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Through sunglasses, my skin looks browner than it is, but not as dark as I want. I observe it impersonally, as if it isn't really mine. The midday Barcelona sun is strong, beating straight down on my back as I turn my head and hold my arm out, checking the color. It's siesta, almost, which means he'll be home soon, wanting a dip in the pool and a quick nap before he goes back to his restaurant to prepare for the dinner crowd. Sweat is dripping from the backs of my knees, between my thighs, in the half-moons under my breasts. I put the letter I've been writing to him in my knapsack and stand up. I don't want him to see it yet. Not until tonight. The pool is glistening, blinding reflections of the sun leaving spots in front of my eyes. I wade in and swim a few quick laps. He likes the way my body feels after a swim?firm, tight, skin cool and smelling of chlorine. No one else from our complex is here. Hardly anyone uses the pool during the midday, even me. For two years, he has discouraged me from sunbathing, liking the way my pale skin contrasts with my jet-black hair. This is part of my rebellion. The rebellion that began yesterday when I quit the job I've held for three years -- teaching English as a second language to business executives and college students. I've lain out so long that I've burned -- my shoulders and the backs of my knees feel as dry as parchment. If I looked at them, they would be fiery red, angry. If he looked at me, he'd see that I feel the same. I take a deep breath, dissimulating. I hear footsteps approach, the pool gate opening and shutting with a click. He's early today. "Elena!" My name is Ellen, I think. I used to love how he'd changed it, made it sound more Spanish. Now, I think it was just one more way he's stolen my identity. I turn to look at him. He's irritated. "You're burning." I wrap a towel around myself and grab my things. "Let's go up. I'm thirsty." "Why are you down here?" He asks in English, his sibilant accent making the words lyrical, beautiful, even when he's being a jerk. He only speaks English when he's upset with me. "I wanted to swim." We walk up the steps to the apartment in silence. I follow, watching his lithe form move gracefully up the stairs. A warrior's body, long and thin as a spear. Like a conquistador, I've always thought, picturing him stepping off a ship in the New World, bent on discovering gold, conquering nations. He's fuming. I don't want him to be mad, not today. It's not in my plan. I don't want to remember him angry. "Will you put some aloe on me?" We speak Spanish at home, mostly, because he prefers it. I wonder what it will be like to speak English all the time again. He grabs the bottle out of the bathroom and finds me sitting on the bed, still in my bikini. He sits behind me, tugs gently on a strap. It stings as it slides across my burned flesh. "It's bad," he says. "I stayed too long," I say. With you, I think, I don't mean at the pool. He caresses the lotion in, depositing gentle kisses on my neck and shoulders. I lay down so he can rub it on my reddened legs. His fingers glide down the backs of my legs like feathers. I'm silent, letting him think I'm being contrite for my disobedience. In spite of the burn, my skin starts to hum in response to his touch. I press my breasts harder into the bed, lifting my ass slightly, an invitation. He slips a finger under the elastic of my swimsuit, finding me wet?so wet even I'm surprised. He begins stroking my clit softly, up and down. I moan, a fist of want clenching in my center. I need him inside me now, but I also want to stretch it out?this moment, this time. The last time we'll make love. He pulls his hand away and I start to protest, but he's just removing the rest of my swimsuit. He turns me over to face him. I close my eyes, not wanting him to look into them, afraid he'll see the difference, know what I'm about to do. We kiss deeply, tongues intertwining. I love how he kisses. Lips full and soft, the color of dark clay set in his olive skin. He moves lower, tracing my jaw with his tongue, landing delicate butterfly kisses in the hollow of my throat. He's the only lover I've had who knows how to kiss like this?hard and soft, rough and gentle. I've often felt he plays me with his lips like a concert flutist?hitting all the right notes. My heart breaks a little more?is it even possible?to think it, knowing I'll never feel these kisses again. I take them all, like a thief, locking the memory of each one away, deep in my mind. I never want to forget. I watch as he descends. I can't see his eyes, but I picture them -- a shade of blue that makes me think of skies and oceans. And lies. They're liar's eyes. They go well with his lips. The frisson of anger that I'm hiding makes me hotter, makes me want him more. As his lying lips and tongue circle my stomach, I writhe under him, pushing my hips toward his face. His fingers are exploring my cunt, finding the hard pebble of my clitoris, slick with my own juices. I am teetering on the edge, and then I lose control, coming with a shout. It's like a grenade explosion, quick repercussions and over immediately. "Mi princesa," he chuckles softly, withdrawing his fingers and moving his head between my legs. He always calls me that. I'm not concerned about coming so quickly -- he knows how to make me come, over and over. And I want to, especially today. He taps his tongue against my clit and I jump, the sensation too strong so soon after the orgasm. He licks