Over the weekend, I've spent some time musing over Yvonne. She showed me a side of her that she had possibly kept concealed from all the people that mattered in her life: even her husband doesn't know.
Perfect, ambitious Yvonne… She must have talked to Cynthia and decided she couldn't possibly miss out on what her more socially relevant friend had (how could she?). So, she decided to invite me over and give this new thing a spin.
I particularly mused over her need to let out all the dirty thoughts and the dirty words she couldn't otherwise express. She possibly gained more enjoyment from blurting out those forbidden sentences than from being titillated by a vibrator or sodomised by a stranger. All those years of discipline, probably from her parents first, and then from the people around her next (those well-to-do, very proper, overnight successes like her husband)! Finally, it was she who self-censored.
She has to be a certain way. People have to see her as well-organised, respectable, efficient. People should envy her and should aspire to her perfection.
But there was this other Yvonne, that has a tangible existence. This Yvonne probably comes out late at night or when the house is empty. I am positive that the little remote-controlled vibrator I saw on Saturday is not the only mechanical aid she plays with. Those are her only true friends this woman has…
I also wondered about the fact that she could have taken me to another room for what she needed me to do, but she had chosen to be in close proximity to her husband. It doesn't take Doctor Connor's diploma to see that she really wants people to find out, to be done with the secrecy.
*
I wake up Monday morning feeling ready to tackle my week alone. I am ready to get into work with this newfound energy: I am determined to hit my quota consistently, to get along better with the people in the neighbouring cubicles and start afresh. I also want to have a good chat with my boss, who normally avoids any opportunity to speak to me and who eyes me like something unpleasant he's discovered on his body but is too afraid to speak to a doctor for. I want to talk to him and tell him I may have been a little slack recently, but I want to surprise him with some strong results this year, and I want to start a conversation about possible opportunities of growth within the company.
I wake up early, a good half hour before the alarm rings, but instead of waiting for the last minute to get out of bed as usual, I make myself some breakfast and get ready.
I don't need to sleep through my life anymore. I feel settled and happy with the activities that await me today: what I used to find tedious and irritating is now a challenge I have plenty of energy for.
I walk down the stairs. I whistle a tune.
On the door, right outside the building, I see Yvonne.
Oh. Fuck.
She wears form-fitting activewear pants, neon orange. An orange sports bra peaks underneath a green tank top that, in bold, sans-serif fonts, reads: 'But first… coffee!!!'
I instinctively check her out, and my eyes are drawn to her crotch and the outline of her pussy, wrapped in stretchy plastic. I also wonder, as I quickly peal my eyes off that sight, when we, as a society, changed from 'camel toe' to 'moose knuckle', or if there's any difference between the two terms. I should probably investigate…
I smile at Yvonne.
'I didn't know which apartment you were. Cyn forgot to say.'
'Uh, uh,' I nod.
'So, shall we?'
I squirm inside, torn between spending time in peak-hour traffic heading for eight hours of phone calls, and what's obviously a more fun way to spend the next hour.
The memory of my dick firmly and comfortably lodged in Yvonne's ass, the sound of her voice begging me to fuck her like nobody else had ever fucked her, the feeling of her body willingly coming towards me and opening itself up to me, unabashedly, flooded my whole body. I was filled with a new burning appetite. All of a sudden, I wanted to possess this woman again.
'Sure,' I say. (Weak!)
When we're inside the apartment, she slowly inspects the living room. She runs her manicured hands along surfaces to take it all in. Watching her engrossed in the details of my life tickles me. She heads to the kitchen counter and inspects the bowl of fruit.
'Mmh,' she says, 'The bananas seem a little on the soft side…'
I can never finish bananas. No matter if I buy one or one hundred, I will always be left with a couple of browning ones with soggy bits and half-split tops.
'I think,' she continues, 'that fruit and veggies always offer good alternative to a good dildo, don't you think?'
I have never really thought about it.
'Bananas have an interesting shape. Carrots and cucumbers have some length, but… Ah, here they are… Zucchini are always a good choice. Small ones for something not too challenging, or the big ones can give you serious girth… By the way, are these organic?' she asks.
No, the discount store had run out of organic veggies.
'Had they? I never shop there, you see. Anyway, these are perfect. On the small size. The exact entrée that's right for us. And… yes… still fresh.'
Yvonne takes a plate with a little zucchini and puts it on the dining table.
