back to frame my face, leaving my ass sticking straight up in the air. What a view.

Two fingers. "You're so wet," he whispers, matter-of-factly. Two fingers disappear.

I scream, bucking and writhing as his digits twist inside me, pressing, rubbing, jabbing, searching for that place again.

My whole body tenses and I growl. A solitary rivulet, almost pearlescent, trips down the ripples of my accordioned flesh, more following in its path. I'm salty.

"High-speed."

Looming over me, towering, strong, he slides into me.

No hymen there to tear, no blood to worry about. Still, it's a first.

He isn't cold plastic, unforgiving rubber...he's real. Alive. Warm and throbbing wildly inside me, filling me up. I squeeze myself around him, wanting to feel more, feel him so deeply. He groans.

He starts to move. I keep my eyes closed, trying to focus, hoping to feel the absolute breadth of every sensation--identify it, memorize it, and file it away in the dark, secret corners of my memory.

It's not long before he's tugging my legs up and over his shoulders, dropping kisses all along the delicate arch of my foot, sucking my big toe into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth, watching me intently. Watching the immediate change flicker over my face as he jabs his hips forward suddenly, hitting that spot. Now it's my turn to groan.

"Harder," I hear myself say.

"Make sure you get the back, Mariella."

Hands and knees now.

My back slopes down low from the soft curve above my rear on towards my upper back. Nipples bead, brushing against damp cotton sheets.

I catch a glimpse of us in the mirrored closet door. His hands are anchored to my waist, his hips grinding forward, his head tilted back a bit. I squeeze around him. His eyebrows furrow; there's a sharp intake of breath. He reaches for the lube on his nightstand.

One finger. Then two. I almost don't realize what's happening, where his fingers really are. When I do, I groan, pushing back against him.

Suddenly, it's his cock. The thick tip pops inside, and I'm howling into the covers. He's crooning softly in my ear, running those fingertips soothingly along my back. He pushes in and holds himself there for a bit, the two of us breathing hard into the silence. Then he's gone again.

"Okay, I'm just going to polish this up, and we're done."

He grabs a pillow and my hand and tugs me back towards the living room.

Flopping back in the nearest chair, he tosses the thin pillow down on the floor in front of him and reaches for the beer he'd left there hours before. He brings the bottle to his lips--God, those lips--and tips it back a bit to let the cool liquid rush down his throat. I watch him, parched.

He tosses a look down at the floor, breaking the seal his mouth has with the bottleneck, and murmurs, "Is this really going to be your first blow-job?"

I fold the sad excuse for a pillow in half and fall unceremoniously to my knees. "Mmhm."

I work feverishly, trying to memorize and replicate whatever makes him choke, breathless, between swigs of beer. I crave his groans, his hands in my hair.

"Put your hands behind your back."

I comply, but get distracted easily, my hands coming forward to brace myself as I take him deep into my mouth.

He stills. "Behind your back." I lock them in place once more.

I can't get over how satiny soft the head is, how good it feels against my tongue, my lips. I know he gets really sensitive there and can't deal with a lot of attention paid to that gorgeous bit of skin, but I just can't help pulling my mouth all the way off of him to feel him rub against my lips.

He grabs hold of my head, gently rocking his hips forward, his cock disappearing down my throat. I gag, but he just groans--I want more of those.

"Mariella. Mariella? Hello??"

"Mmm?"

"Could you help the patient out of the chair, please?"

"What? Oh...sure!"

I turn to move the overhead light and feel a zing shoot up my right side. That familiar, well-worked ache I've had since waking up this morning.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing."

Freeing the woman from the chair, I remove the water-splashed, lipgloss-smeared bib from around her neck and try to smile. I busy myself cleaning the room to avoid the lecture I know is coming, then vanish into the bathroom.

Standing in front of the no-frills rectangular mirror, bathed in Attica-style fluorescent lighting, I tug up my scrub top, unhooking my bra. I smile.

Faint purple splotches.

Teeth marks.

Perfect dark ovals.

Yup. That man is definitely going to lose me my job.