betweenstories

[betweenstories]

“Hello, love. I’m glad you made it here. . .”

✅ CHAPTERS 1 - 32

[betweenstories]

[betweenstories]

A BIRTHDAY STORY

CHAPTER 1

I wake to the electronic beeps of a garbage truck in reverse. Blinking, disoriented, I’m surprised to find myself naked, curled in a tight little ball, and using a man’s firm thigh as a pillow.

Where am I?

When I try to lift my aching head, I hit a snag. Literally. I turn and see... My eyes go wide. My hair’s tangled up in what would appear to be your morning erection.

“Good morning, love! Happy In-Between Day!”

I groan. Your voice is too loud. The room’s too bright. Your tone is entirely too chipper. Being careful with my hair, I gingerly maneuver onto my stomach and gaze up the length of your lean torso. I take in the light dusting of hair across your bare chest, note the way your abs flex with every movement. With your hands tucked behind your head and your firm lips quirked, you smile down at me. Our eyes meet, and your grin goes wide.

“Glad you’re awake. Held out as long as I could, but the situation’s approaching desperate.”

Leaning forward, you brush a thumb down the curve of my cheek, then quickly (yet gently) free yourself from my bird’s nest hair.

Rolling to my back once again, I resume my position on the thigh pillow. With a long sigh, I throw a forearm over my eyes while you work.

During the pandemic, I’d let my hair grow, intending a symbolic haircut to mark the end. Clearly, that hadn’t happened. Currently (when I’m standing), the tips of my hair brush the small of my back. I think it’s the longest it’s ever been in my life.

When I’d imagined the end of the pandemic, I’d pictured a global event with ticker tape parades, wild celebrations in the streets, and free Dunkin’ Donuts for all. I’d envisioned the scene from Independence Day, when the world had cried out in victory after Randy Quaid had kamikaze’d his jet into the heart of the alien ship. I frown. That movie doesn’t hold up well at all. They could’ve taken down the entire alien invasion with a dozen small drones. And even if they hadn’t had drones back then—What was it? The 80’s?—surely they could’ve placed hands on a rocket launcher or something.

Since the pandemic hadn’t ended on a single day, had stretched out over the course of many months while the vaccines had been distributed, there’d never been an official global “end of the virus” party. In truth, minor outbreaks were ongoing. Mentally, I wave the thought away. Regardless, it was past time for a haircut.

Back in the present, you’ve finally escaped my hair. You kiss the top of my head, bound off the bed, and lope toward the shower. Propped up on my elbows, I tilt my head to one side. I smile in appreciation as I watch your bare ass cross the room.

Scanning my surroundings, I think The Gramercy. We’re at the Gramercy Hotel.

It’s our final day in the city after what couldn’t have been a more perfect trip. The weather had been gorgeous all week—periwinkle blue skys and vibrant changing leaves.

We’d seen fantastic shows, dined in stellar restaurants, and the Gramercy had lived up to its sexy hotel reputation and then some. It’d been quintessential autumn in New York.

I lift a hand and try to run my fingers through my tangled hair. I hadn’t braided it last night. That was a rarity. What did I do?

I glance around the suite. My gaze lands on a plush couch in the small seating area adjoining the bedroom. As memories from the night before flood my mind, my face flames as scarlet as the red velvet cushions.

Ten minutes later, I’ve remembered enough that I can’t make eye contact when you enter the room. When I glance sidelong at the couch, my cheeks burn hot once again.

“Red couches are my new favorite furniture.”

I snap my attention to you. Your grin is wicked. I open my mouth to speak, but I’m distracted by a fat bead of water rolling slowly, lovingly, down your chest. I follow its path down your flat stomach to the plush white towel slung low on your hips.

Though I’m wading through a thick, morning-after fog, and I need a shower like, yesterday; I feel the familiar stir. When your gaze settles on my face near the region of my eyes, I mentally chant, “ ... please don’t let me have raccoon eyes... please don’t let me have raccoon eyes...“ I add a third iteration as if making the wish in triplicate might increase its odds of being true.

