This nothingness.
She watched him walk to the dining table, bury his face in the lilies to gather in their scent. He looked across the room at her and for the first time smiled. She felt ill with desire for him. From there he went to the window, looked out, and then drew the cerise damask draperies closed over the sheer white silk curtains. He gazed briefly at her once more. It was a merciless look that told her nothing, but both chilled her and inflamed her unkindled passion for him yet more.
From there he walked to the kitchen. She heard him open the oven door and close it again. “God bless Dora. I’m famished,” he called out. He walked to her now, past a pair of decorative Lalique glass doors. He hesitated. Slowly, seductively, he slid one of the doors open to reveal a bed filling the alcove behind. Christopher looked at it, and then provocatively at her. His gaze steadied on her while he slid the door closed.
His steps now were more swift and sure, not unlike some magnificent jungle cat: a lion, a tiger, who has marked his place, making it his own. She watched him move closer to her, loosen his tie, unbutton the jacket of his gray flannel suit. He stood inches away from her, not exactly cold, not exactly distant. Finally he reached out to her and took her in his arms. She slipped her hands under his jacket and around his waist and crushed herself to him, and felt at once his hard yearning desire for her was at least as great as her own for him. They kissed.
Hand in hand they walked together to the sofa. “Hello,” he said.
“Welcome home,” she answered, “I have missed you so terribly.”
He flicked his hair off his forehead with a quick turn of his head. A gesture of his she always found touching: there was something boyish, innocent about it. He raised her hand and placed it on the bulging erection straining his trousers. Then he brought the open palm that had caressed him to his mouth and kissed it. “And you can see and feel how much I have missed you.” They were both smiling now. The attraction wasstill there and as strong as ever. Standing up, he removed his jacket, tore off his tie, and threw them onto the wing chair. His shirt unbuttoned, he stood above her and between her legs, and gently took her head in his hands to press her face against what he knew she yearned for. She remained there caressing him with her face, absorbing the faint raunchy scent of her lover.
Cheyney had to hold back not to weep with joy. Not to beg him to take her. Her need for him to make love to her was enormous. To feel his lips devour her, his hands caress, to feel him inside her dissolving with every thrust the separateness he created between them. Only then, in the toils of sexual intercourse, was he able to make love to her, show affection and passion, a oneness with Cheyney, or express the real depth of his feelings for her. Until he wanted her desperately enough to do that, he would tease her with his sex, torture her with his charm and promise. Cheyney could accept the teasing games of seduction he was so good at, the subtle ploys to gain power and position, the little cruelties he played with her and others who fell in love with him. All this dissolved during those times of carnal lust with her, when he surrendered all of himself to Cheyney, confessed his love and the overwhelming sexual bliss he achieved with her. In gratitude he would turn himself into her slave, shorn of all desire but to fuck her into sexual oblivion.
He pulled Cheyney up by the hands from the sofa and asked, “Are we drinking red or white? A glass now, before dinner, would be nice.”
How shallow his love must be for me, she thought, a shallowness that kept her on guard. It served as a constant reminder that their love had limitations too great to survive. A twinge of sadness, a forced smile to cover it up. She answered, “Red, I thought.”
He placed his arm around her and they strolled together to the table. He busied himself with
She watched him walk to the dining table, bury his face in the lilies to gather in their scent. He looked across the room at her and for the first time smiled. She felt ill with desire for him. From there he went to the window, looked out, and then drew the cerise damask draperies closed over the sheer white silk curtains. He gazed briefly at her once more. It was a merciless look that told her nothing, but both chilled her and inflamed her unkindled passion for him yet more.
From there he walked to the kitchen. She heard him open the oven door and close it again. “God bless Dora. I’m famished,” he called out. He walked to her now, past a pair of decorative Lalique glass doors. He hesitated. Slowly, seductively, he slid one of the doors open to reveal a bed filling the alcove behind. Christopher looked at it, and then provocatively at her. His gaze steadied on her while he slid the door closed.
His steps now were more swift and sure, not unlike some magnificent jungle cat: a lion, a tiger, who has marked his place, making it his own. She watched him move closer to her, loosen his tie, unbutton the jacket of his gray flannel suit. He stood inches away from her, not exactly cold, not exactly distant. Finally he reached out to her and took her in his arms. She slipped her hands under his jacket and around his waist and crushed herself to him, and felt at once his hard yearning desire for her was at least as great as her own for him. They kissed.
Hand in hand they walked together to the sofa. “Hello,” he said.
“Welcome home,” she answered, “I have missed you so terribly.”
He flicked his hair off his forehead with a quick turn of his head. A gesture of his she always found touching: there was something boyish, innocent about it. He raised her hand and placed it on the bulging erection straining his trousers. Then he brought the open palm that had caressed him to his mouth and kissed it. “And you can see and feel how much I have missed you.” They were both smiling now. The attraction wasstill there and as strong as ever. Standing up, he removed his jacket, tore off his tie, and threw them onto the wing chair. His shirt unbuttoned, he stood above her and between her legs, and gently took her head in his hands to press her face against what he knew she yearned for. She remained there caressing him with her face, absorbing the faint raunchy scent of her lover.
Cheyney had to hold back not to weep with joy. Not to beg him to take her. Her need for him to make love to her was enormous. To feel his lips devour her, his hands caress, to feel him inside her dissolving with every thrust the separateness he created between them. Only then, in the toils of sexual intercourse, was he able to make love to her, show affection and passion, a oneness with Cheyney, or express the real depth of his feelings for her. Until he wanted her desperately enough to do that, he would tease her with his sex, torture her with his charm and promise. Cheyney could accept the teasing games of seduction he was so good at, the subtle ploys to gain power and position, the little cruelties he played with her and others who fell in love with him. All this dissolved during those times of carnal lust with her, when he surrendered all of himself to Cheyney, confessed his love and the overwhelming sexual bliss he achieved with her. In gratitude he would turn himself into her slave, shorn of all desire but to fuck her into sexual oblivion.
He pulled Cheyney up by the hands from the sofa and asked, “Are we drinking red or white? A glass now, before dinner, would be nice.”
How shallow his love must be for me, she thought, a shallowness that kept her on guard. It served as a constant reminder that their love had limitations too great to survive. A twinge of sadness, a forced smile to cover it up. She answered, “Red, I thought.”
He placed his arm around her and they strolled together to the table. He busied himself with
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