downward, exploring my channel, tasting the fresh wetness there. He begins to fuck me with his tongue, holding it stiff and thrusting in and out, teasing me. My mind wanders as I wonder who he's been practicing on this time. Anger surges again when I remember our most recent fight about his trysts. "You Americans can never understand," he'd shouted. He's probably right. It's not so much the other women I mind, though, it's the lies. It's also the hypocrisy -- if I took another lover he'd throw me out in an instant. He always justified his lovers by telling me I don’t understand his culture. I understand it just fine, after three years of living here. But I don't have to like it. I ignore these thoughts by focusing on what he's doing between my thighs. His mouth moves back to my clit, and he begins to circle it with his tongue in slow, random patterns. My head lolls to the side, toward the dresser. In the bottom drawer, hidden under my winter clothes, lies my plan, my escape, freedom -- my passport and the airline ticket for tonight's flight to New York. I can almost taste home. By tomorrow night, I'll be back in San Diego, under the warm California sun. An apartment by the beach, rented sight unseen, is waiting for me. I can already feel the hot sand under my feet, the sun bronzing my face, the cool salt of the Pacific on my skin. Two years, I've been with him. It seems strange to leave him like this, but he would not, I'm sure, let me leave easily. We met at his restaurant, where I'd gone with a girlfriend, not suspecting I was about to fall deeply in love. I'd moved into the apartment with him, at his urging. Let my skin go pale through the foggy Barcelona winters just to please him, even put on a few pounds because he liked me rounder, curvier. I like my body this way, too; my breasts are larger, hips rounder, there's a small roundness, a little belly under my navel. I want to savor this, remember everything. I have lost myself in this lover for two years; being nothing, doing nothing that did not involve him. Recently, looking in the mirror, I'd had the eerie feeling that I was fading, becoming transparent. I didn't recognize myself anymore. I had become what he wanted, losing myself, and still it wasn't enough for him. I reach down and pull him up on top of me, face to face. He balances on his arms. His smooth chest, the ripples of his ribcage, the deep brown of his flat male nipples contrasting with his olive skin. I memorize it all. I reach between us and stroke his cock, already erect, always erect. He seems to be insatiable, four times, five times -- it doesn't matter. He never seems to tire of lovemaking. We kiss again, roughly this time, my teeth scraping against his lips. I breathe in the air he exhales, wanting to take everything I can with me. He enters me in one sharp thrust, knows I like it. I push my hips up to meet him, opening and letting him all the way in. I feel his cock sliding past each concentric circle of muscle in my pussy. I bite down on his shoulder, not breaking the skin, but leaving a mark that will fade in a day or two. "Querida," he gasps between thrusts. "Te amo." It comes out like a chant, as if he could cast another spell to keep me here. I feel the orgasm start again almost immediately and let it flow over me. We roll over so I am on top. I sit up on my haunches, moving up and down his cock with deliberate slowness. His hands are stroking my tits, lightly pinching the nipples, sending shivers through me. I lean down and kiss him again, smelling his sweat, the light scents of the restaurant: garlic, cigarette smoke, wine. Under it all, barely detectable, is his musky aftershave. No smell of another woman today, although he's come home smelling of sex and pussy before. Sometimes, at night, I've smelled it coming off his skin, his hair, his cock while he sleeps. Today, it's only me, my smell, like honey, tart lemon, ocean salt. I can taste myself on his lips, run my tongue around his mouth to taste more. He wants to be on top again. He pulls out and flips me over, pulling my hips back toward him, entering me slowly this time. His favorito, he always says. He rests a palm on the small of my back, the other on my hip, possessively. I don't know why, but the hands get me even hotter, the feeling of being completely under his control as he thrusts deeply inside me. I feel like I'm being obliterated, fucked into unconsciousness. I feel my womb clench, another orgasm building. I push back against him harder, moaning. He fucks me faster as his own climax approaches, using one hand to rub my clit, but keeping the other on my hip, knowing I like it. Our bodies are still in perfect tune with each other, even if the souls attached to them are not. He starts to come and my cunt responds, climax breaking over me like waves before a hurricane. I can feel the hot jets of his come coating my insides. He rests his weight on my back, slick with sweat, as we catch our breath. I wriggle under him and he moves off me, knowing I need air. I lay next to him staring at the ceiling, holding his hand. He leans over and kisses me again. "I love you," he says. "Does this mean you're not mad anymore? Everything is ok between us?" "I love you, too," I say, because it's true. "Everything's ok now." When he leaves the apartment, I shower and begin to pack my things. I will be somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic when he realizes that I'm gone. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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