Rolling off the bed, I keep my head down and my eyes fixed on the floor as I head toward a much needed shower.

[betweenstories]

[betweenstories]

CHAPTER 2

“Barosaurus’s feet have never been discovered.”

The tallest woman I’ve ever seen raises her voice to be heard above the low murmur of the assembled group. In my mind, I style her “torch-bearer” due to the flaming red hair that’s surely a boon in her job as a tour guide.

When I glance sidelong at you, you’re already looking at me. I mouth the words, “Poor Barosaurus.”

You smile and squeeze my hand.

Torch-bearer continues. “. . . and its name is derived from the Greek words for ‘heavy’ and ‘lizard.’” She points above her head. “At a height of fifty feet, Barosaurus is the tallest land animal known to man.”

Standing in the center of the Roosevelt Rotunda inside the American Museum of Natural History, I crane my neck up and up and stare in wonder at the collection of reassembled bones. This morning, after I’d showered and inhaled the veggie omelet delivered by room service, I’d felt like a brand new woman.

As had quickly become our routine—you’d dressed early and gone out to explore the city while I’d finished getting ready for the day. An hour later, when I’d taken the elevator down to uber exclusive Gramercy Park, I’d found you waiting on a garden bench reading the New York Times. Seeing you there, one ankle casually propped on a bent knee while holding actual newsprint had inspired me to reach for my phone. At that exact moment, a little finch had landed on the rolled arm of the wrought iron bench.

Just as I’d snapped the pic, you’d glanced up at the tiny bird and smiled. As per usual. I’d been charmed. When you’d looked up at me though, your smile had taken on an altogether different flavor. You’d done a double take, likely noting the short length of my cashmere sweater dress. Or maybe you’d been focused on my over-the-knee suede boots. Either way, it appeared you’d liked what you’d seen.

After looking me up and down—twice, you’d slowly set the paper aside and stalked my way with a look of such pure intention it’d made my toes curl. Five minutes later, after kissing me senseless, you’d once again wished me a happy In-Between Day.

I’d been so distracted earlier, I hadn’t asked, so in the park, when I’d looked at you with a question, you’d grinned and said, “Hadn’t you heard? The day mid-way between your birthday and mine is an official holiday on at least two continents now.”

Someone taps my shoulder and I turn to see a middle-aged woman holding out her phone. Though she doesn’t speak English, we come to an understanding quickly; and I snap a photo of her with her family in front of the dinosaur bones. I love taking photos for people, even strangers. I always make sure they get a good one. It’s such a simple thing, but one I’d missed so much during the pandemic.

I return the woman’s phone. She bows. I bow. We both smile, and I wave goodbye as they turn to go.

When I return to your side, you slip your hand inside my cloak. Your palm is warm pressed against the small of my back. I think In-Between Day and a warm feeling spreads inside my chest and . . . other places. I bite my bottom lip and trace my pointed toe over one of the arcing lines between floor tiles. Attempting to be discreet, I glance up to take you in.

You stare at the display with a contemplative expression. Wouldn’t I love to know what you’re thinking? I follow the line of your firm jaw, your chiseled cheekbones. I love your strong profile, especially your nose. The word “regal” comes to mind. I picture you in an historic oil painting in full military uniform. Your sword would be raised, your black stallion rearing as you led the charge into battle. You glance my way, wry smile in place.

While some people have a poker face, mine’s nothing but clear glass, which you seem to see through better than anyone. At times, you’re so dead-on accurate at guessing what I’m thinking, I wonder if you actually can read my mind. I glance at your face again, then turn to gaze up at the clear blue sky beyond the glittering glass windows. It’s funny how the standard for beauty varies so widely between cultures and how quickly the parameters within each one can change.

I’d once attended a lecture on this very subject. The speaker had described what a revelation it’d been when he’d visited Africa for the first time. Having been ridiculed all his life for the extra wide gap between his prominent two front teeth; he’d been surprised and delighted to discover, that in Africa, the wider the gap, the more attractive the person was considered.

He’d said that by the end of his trip, random strangers had approached him so often about his beautiful teeth he’d understood the compliment without the aid of a translator.

