Silence In The Afternoon

You're always beautiful in the moonlight, but I've missed your face in the sunshine. When I meet you at the nature preserve you're all smiles, carrying a picnic on your arm. Though we're in a public space, we're lucky enough to be totally alone. The people making honest livings are off at their jobs. There aren't even any stay-at-home parents with their children. Just us, flowers, trees, sun.
      Light accentuates the wrinkles that have started forming around your eyes, wrinkles I haven't noticed in all the dark bars, movie theaters, and blue-lit clubs that make up our usual haunts, the places that your intellectual colleagues and friends don't visit. These wrinkles are beautiful, and I indulge the fantasy of growing old with you, watching the terrain of your face change with time. But then I bring myself to reality, with the world well-lit, with us unmistakably public, pretending to be legitimate lovers.


We drink wine from plastic cups, like college students - no sense in risking breaking your wedding crystal. But I don't mind; I like pretending I'm young; I enjoy being clandestine. I feel more appreciated knowing how much you risk in order to be with me.
      I haven't eaten yet today, so even one glass of wine makes me blissfully dizzy. I know that I should eat, that I should feel hungry, but the buzz magnifies the sensation of your hand on mine. I trace your arm, and my fingers slip beneath the buttons of your shirt. But you slide them back out, reach into the basket and lift up a tray of sushi. Chopsticks be damned; you lift up an eel roll with your fingers and feed it to me, lingering at my lips, my tongue taking all of the taste off of your skin. Then you feed me another piece and I'm getting greedy, biting at your hands as I try to take every morsel down my throat.
      "What a glutton," you tease, and I want to prove just how voracious I can be.
      Fingers aren't enough anymore. I pounce, knocking you on your back, and then I crawl on top, my skirt hiking up around my hips. My teeth go straight for the thin yet tough meat of your neck. I could draw blood for all I care, though your skin ultimately resists the invasion. But I don't need blood, just flesh, and so I pin your arms above your head with one hand, unbutton your shirt with the other, stroke my tongue up your sternum, take my teeth down to your nipples. The sensation is too much and you thrash, but I hold my ground, keep you stuck, make you wait to be devoured.
      My free hand loosens your belt buckle, then your zipper, and finally your cock is free for my use. I should tease, to make you last longer, but it's been more than a week since I last had you. And anyway, this isn't about your sustained pleasure; it's about my sustenance. I take your whole cock in my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat, hold it there for a moment, letting my tongue and gums and cheeks absorb every flavor, every bit of skin. When you start groaning, I begin to suck and thrust, swallowing you whole and releasing, only to swallow you again. Gradually, I release your hands so I can grip your hips, hold you down tighter. You begin stroking my hair, cupping my breasts. I should smack them away, pin them back down, remind you that your body is mine, not the other way around. But I'm too caught up in the rhythm of sucking and licking. When you reach to smack my ass your cock gives that familiar surge and suddenly I'm drinking you, too, draining all of your cum into my body.

Sated, I roll over, adjust my clothes, cuddle up to you. You wrap your arms around me, let yourself relax against my body. I begin to think you've fallen asleep, but then your hand starts to stroke my arm, my breasts, my hip, and then your fingers wander up my skirt, playing with my inner thighs.
      But suddenly, you stop. I feel you raise your arm to read your watch, and before I can blink, you're on your knees, shaking a few remaining drops of cum into the grass, zipping and buttoning up.
      "I should be heading back."
      "Oh. Okay."
      No other words, not even a goodbye kiss. You take off for the parking lot, most of our lunch still in the basket next to me, uneaten. I'm left to pack up the mess, to go home and pass my dwindling afternoon alone. You'll call maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, ignore my complaints, become angry if I dare dial your number. I can have your body, but I'll never have you. Just sex and booze and dancing, no laughter, no conversation. You only give yourself to me in exchange for my silence. Break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.