Read Online Untitled.FR11 by Unknown Author - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Unknown Author
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alike, a nice little niche, expert in the ins and outs of Graphical User Interfaces, the ways of constructors and destructors in C++ code, and the whole panoply of software and hardware arcana—but inside, where she hid herself, it meant no more than a big fat NULL.
Sherry relaxed into rich orgasm, mouthing an increase of ardency upward but not at all frantic as her whole body responded like nightwind rising on ocean. She felt dreamy and whole here, tasted and loved, her hands on soft curves and indefinable good will. One could usually tell by this point if giving sensuality its head had been a good or bad idea, if durability or dread were in the air—and Sherry’s Mmmm detector had nothing but Oh Yes writ large across its face. They’d right themselves, snuggle, laugh, maybe dive right back into it; but there was no rush, just union deep and complete, and for now, she was content to hold and hug and feel the glow seep inward, attempting to reach her. -
“So how was it downtown?” Marcus was in the kitchen, spreading peanut butter on celery stalks, when Katt walked in on him.
“Peaceful,” she said, patching together a pastiche of downtown traipses, worrying as he kissed her whether she’d washed sufficient trace of Sherry from her mouth. Pulling away, no waver in his eyes; Katt felt relieved. “The same as always,” she said. “A lunchtime crowd outside at Pasta Jay’s and Coop-ersmith’s. Water splashing off the boulders they put up at the dedication of the square what maybe six years ago? A couple of raindrops through the sunshine.”
“Any kids creamed?”
“By skateboarders and rollerbladers? None I saw.”
Katt asked about his notetaking and pretended to hear his reply. She was scanning his face, his gestures, a hum of anxiety low but underlying in her, wanting and dreading a first sign. The word “headache” slipstreaming by caught her ears. Marcus brushed at his brow.
“Working too hard?”
“I guess,” he said. “I don’t suppose I could have an afternoon taste of your Magic Fingers?”
“Sure you could,” her words spilled out, “you give me enough money! Sit down.” Automatic response, but inside, a rise in anxiety. She didn’t want to touch him. But she was moving around behind him where he sat in the breakfast nook, a smile still fixed on her face. One hand slid over his left shoulder and its partner found his right, squeeze there and thumbs dug in to find her balance at his back.
“Mmmm,” he said, bending his neck forward and resting his arms on the fakewood tabletop like numb lobster claws, then pulling them back until he gripped the table edge and righted his head again. “Feels good.” Katt parenthesized his neck, fingers under jawline. Good solid man; fragile, she thought, as anyone. Her probes, taught by experience, spoke his health, skimming messages as she concentrated on massage. She rotated her fingers upward until they rested on his temples, thumbs under ears, the flat of her hand on hair and skin, warmth and faint throb there. For some odd reason, a vision of the beach came to the fore as she shut her eyes, the fresh Caribbean sands and surf smells of the last vacation she and Marcus had taken, could it have been five years ago? Conner off to her mom in Florida, private beachfront, a simple hut with just enough amenities, sweet lovemaking under moonlight and time simply gone away. How delightful it had been.
“That’s getting it,” he said.
“Is the mean and nasty going away?”
“Mmmm.”
Her fingers found their rhythm. She watched the tips move, black sweeps of hair thatched above them and back as they rotated and pressed. Again, shutting out the kitchen and Marcus’s murmurs of pleasure, Katt skulled and brained inward. Easier this time, terrain once traversed. Layers passed and there it was, that same tentative tissue, ready to dry up. Disappointed, relieved. She hadn’t done it at all, couldn’t do it apparently. Stuck. Then the vacancy, tiny
Sherry relaxed into rich orgasm, mouthing an increase of ardency upward but not at all frantic as her whole body responded like nightwind rising on ocean. She felt dreamy and whole here, tasted and loved, her hands on soft curves and indefinable good will. One could usually tell by this point if giving sensuality its head had been a good or bad idea, if durability or dread were in the air—and Sherry’s Mmmm detector had nothing but Oh Yes writ large across its face. They’d right themselves, snuggle, laugh, maybe dive right back into it; but there was no rush, just union deep and complete, and for now, she was content to hold and hug and feel the glow seep inward, attempting to reach her. -
“So how was it downtown?” Marcus was in the kitchen, spreading peanut butter on celery stalks, when Katt walked in on him.
“Peaceful,” she said, patching together a pastiche of downtown traipses, worrying as he kissed her whether she’d washed sufficient trace of Sherry from her mouth. Pulling away, no waver in his eyes; Katt felt relieved. “The same as always,” she said. “A lunchtime crowd outside at Pasta Jay’s and Coop-ersmith’s. Water splashing off the boulders they put up at the dedication of the square what maybe six years ago? A couple of raindrops through the sunshine.”
“Any kids creamed?”
“By skateboarders and rollerbladers? None I saw.”
Katt asked about his notetaking and pretended to hear his reply. She was scanning his face, his gestures, a hum of anxiety low but underlying in her, wanting and dreading a first sign. The word “headache” slipstreaming by caught her ears. Marcus brushed at his brow.
“Working too hard?”
“I guess,” he said. “I don’t suppose I could have an afternoon taste of your Magic Fingers?”
“Sure you could,” her words spilled out, “you give me enough money! Sit down.” Automatic response, but inside, a rise in anxiety. She didn’t want to touch him. But she was moving around behind him where he sat in the breakfast nook, a smile still fixed on her face. One hand slid over his left shoulder and its partner found his right, squeeze there and thumbs dug in to find her balance at his back.
“Mmmm,” he said, bending his neck forward and resting his arms on the fakewood tabletop like numb lobster claws, then pulling them back until he gripped the table edge and righted his head again. “Feels good.” Katt parenthesized his neck, fingers under jawline. Good solid man; fragile, she thought, as anyone. Her probes, taught by experience, spoke his health, skimming messages as she concentrated on massage. She rotated her fingers upward until they rested on his temples, thumbs under ears, the flat of her hand on hair and skin, warmth and faint throb there. For some odd reason, a vision of the beach came to the fore as she shut her eyes, the fresh Caribbean sands and surf smells of the last vacation she and Marcus had taken, could it have been five years ago? Conner off to her mom in Florida, private beachfront, a simple hut with just enough amenities, sweet lovemaking under moonlight and time simply gone away. How delightful it had been.
“That’s getting it,” he said.
“Is the mean and nasty going away?”
“Mmmm.”
Her fingers found their rhythm. She watched the tips move, black sweeps of hair thatched above them and back as they rotated and pressed. Again, shutting out the kitchen and Marcus’s murmurs of pleasure, Katt skulled and brained inward. Easier this time, terrain once traversed. Layers passed and there it was, that same tentative tissue, ready to dry up. Disappointed, relieved. She hadn’t done it at all, couldn’t do it apparently. Stuck. Then the vacancy, tiny
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