The flags mounted outside the museum entrance catch my attention as they wave in the light breeze.

If a person visited, or at least learned about every culture, would they then find something beautiful about every person on the planet. . . including themselves?

Sidling closer to you, I slip my hand inside the crook of your arm and curl my fingers around your warm bicep. When you cover my hand with yours and give a little squeeze of acknowledgement, I study my toes to hide my dreamy smile.

[betweenstories]

[betweenstories]

[betweenstories]

CHAPTER 3

When we’d first started planning our trip, I’d confessed that though I’d been fortunate to visit New York many times with either girlfriends, my Mom, my daughters, or my sister; I’d always secretly wished to experience the city with a romantic partner.

Apparently, you’d taken this statement to heart. At every turn, it seemed you’d gone out of your way to make this the most romantic trip ever. I think back to the way you’d looked at me when you’d lowered the newspaper.

Your expression had reminded me of one of my favorite scenes in the film, “To Catch a Thief.” It’s early in the movie when Grace Kelly goes to change clothes for a trip to the beach with Cary Grant. They’re at a point in their relationship when they both recognize the other as dangerous to their chances of remaining single. Hitchcock was such a genius writer/director. In the next scene, in mere seconds, he tells a clear, yet nuanced story with no dialogue whatsoever.

When Kelly finally emerges into the hotel lobby, Grant looks her up and down with an expression that says, “Yes, I’m aware you’ve engineered this entire get-up to get a reaction out of me. And yes, you’re ridiculously attractive; but no, I won’t give you the compliment. I can control myself and you know you’re lovely all too well.”

The look she gives in return is knowing, triumphant. It says, “Too late, my friend. Compliment or not, I saw the way you looked at me. You’re mine and we both know it.”

This morning, you’d given me Grant’s look exactly, but unlike Kelly—I reach up, touch my fingertips to my lips at the memory—I’d gotten the kiss and the compliment as well.

After kissing me soundly, you’d grasped my hands and held my arms out to each side as if to get a better look at my outfit. I’d grinned and done a little pirouette in accommodation. When your eyes had traveled the length of my body, I’d felt your hot gaze like a long, slow caress. Even now, my breaths quicken at the memory.

And then, as the soft morning breeze had teased loose tendrils, you’d pressed your warm palm against the small of my back, and pulled me so close. Staring at my deep red lips, you’d tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, fixed your gaze on mine, and said one simple word: Bellisima.

Like I said . . . most romantic trip ever.

Torch-bearer’s voice brings me back to the present.

“Yes, sir. You can touch it. Nothing’s off limits here. We encourage you to touch anything you’d like.”

I grin. Exactly what I said to you last night.

Turning my attention back to you, I take in the open collar of your casual, but crisp slate grey button-down. I nibble my bottom lip. I wish I could lean in and trail kisses down your neck to your collarbone right now. I gaze lower to your black leather belt with its heavy stainless steel buckle. I nod. Very masculine. I approve.

Eyes roaming down further, I sigh. There’s something about this particular pair of jeans that drives me absolutely wild. I picture you shirtless, the slightly worn denim hanging low on your hips, envision the faint line of hair arrowing down from your navel, a treasure trail directing my attention even lower. I swallow hard. Determined not to fall into a haze of lust before ten a.m. I give myself a mental shake and cross my arms over my chest.

After scanning the signs labeling each of the massive halls, I mentally divide the available minutes by the number of exhibits we’ve already agreed we want to see. I wish we could spend a week here instead of a day. Every direction I turn sparks a thousand new queries. I glance your way again. I bet you know the answers to all my questions. You turn to me and smile. I smile too. The world fades away as we stand and stare in lunatic silence.

When I finally look away, I shake my head, bewildered as usual. Surely this level of attraction should’ve wained by now? Pulling your hand from your pocket, you flip your wrist to check the time.

Your tone is oh-so-casual.

“By the way, we have lunch reservations at 1:30.”

I slip my hand into yours. You lace your fingers with mine.

“Do we then? And where might we be dining?”