'Now…' she continues, 'the key ingredient...'
She opens the pantry and looks around.
I stare at her ass, which the tights give a nice round shape to. I'm happy to say nothing and let her do as she pleases: once you're on the Yvonne train, you just need to let is run until it stops on its own.
'Is this the only bottle you have? You really need to get Extra Virgin: it's the only way. It's really better for you,' she says, putting the olive oil on the table next to the zucchini.
'Where do you keep the linen?' she calls out from the hall that leads to the bedrooms.
'In that cupboard next to the bathroom,' I say.
'I don't want to mess up your place,' she explains from around the corner.
Yvonne returns with a couple of fresh towels under her arms. She stares at my sofa, which is smeared with crayon marks, old grey stains, and various discolorations.
'Well, still…' she says, and she covers the cushions, tucking in the towels neatly into the folds. 'Oil marks are so hard to remove, you know.'
'So, what do you have in mind?' I ask.
She smiles playfully.
'Why don't we pick up from where we left? I think that's a super idea.'
She begins to untie her running shoe.
I walk to the window to lower the blinds.
'Do you have to?' she asks.
The apartments from the building next door can see right into the living room, so, yes, it would be prudent to.
'I suppose, you're right,' she adds a little sad. Then, summoning her usual bubbliness, she says: 'But no matter. This will be fun.'
She removes her pants and her thong but remains with her top on, which she doesn't remove. I wonder if she can possibly be worried about her breasts. She surely looks very attractive to me, and I can't imagine any man complaining about her tits, whatever they might look like under the bra. Once again, I feel a little pity for people for whom I would normally be burning with envy.
I stare at the neatly trimmed bush that covers the front of her crotch and think of the perfect grass lawn at her place. Everything is 'just so' with Yvonne.
She sits on the sofa and begins to touch herself. She stares at me pleasantly, as if we were in the middle of a normal, totally non-sexual conversation.
'You men are so lucky: you're always ready. Women need to warm up a bit,' she says.
I begin to take off my clothes, which, taking a leaf off Yvonne's playbook, I neatly fold and rest on a chair next to her clothes, instead of throwing them into a corner.
'See? Always ready,' she adds, staring at my erection. 'Good for you. Now, come and give me a hand. I normally do everything on my own, and it's nice to get a… collaborator? Shall we settle for that?'
Accomplice seems more like it, I think.
Yvonne changes position and climbs the sofa, where she accommodates herself on all fours.
I take the zucchini and pour some oil on it, which I rub evenly on the green skin.
Yvonne's right hand is still between her legs, massaging her clit, almost casually. I caress her ass. Her skin is very smooth. I stare at her anus for a moment, the small, tightly shut ring, and the darker coloration of the circle around it.
Her skin lets off the calming scent of Ph-neutral soap.
She turns her head and looks at me.
'You're really pretty, you know?' I say.
She blushes a little.
'Ow, you! Anyway, I'm ready,' she replies.
I place the bottom end of the vegetable against the opening of her asshole and give it a gentle push. Like a jewellery box with a secret spring mechanism, the opening pops open, readily, without any trace of resistance. I slide a third of the zucchini inside her.
'I can take a bit more… Or maybe I should wait? Just a bit, ok? I can't be greedy.'
Then, she pats the cushion in front of her with her free hand.
'Come and join me.'
I sit down next to her.
She looks up at me, still resting on her elbows and knees.
'Now, let me see it. Last time, I didn't even get a glimpse.'
She takes my dick in her hand, wrapping her fingers firmly around the shaft, and feels its throbbing.
'Can I?' she asks.
For the first time, Yvonne seems a little timid.
'Yeah,' I say.
She smiles and looks down. Then, she gives the tip a little lick.
'Yum!' she says and giggles.
She then puts the glans in her mouth and gives it a gently suck. Meanwhile, with her hand she's still rubbing herself.
'Mmmh… This is nice,' she says taking my dick out of her mouth and turning her face up to give me a meaningful look.
Yvonne then puts the dick back in her mouth. I can feel her tongue working on the tip of my cock. God, it feels nice.
I reach down with one hand and caress her ass. I stretch my arm and take control of the zucchini, which I handle delicately. I move it further in, then out, then a few inches further, then back out…
To thank me, she slides her lips further down on my dick. My cock moves further down her throat, and I feel it rubbing against various membranes, soft and warm.
