see a successful young woman, well
dressed and nicely groomed, her body disciplined if not gym-honed.
She was well aware that genetics had treated her well, giving her a
body whose ripeness suggested sex in almost anyone's eyes.
Nonetheless, it was not as if she could imagine any other line of
work. She had been born to it, like a tailor to the
needle.
Chastity thought again of her parents,
seeing them again through her childhood eyes. Bubbling to the
surface of her memories was a picture of the two of them framed in
the big window by the afternoon sun in the small chalet they had
taken in Lausanne, when her mother worked for the university. Or so
Chastity had been told at the time. Monitor told her later that she
had been hunting rumors of espionage on campus while her father
explored the avant-garde circles, often with their daughter in tow.
How she had loved the swirl of art, theater and writing that seemed
to echo from every café and gallery. The natural beauties of the
region were splendid and seemed to inspire a heightened communion
with the muse. What a disappointment it had been when she was
uprooted from Lausanne to move to the United States, to a vast
sprawling Midwestern town where the geography proved as undramatic
as Switzerland's had been breathtaking.
But she never had any say in the
peregrinations of the family. Her parents always tried to smooth
the transitions, but from an early age, they had made it clear to
her that their work required mobility. Maybe that was why she
adored her little flat on Tavistock Square. She often left it for
months at a time, but it was always waiting for her return,
familiar and welcoming, from the little gnome to the noisy
radiators. It was a pity she couldn't get a pet, though.
She could get some art, however,
Chastity thought as she passed the art store, stopping dead for a
moment to regard the dazzling array of books on everything from
Banksy to Wiertz. The joy of that simple realization struck her
with a nearly audible resonance. Why had she cut herself off from
the glories of art? As a child, Chastity had always been surrounded
by amazing images and beautiful music. Her parents had dragged her
to all manner of performances from bizarre performance pieces to
Shakespearean classics. There was a performance of Marlowe's Doctor
Faustus that could still provoke shivers simply by conjuring the
memory. Where had that been? Denmark? No, she remembered the words
being in English (although she knew, too, how much memory could
play tricks).
I'll ask Damien to go to the theatre
with me, Chastity decided, and ask his advice on art to purchase.
Might as well use that expertise, she thought, quickening her
pace.
Chapter Six
He must have been waiting behind the
door, because Damien had it open before Chastity had a chance to
knock. "Hello!"
"Come in, come in!" Damian reached to
take her hand, drawing her inside and locking the door behind her.
At once he swept her into a kiss that stole her breath away. His
hands moved from the sides of her face to plunge into her hair,
massaging her scalp as his tongue investigated her mouth, as if to
see if he still remembered every contour. Chastity let her own
hands slip down to caress his bum, solid and firm, as she pulled
him close and felt the growing bulge at his groin. She began to
shimmy her hips ever so slightly against his and was pleased to
feel him respond in kind, as if they were swaying to the same
music.
"Oh, it's been too long," he murmured
in her ear before using his tongue to circle its shape, then
sucking on her lobe.
Chastity moaned appreciatively. "It's
only been a couple of days."
"Too long!" he declared, moving his
mouth to her neck and biting into her flesh with increasing force
while Chastity dug her fingers into his cheeks just to keep her
balance. His hands sought her breasts and kneaded them roughly.
Chastity used the space between them to reach for his pants, unsnap
them and slide down the zipper. She
dressed and nicely groomed, her body disciplined if not gym-honed.
She was well aware that genetics had treated her well, giving her a
body whose ripeness suggested sex in almost anyone's eyes.
Nonetheless, it was not as if she could imagine any other line of
work. She had been born to it, like a tailor to the
needle.
Chastity thought again of her parents,
seeing them again through her childhood eyes. Bubbling to the
surface of her memories was a picture of the two of them framed in
the big window by the afternoon sun in the small chalet they had
taken in Lausanne, when her mother worked for the university. Or so
Chastity had been told at the time. Monitor told her later that she
had been hunting rumors of espionage on campus while her father
explored the avant-garde circles, often with their daughter in tow.
How she had loved the swirl of art, theater and writing that seemed
to echo from every café and gallery. The natural beauties of the
region were splendid and seemed to inspire a heightened communion
with the muse. What a disappointment it had been when she was
uprooted from Lausanne to move to the United States, to a vast
sprawling Midwestern town where the geography proved as undramatic
as Switzerland's had been breathtaking.
But she never had any say in the
peregrinations of the family. Her parents always tried to smooth
the transitions, but from an early age, they had made it clear to
her that their work required mobility. Maybe that was why she
adored her little flat on Tavistock Square. She often left it for
months at a time, but it was always waiting for her return,
familiar and welcoming, from the little gnome to the noisy
radiators. It was a pity she couldn't get a pet, though.
She could get some art, however,
Chastity thought as she passed the art store, stopping dead for a
moment to regard the dazzling array of books on everything from
Banksy to Wiertz. The joy of that simple realization struck her
with a nearly audible resonance. Why had she cut herself off from
the glories of art? As a child, Chastity had always been surrounded
by amazing images and beautiful music. Her parents had dragged her
to all manner of performances from bizarre performance pieces to
Shakespearean classics. There was a performance of Marlowe's Doctor
Faustus that could still provoke shivers simply by conjuring the
memory. Where had that been? Denmark? No, she remembered the words
being in English (although she knew, too, how much memory could
play tricks).
I'll ask Damien to go to the theatre
with me, Chastity decided, and ask his advice on art to purchase.
Might as well use that expertise, she thought, quickening her
pace.
Chapter Six
He must have been waiting behind the
door, because Damien had it open before Chastity had a chance to
knock. "Hello!"
"Come in, come in!" Damian reached to
take her hand, drawing her inside and locking the door behind her.
At once he swept her into a kiss that stole her breath away. His
hands moved from the sides of her face to plunge into her hair,
massaging her scalp as his tongue investigated her mouth, as if to
see if he still remembered every contour. Chastity let her own
hands slip down to caress his bum, solid and firm, as she pulled
him close and felt the growing bulge at his groin. She began to
shimmy her hips ever so slightly against his and was pleased to
feel him respond in kind, as if they were swaying to the same
music.
"Oh, it's been too long," he murmured
in her ear before using his tongue to circle its shape, then
sucking on her lobe.
Chastity moaned appreciatively. "It's
only been a couple of days."
"Too long!" he declared, moving his
mouth to her neck and biting into her flesh with increasing force
while Chastity dug her fingers into his cheeks just to keep her
balance. His hands sought her breasts and kneaded them roughly.
Chastity used the space between them to reach for his pants, unsnap
them and slide down the zipper. She
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