You rock back on your heels and look to the ceiling. “I think it was called... hmm.. Maybe it was called Tavern on the Green or something similar?”

My eyes go wide. Long ago, I’d mentioned that Tavern on the Green topped my restaurant dining wish list. Now, post-pandemic, everyone was travelling like mad, bucket lists in hand. Booking a table at any of the big name destination restaurants had become particularly challenging.

Ridiculously happy, I beam up at you. I bounce on my toes as I double-tap my heels. You must’ve called weeks in advance to secure such a prime time slot on a Saturday. You say nothing, just smile and give my hand a little squeeze. We turn our gazes back up to the dinosaur bones to stare in comfortable silence.

[betweenstories]

CHAPTER 4

Tucked away at a quaint little two-top in the back corner of Tavern on the Green’s outdoor dining pavilion, I eye the overhead shade dubiously. The tilt of the large umbrella offers just enough privacy to get us into trouble. Dining with you and avoiding public indecency charges required constant vigilance.

Deciding to take advantage of the gorgeous weather, we’d walked the short distance from the museum to the restaurant, enjoying the sights and sounds of Central Park along the way.

When I’d eyed the famous carousel, I’d thought I’d have to work to convince you; but you’d tugged my hand in that direction before I’d even formed words. Ten minutes later we’d tumbled onto one of the ride’s few bench seats where you’d promptly pulled me onto your lap and kissed me reckless. Face warm, I shift in my seat and rub my thighs together. Not a great start when the objective is avoiding arrest.

Blowing out a breath, I turn my attention to the courtyard. I scan down rows of packed tables and a sea of international faces to the glittering glass walls of one of the most iconic restaurants in the country. I take in the modern additions overlaying antique bricks, marvel at the pleasing effect of such incongruous architecture. It’s hard to believe this little gem of a building once housed flocks of Southland sheep.

Leaning back in my chair, I smile at familiar restaurant sounds—utensils clinking against porcelain, a blender grinding on at an outdoor bar. The acoustic guitar drifting in from a nearby courtyard blends seamlessly with the low background hum of the distant city. Like New York itself, these seemingly disparate elements, the trees and the skyscrapers, the old and the new, all come together in unique harmony. Breathing it all in, I raise my face to the warm autumn sun.

[betweenstories]

CHAPTER 5

When you lower your menu, I get a good look at you in your reading glasses. Insta-heat. There’s something about you in those black frames that gets me every time. Because I can’t help myself, I slide my chair closer and hook a leg over your thigh. You look down, eye the bare skin above my boot, then look up with a wicked smile.

Setting the menu aside, you take off your glasses and slide a warm roughened palm up my thigh.

Leaning in close, you whisper, “Did you know the six freckles on your right thigh form the shape of the Little Dipper?”

I glance at my thigh. I did not know that. You slide your palm higher, stroke the tip of your thumb back and forth as you flirt with the lace edge of my black silk thong.

You lean closer. Your breath is warm at my ear.

“I’ve tasted the North Star many times...” You nip my earlobe. “... and it’s delicious.” I shiver as you slip a finger past the edge of lace.

“Did you further know there’s a heart shaped freckle behind your right ear?”

Again, No idea. You graze your lips on that very spot. I fail to quell a moan. The command rings through my mind: Don’t get arrested!

Needing a distraction, I clear my throat, reach for my purse, and pull out a small wrapped item. I set the tiny gold box on the table and use a forefinger to slide it in your direction. Meanwhile, you slide a forefinger as well.

I try to ignore the movement, but I can’t hide the tiny quaver in my voice when I say, “Happy Birthday. I know we said no gifts, so this is just a little something.”

When you pull your hand away, I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed. I continue. “It’s just sentimental value really. You can open it now, or save it for later. Either way’s fine with me.”

You lift my hand and kiss between my knuckles. “I’ll save it if you don’t mind. I got you something too, but it’s in my jacket pocket in the museum’s coat check.”

I smile and tuck the box back inside my purse. I like that we don’t bother with the pretense of “you shouldn’t haves.”