Yvonne takes a breath, there are lines of drool hanging from her mouth and connecting her lips to my dick, then she goes down again. She is settling into a pace, rhythmically going up and down on my dick, taking a deep breath when needed, and going down again, further and further, letting the whole shaft slide down her throat, stopping only when her lips touch the base.
Yvonne likes a challenge, and everything she does is to perfection. There's no difference to her between getting 99% there and failure. It's either 100% or nothing.
She deepthroats me a couple more times, then she lifts her head and moves up to me.
I notice the zucchini resting on the towel next to me. Yvonne climbs on my lap, facing me. She wraps one arm around my neck.
I feel her free hand search for my dick. Then, she gently takes hold of it and guides it towards her. She leans back a little, looking for the right position.
I feel my dick going in. I feel the tightness of the passage, and I don't need to look down to know that she has put it in her ass.
'Hold me,' she whispers.
I comply, and Yvonne lets go of my neck. She is now rubbing her clit again. I see her putting two fingers into her vagina.
'Mmh…' she says. Then, she puts three fingers in: 'Yeah… See what a slut I am? You turned me into a slut.'
Her feet are planted next to my hips on the cushions, and she uses them to push herself up and down, up and down. The muscles of her calves tense and relax with each push. Her hand is now rabidly moving back and forth, while her fingers disappear and emerge into her.
I feel the contour of her ass resting on my thigs as she comes down. Every time, once my dick is all the way in, she grunts a little.
'Like a pig, like a pig,' she says.
I slap her on the ass.
'Ah!' she yelps. 'You're a piece of shit. You just want me to come. Like a whore. Like your little bitch.'
Her face is getting redder, and I can hear her breathing becoming deeper.
I am also about to come. I wrap my fingers around her throat (folks, don't try it at home!).
Her eyes widen.
I squeeze a little.
'Mother… fucker!' she says with a smile.
I lift my fingers, but she orders: 'Tighter.'
She's moving decisively on my dick. If she can't move fast in this position, she can be strong.
I'm so close to coming…
She must be close too. She grunts and swears under her breath.
I squeeze her throat a little bit more.
Her mouth opens but no sound comes out, just a whistle like a teapot that lets out steam.
'Eeeehhhk…. I'm… com… ing…' she pants out. 'Fuuuuuck….'
She rests a hand on my chest. She's finished.
Yvonne dismounts me and is quickly on her knees between my legs. My dick is in her mouth. With every movement, she gives out this noise, like a clogged sink that lets water down the pipe in small bursts.
'Ugh… ugh… ugh…'
Faster, faster, faster. I'm so close!
I involuntarily press my hand on the back of her head and push her further in.
'I'm coooooming!' I moan.
I pulls her had back. She starts coughing, spitting out drops of semen and saliva, that she quickly shoves back in her mouth and noisily gurgles and then swallows.
'You came down my throat,' she says.
'I'm sorry.'
She looks up to me, her face flushed, the white in her eyes turned to red.
'Don't be.'
*
I get to work late. Very late.
I head for my cubicle, silently, like a teenager who comes back home way too late after a party and hopes not to wake up his parents, but my boss intercepts me.
'Hi. Nice of you to join us. Can you please come into my office? Close the door. No, don't sit. I'll be a minute.'
I look at the clouds on his face. I can't lose my job. I think of Chloe, and I think of the bills I'm supposed to pay.
'Look,' I begin, a contrite expression on my face. 'I know…'
'Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,' he says.
The man is a short guy. Not a dwarf, but fucking short. Dwarfism would even be better. In any case, his shortness doesn't help with his general attitude towards the world to begin with. He can't find any way to be humorous about it. He's also very bitter. Bitter the way a middle-aged man can be. Middle age is probably the worst age for anyone to be in charge of another human being: the balding patch that cannot be easily covered anymore, the protruding tummy that cannot be brought back in with a week of good eating and a couple of morning jogs, the accumulation of secret failings from the private life… Middle-aged people are still full of energy to channel their frustration on someone, but don't have enough hope for their life to improve left in them to easily cut some slack to a poor fuck like me.
'Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I know. I've heard it before. This is a verbal warning. Cut the late arrivals. Be at your desk on time and stay there. Get your quota up. Understood?'
'Yep,' I say. 'Can I just add…?'
'No.'
