I had watched her from my balcony on many occasions. She seemed to enjoy unwinding after work with gentle laps in the pool. I assumed that she was middle-aged by the way that she carried herself, but she clearly made an effort to upkeep her appearance to where she could easily pass for someone ten years younger. She seemed content, healthy, and even a bit mysterious. In between runs she’d recline on the steps, and watch her feet playfully splash at the waters surface. I admit that in the two years I had gazed upon her elegant form that I was intrigued, and on many occasions thought of perhaps getting a little exercise in myself in order to introduce myself, but was too bashful to follow through.
“Why be a spectator when you can join in,” the note read.” I had just returned from doing errands with my arms full of groceries when I saw it posted on my front door. I stood dumbfounded, embarrassed, for a few moments before freeing two fingers up to retrieve the piece of paper. After entering my unit and placing the bags on the counter I stared at her perfect, curvaceous handwriting and the cheery smiley face next to her initials—what seemed to be two very contrasting features. Was she making an advance, or did she simply wish to meet a new friend? No one ever did accompany her on her swims.
A couple of days went by and she went about her usual sundown routine, glancing up at my double sliding doors every so often while she paused on the steps. I was too shy and confused to join. Then one night I heard a knocking on the door, right about the time that I began dozing off. “Please, come share some dessert with me,” she invited as I opened the door, standing before me with a sweet, yet mischievous grin and two glasses of wine. “My name is Nadia.”
Her chestnut brown hair spilled over her shoulders. The deep olive tone of her skin contrasted well against her long, flowing, lemon-yellow dress which, complemented by her citrus scent wafting in on the temperate night breeze. She really did not need the minimal make-up that she had on as her moss-green, almond-shaped eyes were striking as is. She seemed relatively simple until I saw the 6” heels adorning her feet. I wondered how easily she made it up three flights of stairs with them on.
“Well, are you going to just stand there clenching the side of the door or are you going to accept my invitation?”
Upon entrance to her dimly lit apartment I could smell an odd mixture of garlic and vanilla. The dishes propped up on the dish rack in the kitchen still had little droplets of water clinging to them. The only sound that could be heard was the hum of the refrigerator engine. She motioned for me to take a seat on the couch. “I hope you like flan,” she giggled, making her way into the kitchen. “It was the first time that I have made it at home and I nearly caught myself on fire.” Placing the dish on the coffee table she sat down beside me, and then offered me the only spoon. Again blushing, I nodded in appreciation. “You certainly are shy. Does one have to get you tipsy to loosen you up a bit,” she inquired, though not really waiting for a response.
I sampled her delicious desert, which seemed to me to be perfectly scorched at the top, then placed the spoon at the edge of the plate. Picking up the utensil she then scooped another bite, then raised it to my lips. “This is my grandmother’s recipe,” she said, proudly, guiding my chin between her index finger and thumb. “Now, keep this next bite in your mouth.” Her tongue moved over my lips then slowly crept in to steal the gelatinous treat. Holding my face still until she swallowed the bite, her moistened muscle circled mine before backing away. Only a fraction of the dessert was gone when she placed the fork back down on the plate, attempting to indulge in further introductory conversation. As she did so her nails drifted back and forth up my arm, the tone of her voice voraciously low as she inquired—me only providing one-worded responses.
After finishing our libation she stood and asked if I needed water. I heard the refrigerator open and close and when she came back she held a tall, filled glass in one hand, placed it on the table, and then stood before me, gliding her fingers through my golden locks—stopping to twist the bunches at the tip of her fingers. Then there was a long stretch of silence. She stared down at me with her hypnotic eyes and smile, the flicker of the pillar candles placed about the room framing her form in a strobe-like manner. Just as I began to close my eyes she stopped, knelt down to the drawer beneath the coffee table, and retrieved a folded piece of black cloth. Grabbing one of the frayed end strands she unfurled it, began drifting its edges back and forth across my exposed knees, then settling it over one of my shoulders.
“You can still see a great deal from behind your sheer curtains, you know,” she said, circling the couch then standing behind me. Briefly kneading my shoulder with the palms of her hands she proceeded to retrieve the cloth and raise it to my eyes. “Although you are nearly a mute at the moment your body cannot lie…,” she whispered into my ear, her tongue making contact and circling it as she divulged her intuitiveness. “Breathe, sweetheart….” Shivers radiated from the point of contact down to the tips of my toes. Her sweet breath folded around my face.
I felt her move away from me and round the couch then heard her open the coffee table drawer once again. Parting my knees she crouched and situated herself in between them, stroking my legs to put me at ease. From beneath the hem of my skirt she rolled a small, spongy object up my leg. “Do you trust that I will not hurt you,” she asked, continuing the slow, spinning motion. I hesitated, battled briefly with the conflicting thoughts in my mind. Her hands moved onto mine, placing one ear plug in each palm, as she instructed me to insert them inside of my ears. “Your challenge is to keep your hands beside you, and to resist the temptation to touch,” she instructed. I nodded. “I will tap your right shoulder when you are to take them out.”
My heart began beating frequently—its pulses raising my chest—once they were in place. She lifted one of my feet, removed my sandals, and proceeded to fondle my toes until my shoulders were relaxed. Her hot wind crept up, then descended upon my inner thigh as her arms wrapped firmly around my legs. In a lapping, teasing manner, her tongue danced upon my wanting flesh. With her hands advancing upward onto to my hips she began tugging at the side seams of my panties, gently sinking her teeth into my thigh. The hum from my rising moans, blocked by the spongy obstructions in my ears, seemed to rise from my chest and bounce around in my head. Kneading, nibbling, scratching, tickling, her motions increased in intensity—my body writhing forward into her embrace. I longed so badly to grip her flowing mane but I honored the agreement that we had made.
Halting her dance she moved over me, placing her knees beside my hips in a straddling manner. Weaving her fingers through my hair at the crown of my head, she held it motionless while delivering supple, fluttering kisses. My head titled back into her hands, mouth remained motionlessly agape, and the reverberation between my ears escalated. Releasing her grip she then moved her hands to the row of buttons on my blouse—carefully and slowly unfastening them until my supportive satin undergarment was fully exposed. She pried one cup downward, revealing the beckoning bosom beneath, proceeding to seize its girth and ardently bathe its pigmented peak. While granting the same attention to the other ample peak she freed her grip in my hair and drifted her hand down my torso in a contrasting, teasing manner toward the cloaked, balmy crevasse beneath my skirt. She merely brushed her knuckles up and down the triangular panel of the meshy fabric—repeatedly—as she continued her orchestrated provocation. With every stroke the fever rose within me. Ceasing her play only when I was clearly in a frenzied state, she rose from the couch, and I could no longer sense her presence.
With my loins quivering from the sudden abandonment I sank, frustrated, into the couch, my groans banging against my chest. Startled, my body slightly jumped at the sudden sensation of plump, warm, fleshy finger tips traversing the arch of my foot, but my tension eased once I felt a familiar twirl to a lock of my hair. My unexpected companion dove in, the contrasting sensations of bristly flesh and generous tongue causing my hips to rise violently, granting what Nadia had been withholding.
After a few moments attempting to regain composure I felt the signal on my shoulder. As I removed the ear plug the cloth was lifted from my eyes and before me was the image unfamiliar, smug man, and the whisper of a known voice.
“I would like to introduce you to my husband, Mark.”