Tilting my head to the side, I study you. Since you usually brush off my compliments, I don’t tell you very often; but I do love your face. I love the way your blue eyes sparkle when you talk about the things that inspire you. I love the way you look first thing in the morning, when your eyes are a little sleepy, and your hair is a little wild. I can always tell when I first come into focus, because the right corner of your mouth lifts the tiniest bit.

Gaze dropping to your lips, my own lips part. I glance up to see your eyes growing increasingly intent. I lean closer.

“I don’t know how you feel about turning a year older...” I lift my hand and cup your jaw, smile as I stroke the clean cheekbone rising above the line of your salt and pepper beard. “... but trust me, love ...” I press my cheek to yours and whisper, “... it looks so good on you.”

Closing my eyes, I inhale deep. The scent of your cologne makes my toes curl. I’m transported to that place where everything slows down, dreamlike, where everything flows soft and smooth and warm...

My next words roll out slow, seductive. “And those grey flecks in your beard...mmm... ”

I lay a trail of tiny kisses along your jaw, hum as I graze the tip of my nose up and down the column of your neck.

“One look at this salt and pepper gets me soaked every time.”

I pull back. Your eyes are closed, your brows drawn tight. I press my lips against one corner of your mouth, then the other. I reach out and run a forefinger down the bridge of your nose.

“When you told me you’d broken this—What? Five times?—I couldn’t tell in the photo, but I liked it.”

You open your eyes and look at me with a question.

I shake my head. “No. I didn’t like that you were hurt. Never that.” I look down at my lap and frown, run the pad of a forefinger along the band of my boot. Once I have my thoughts in order, I start again.

“I liked that you were resilient, and I don’t mean just physically. To me, that many similar injuries meant you weren’t afraid of pain, that whatever you’d done to break it over and over hadn’t stopped you from getting up each time and going again. It’s why I like all your scars.”

Our gazes lock.

“I like that you’re not afraid to take the hard road sometimes.”

Your eyes are wide open now. You stare at me with an expression I can’t name.

Not being able to identify someone else’s emotion can make it easy to get blindsided. It makes me nervous, makes me raise defenses. Again, you read me well and immediately shift your expression. Your smile is reassuring, and just like that, I feel fine.

When I notice the faint lines fanning out from the corners of your eyes, I smooth the backs of my nails over the creased skin.

“These might be my favorite things about this face though.” I look from one side to the other, trail my fingertips over your brows, then up to the tiny lines on your forehead.

“I like all these little lines because they tell me you’re not a boy. They tell me you’re old enough to know precisely who you are and exactly what you want.”

At that, your eyes flare with heat. There’s a beat of silence, and then, in one fluid motion, you grasp my hips and lift me bodily until I’m fully seated on your lap. When I feel you hard as stone beneath me, my breath catches as liquid heat pools low. I circle my hips slow and grin wicked as I settle in. With a look of chagrin, you lift me up to stand. I’m momentarily confused until I see you glance sideways, then slide a hand inside your jeans to adjust where your length is pinned against your thigh.

My lips part when I see your hard outline straining behind denim. Mouth dry, I lick my lips, eyes glued to where your cock points due north. Eyes gone glassy, I look up to see you grin.

You raise both hands, palms up, and cup your fingers in a quick little “come to me” motion. Your next words are a low, seductive rumble, “Now, where were we?”

[betweenstories]

CHAPTER 6

Wildfire sparks in my veins, and I practically leap the distance between us, twine my arms around your neck, and press my lips to yours. You slide your hands down to grip my bottom, and wrench me tight against you. Between kisses, I pant, “I want.... I need...”

Backing into your chair, you pull me onto your lap. I don’t miss the way you angle my body away from the umbrella and the other patrons. At my ear, your voice is low and rough, the vibration sends shivers over my skin.

“Tell me, love. Tell me what you want.”

I tunnel my fingers through your hair and pull your ear close to my lips. My words tumble out quick and urgent.

“If we were anywhere else, anywhere with the least amount of privacy, I’d want you inside me right now. In my mouth, between my thighs—wherever.”

You pull back, brows raised.

I press my cheek to yours and nod, revel in the scrape of your beard.