He searches for his old-granny glasses that hang off a chain around his neck (I mean, what?); he puts them on and stares at the screen, hovering over something with the mouse, an expression of deep concentration on his face. I'm dismissed.
I walk out and head to my assigned position.
Well, no matter. I intended to get my work ethics back to where they should be. I had a great morning fuck. Today, we turn a new page!
I make calls until lunch time. I would normally do eight or nine. A day. I make forty in two hours. I update my spreadsheets, and I feel really good about myself.
I hear people casually chatting in small groups: my colleagues have put down their phones and are heading for the café downstairs for a bite. I would normally be the first to leave the office for a break, but I don't move. I want to see how many calls I can make today. And tomorrow, I promise myself, I will be in at eight and I'm positive I can add an extra forty or fifty calls on today's numbers.
The colleagues return from the break, and I haven't moved. I'm pumped. Ring, ring. I log each call with a smile. I'm an efficient member of the community.
My heart sinks when I feel my mobile in the pocket of my jeans vibrating against my thigh. Nobody calls me at work. I know it's trouble.
'Hi, is this Chloe's dad?' a voice on the other end asks.
'Yes?' I whisper.
'Chloe is not well. You need to pick her up.'
The voice is emotionless. I wonder if it's a pre-recorded message.
'We have spoken to the school,' I say, cupping a hand around my mouth to prevent people from listening, 'about our situation at home: Chloe's mum and I have separated, and this week is my ex-wife's turn to...'
'We've tried to reach her. Multiple times. We can't speak to her, so it's better if you come.'
'Is Chloe ok?'
I'm now a bit worried. How serious is it?
'She's fine. Probably a bug she's caught.'
I wonder if there's a way to wiggle out of this. I know that if I pick Chloe up on one of Sarah's days, I'm going to get into trouble. I also shouldn't ask to leave early right after having received a warning.
'Sure,' I say. 'Give me… Half an hour, maybe.'
'See you soon. Come into the reception office upon arrival. I'll have Chloe waiting for you here with me.'
I take a deep breath and I walk into my boss's office.
'The thing is…' I begin.
'There's always a thing,' he says without looking at me. 'Especially with people like you.'
'People…? The thing is, as I was saying, that I've hit big numbers today… You can check my logs…'
'The day is not over. There's still time for more,' he says. Still without raising his eyes to look at me.
'I know.'
'Didn't we talk about it?'
'My daughter is sick.'
The man sighs. He knows this card trumps whatever he has. I'm sure he suspects I made the whole story up, and that I want to sneak out to go home and chill. I don't know.
'Fine. Go.'
'Thank you. And… anyway… I will show you I can lift my numbers…'
'I said fine.'
*
I buzz at the gate of St Ignatius. I walk to the office and knock on the partition glass. Behind it, a woman is typing on a computer keyboard. Next to her, on a swivel chair, reading a comic book, is Chloe.
They both look up. The woman scowls a little, while Chloe gives me a big smile.
The woman comes up to the glass. She's a tall blonde, the way you imagine one of Wagner's Valkyries, with an austere demeanour and a severe look on her face. She must be in her mid-forties. You can tell that life at the school has taught her not to take crap from anybody, that rules are rules, and that time is gold.
'Thank you for coming,' she says.
'Is she ok?'
'Yes,' the Valkyrie says. 'It's just a precaution, but we can't afford an epidemic. Last year, we had glandular fever go through the school, and we don't want to repeat that.'
'I understand.'
She stares at me for a minute without saying anything, then she turns towards Chloe and tells her she can go now.
We get home. I check her temperature. No fever.
'How are you feeling, sweetie?' I ask her.
'I'm alright.'
'Did you feel sick today?'
She raises her shoulders and scrunches up her face.
'Maybe?'
'Maybe. That's fine. Now, let's tell mum she's picking you up from here and not school, ok?'
'Can I watch TV?'
'Why not?' I tell her.
I carefully word the text. I change it a few times, then hit send.
Chloe is with me. I know it's your day, but the school called me. She's fine. You can pick her up when you can.
I wait. After a minute, the reply:
WTF? Can't you stick to our arrangement?
I am about to type my defence, that the school has tried to contact her, but I receive a volley of messages in close succession.
I can't come this moment. Actually, I'll leave and get her. This is so fucked. Who did you talk to at school? They should know better. This doesn't end here.