What evoked the actions that had so astonished him in the course of their encounter scarcely matters, being probably some off-handed comment spoken as they rekindled their acquaintance. He had tagged along with friends to lunch at the house where she was staying, after which the party dispersed to peruse the treasures occupying its great rooms. Wandering the corridors that October afternoon, he lingered in front of a large painting overhanging the mantle, which depicted a woman floating nude among the reeds and lilies of some exotic river.
He had contemplated her face across the table as one does a mislaid memory: the sequel to a commencement he could not recall. Such a curious feeling, that some past exchange might have held no importance for him, while his impression of her now carried so much.
Hanging back as her consort moved on to the library, her expression bore amusement, having guessed the magnitude of attention he had devoted to her that afternoon. When they finally spoke, they were alone, charmed by the feeling of mutual arrangement the moment held. The smell of her perfume called to mind a summer morning near the Spanish steps, and he felt a sudden recollection.
“We met years ago in Rome,” he blurted, “I remember it clearly.”
She smiled, her intuition confirmed. “It was Naples, actually. Ten years ago.” She had waited so long for naught: a deferral she would reciprocate. “And do you remember what you told me that day, as we sought shelter from the rain? I’ve never forgotten it, and it has fixed you in my memory all these years.”
The possibility crossed his mind that she had stored up some youthful amorous appeal, but her face said otherwise.
“I remember the storm, but not what was said.”
“I’m not sure you do remember the storm, but neither should I want you to. I hate to bring someone back to who they were in years past, but I’ve always wondered . . . Has it ever happened?”
His countenance was confusion.
“You told me that for as long as you could remember, you’ve had the deepest sense of being destined for something rare and extraordinary, something that would happen to you at some point, which you knew in your bones would overwhelm you.”
Recognition dawned as astonishment. How could he reveal his deepest secret to her, and her alone, and then forget he had done so?
“So, it hasn’t come about?”
He shook his head.
— | — | — | —
Her knowledge of him engendered between them an unusually familiar colloquy, and they surveyed the house together, exchanging details from the intervening decade until the assembly departed into the crisp autumn air.
From the painting on the wall, the woman looked down on the pair, alone together once more, while light from the fire danced strangely across the surface of her river.
She stood, placing her sherry on the cabinet, and took his face in her hands. Her lips gently parted as they met his, her tongue searching for the wet touch of his own. She tasted of hazelnut and honey. A slender hand reached down to trace the hardening flesh swelling against the cloth of his trousers . . .
. . . Slick with their mingled saliva, her tongue circled the tip of his manhood and ran luxuriously up and down his shaft. Her lips closed around him, and he could feel the enchanting pull as she drank him deeper into her mouth. Her hand pulsed a rhythm around the base of his rigid member while she pleasured his fleshy tip . . .
. . . Standing, she slipped the straps of her dress from her shoulders and the fabric slid gracefully to the floor. Pink nipples stood erect from soft breasts, a tuft of dark brown hair where her long legs came together. She lifted one alluring foot onto a chair to expose her glistening pink lips and, tantalising him, licked a finger before slipping it inside. The muscles in her stomach tensed and gooseflesh covered her chest as she touched herself under his longing examination . . .
. . . With a wink, the portrait swung open for her, revealing a hidden cabinet from which she extracted handcuffs and a decanter of oil. She fastened his wrists to the chair. His eyes closed as she poured the oil, coating his stomach and thighs, his aching testicles, and the length of his pulsing erection. With long fluid strokes she pleasured him, twisting her hands with each pass over his tip, tracing fingertips along his testicles. The last of the oil was drizzled across her breasts: trickling, as she caressed him, toward her milky cunt.
He came to perceive that her understanding of him surpassed his own, for each time the pleasure reached a new peak, she pulled away. Only then would he apprehend his proximity to climax, grunting at the bliss and desperation of her sudden absence. Time melted away, along with his will. An hour passed, and then more, as she controlled his pleasure and commanded his desire.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered as her hands withdrew once more.
When he opened them, he was alone. A note on the table read: You’ll be released at dawn.
— | — | — | —
The woman in the painting smiled wickedly as he squirmed, trying to free his hands. His powerful erection ached all the way to the pit of his stomach and pain twinged in his throbbing testicles. Willing himself over the edge but unable to attain it, he looked on in desolation as the fire light faded. In the dark, a final memory from Sorrento emerged and everything fell together, exposed, acknowledged, overwhelmed.
It was the truth, vivid and monstrous, that all the while he had waited the wait was itself his portion.