“Anywhere. Anything. Whatever you want.”

At that, you grasp my hand and press my palm against the front of your jeans. Closing my eyes, I squeeze you tight and nibble the warm skin just below your ear. When you slide nimble fingers up my thigh and stroke your thumb back and forth against damp silk, my core clenches with need.

“Seeing you hard in these jeans makes me want to push that silk aside and slide onto you right now.”

My lips brush the shell of your ear as I whisper. “I’d wrap my legs around you and take you in so deep. I’d roll my hips over and over until you were covered in me, until we were both hot and slick and sticky.”

When you slip a finger past the silk edge of my panties, you curse low and widen your knees as you slide the digit deeper inside. Clenched tight around you, I bury my mouth in the curve of your neck to stifle a moan.

When I drag my nails up your length, I linger near the top button of your jeans. I bite my bottom lip. Could I take you out right here? Would you let me?

Lips at my ear, you practically growl, “Don’t stop... do what you will. Just. Don’t. Stop.”

Closing my eyes, I tuck my fingers inside your waistband and slide my thumb under the brass button.

And then, with your finger stroking inside me and your cock pulsing through your jeans against my hand, I brush my lips up your neck to your ear, and let it all go.

I let my words flow unchecked, let them slide over every inch of you, let them curl around your limbs, dance and swirl through your mind.

“I wish you were sliding over my tongue this very minute. If I close my eyes, I can almost taste you.”

You groan and add a second finger. My breaths come faster.

“I’d take you in shallow at first, play with you, tease you. I’d revel in the sensation of you sliding in and out between my lips. And then? Then I’d suck you in hard.

I’d curl the tip of my tongue and stroke the underside of your cock while you pushed in deep and then deeper. And when I was ready, I’d relax my throat and take you in all the way. I’d cover every centimetre of you in hot, wet heat.”

Just then, you brush the spot that makes me dizzy, the spot that makes me dig my nails into your shoulder, and tighten around your finger. I squeeze my eyes shut as you stroke faster and faster.

“How long could you hold out? Hm? How long before you needed to thrust over me, under me, into me? Could you hold out and let me play? How long could I graze my fingertips up and down your hot, taut skin before playtime would be over?”

Just then you press your thumb against my piercing, and I nearly lose the plot. My whole body trembles. I stroke you faster.

“How long could I lap at your tip like a kitten before you palm the back of my head and shove in faster, harder, deeper? How long could you wait while I explored every inch of you with my fingers, my lips ... my tongue?”

You go utterly still beneath me, every muscle locked tight. I roll my hips in wide, slow circles, stir myself around your fingers. My voice is a purr.

“What if I was on all fours hovering above you? What if I arched my back low and rolled my hips while I dragged my aching nipples up and down your sweat slicked chest again and again? Would you quake beneath me? Would you hold out and let me play?

“Or would you explode? Hmm? What would you do, love? What would you do?”

Slowing my strokes, I lean back. I go still as I take you in. Your eyes are intense, a fiery, molten blue. Gaze locked on mine, your words are low, but strong and sure.

With a look that sets my blood on fire, you say, “I’d let you play.”

CHAPTER 7

I feel a wicked smile unfurl. I resume stroking, cup your jaw, and lean in close once more.

“Remember that first night at the cabin? The night I showed you my new triangle piercing?”

You groan and buck into my hand. “How could I ever forget?”

I lean close and whisper, “Remember when you stroked yourself while straddling my thigh on the bed? I loved the way the muscles in your arm flexed, the way your balls slapped against my skin when you pumped faster and faster.”

I close my eyes, hum in satisfaction against your ear. “Remember when I writhed below you wearing nothing but the gold chain around my waist, the rings circling my nipples, and that little pearl dangling below my clit? I remember. I remember how I’d cupped my breasts, how it’d felt when I’d tugged those chains, how hot and slick I’d been when I’d run my fingers up and down my bare sex.

I lean in close, pant hot breaths at your ear. “Remember when you’d asked me where I wanted it? I do. I remember. I get soaking wet every time I think about it. I’d wanted you to cover me with it ... And then you had.

I remember licking my lips while you’d lashed thick ropes over my breasts, my belly, my sex. By the end, you’d made a little well out of my belly button.

Afterward, you’d been so jet-lagged, so bone tired, you’d fallen asleep within minutes, but not before you’d reached out and dipped into that well. You’d spread that fluid down my belly to my sex, and then you’d rubbed it all over me, into me. You’d fallen asleep with two fingers still buried deep inside.”

At the memory, my sex spasms around your fingers. Again, you curse low.

When I manage to get one of your shirt buttons undone, and then another, I part the fabric and push the waistband of your jeans and boxer briefs as low as they’ll go. Cock trapped tight against your belly, your tip exposed to the cool autumn breeze, I circle my thumb over the bead of moisture at the slit. I clench around your digit again.

“Do you know what I did after you fell asleep?”

You shake your head. Tension radiates off every inch of your body in waves. Every muscle feels tight, as if you’re bracing for a blow.

“After I’d made sure you were asleep, I’d dipped my own fingers into the well. With your fingers still inside me, I’d dragged that moisture onto my piercing, onto my clit, and then I’d rubbed circles, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. I’d smoothed a hand over my chest and rubbed you all over my skin. I’d pinched my aching nipples while I circled my clit.

And when I’d finally pressed down on that dangling little pearl, I’d arched my back and dug my heels into the mattress. I’d scored my bottom lip with my teeth and tried to remain quiet. I’d squeezed my eyes shut and orgasmed so hard fireworks had exploded behind my eyelids.

You jerk beneath my hand. Your whole body shudders. Have I gone too far?

You grip my wrist to still my hand. Your voice is a low growl, strained, but succinct. “Don’t. Move. Don’t. Move. An inch.”

Lowering your head, you slowly inhale, slowly exhale. Your tense shoulders rise and fall with each new breath.

No time to be arbitrary, I remain utterly still. This is serious business. I hold my breath while I wait.

Several moments later, I feel your thigh muscles start to relax, see the tension melt from your shoulders. A minute later, you lift your head and breath in deep. Though your eyes remain closed, you nod once, solemn, as if to say, “safe to proceed.”

As happens often, I suddenly find you heroic. I smile and press my lips to yours, kiss you soft and sweet. I rub my cheek against your cheek, rub the tip of my nose against the tip of your nose. Between each caress, I murmur “the best” and “perfect” and “you’re so good, so good...”

And then, then I whisper promises.

“When we get back to the room, I’m gonna make you yell to the rafters. I’ll bend my body in ways you’ve never imagined. You can take me in ways you’ve never dreamed.”

I drop my voice low. “Or maybe I’ll take you in ways you’ve never imagined. But then maybe you have...

Maybe I’ll take you in the ways you’ve only imagined? I’ll do things that’ll make you shout until your voice goes hoarse, until the neighbouring rooms complain...”

“I’ll drive you into such a state of ecstasy, you won’t know whether to plead for mercy or beg for more. Let’s go find out where every ounce of pleasure in your body...”

My words are cut short when you tunnel your fingers into my hair, grip the back of my head, and crush your lips against mine. You kiss me like there’s no tomorrow. A gallows kiss. A kiss that says you’ll die if you’re not inside me soon.

You pump your fingers in and out until I’m right on the edge. I forget where we are, forget the people around us. I forget my own name. I spread my thighs wider, stroke your cock, ride your fingers, suck hard on your tongue. When you finally pull back, I shake my head hard, trying for clarity, searching for sanity.

Gripping your shoulders tight, Urgent, breathless, I whisper, “Take me back to the room. We could be there in twenty minutes. I promise I’ll make you see stars.”

CHAPTER 8

At that moment, I glance across the outer courtyard, and my gaze lands on the couple framed inside one of the storefront windows. I blink at the woman staring so intently her breaths fog a butterfly pattern onto the glass.

Eyes gone wide, I freeze in place. Dipping my head to avoid eye contact, I slide off your lap and turn away from the window.

Face burning, hands trembling, I smooth down my dress and consider running, just taking off and jumping ship altogether. Instead, I quietly take my seat.

Chin held high, I press my ankles tight together, and fold my hands in my lap. I aim for demure, prim, proper—as if I hadn’t just been grinding over your lap in the middle of a busy restaurant, as if I hadn’t been whispering all manner of filth in your ear, as if—even now, I’m not sizing up every shadowy corner for the closest place to finish what we started.

When I finally look your way, you lift a palm in a “what gives?” motion.

I shake my head, suddenly panicked when I see the couple exiting the store. You turn in the direction of my gaze to where the couple now heads our way. The man’s eyes are trained forward, but the woman—the woman stares at us as if we’re food on someone else’s plate and she wants a taste.

When I feel your hand sliding up my thigh under the table, I whip my gaze to you. Eyes wide, I shake my head. No...no.... no! and then command myself, Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her.

Immediately, I look at her.

Gaze bouncing back and forth between us, the woman grins madly. Half of me is mortified, while the other half is... I slump my mental shoulders, defeated. No point in denying it now. Half of me is titillated.

Just before the couple disappears into the crowd, the woman peers over her shoulder, gives a broad wink, and blows an exaggerated kiss. On reflex, I snatch it from the air, stare at my closed fist for a beat, then tuck it into my invisible pocket for later.

After giving myself a stern talking to in the ladies’ room mirror, I return to the table wearing the mein of a serious, responsible adult. Realising we haven’t seen our server in quite a while, I pick up my menu. The least I can do is be ready to order when (if?) he returns.

To you, I say, “I think I’m gonna order light since we’re going straight back to the museum.”

From behind your menu, you reply, “I’m ordering light as well. I should probably skip the alcohol too. Last night was . . .”

Those wicked images return ... the things I’d said, the things we’d done.

The red velvet couch flashes through my mind. I get a clear image of myself in stockings, garter, and matching bra and panty set. I’d climbed onto the couch and spread my legs into a forward split. Propping an ankle on opposite arms of the small sofa, I’d stretched my legs out into a flat line until my torso had been suspended a foot above the cushions.

In my mind, I see the look on your face as you’d watched me, as I’d announced it was high time we explored some of my advanced yoga poses as sexual positions. You’d dropped your pants in record time and leapt onto the couch behind me.... you, sliding under me... tightening your grip on my hips when you’d impaled me. I remember the scrape of your beard against the small of my back ... the way you’d bounced me on your lap... No wonder my thighs were so sore this morning.

I blink. Though there are still significant gaps in memory both before and after the couch, I clear my throat and say, “Yea, last night was um... memorable. Say, when I woke up I was in an, ah ... interesting position. Do you happen to know how I got there?”

Your eyes remain fixed on your menu. “I wish I did. The last thing I remember was thinking something about cats and then I was dreaming about cats licking me. It was still dark when I woke, but I was hard and already tangled up in your hair.”

I smile and reach across the table to stroke my thumb against the back of your hand. You continue.

“I’m not a cat person to begin with, so being pleasured by one, even in a dream, was quite disturbing.”

I laugh, but then quickly sober.

“Wait, so you laid there like that for hours?”

“Well, I wasn’t constantly hard. Sometimes I talked myself back down to semi-turgid. But then you’d turn your head and your soft hair would slide over me and you’d blow out those hot little breaths right next to my bollocks and then... “ You shrug.

“... instant biggie all over again. And don’t get me started on the way you were straddling my leg. You were rubbing up against me like a cat in heat. And those little moans... just thinking about it makes my cock twitch every time.”

I open my mouth to speak, then quickly close it, unsure where to begin processing so much humiliating information.

“Even if your lips hadn’t been an inch from my dangly bits all night, I don’t think I would’ve slept much anyway. This truly is the city that never sleeps.”

I smile, lost in thoughts of back seam stockings and red couches, of my hair tangled around your “dangly bits” and the way your calf had felt rubbing against my piercing. I jump at the sound of our server’s voice.

CHAPTER 9

In perfect monotone, our server repeats, “Dirk’s not feeling well, so I’m taking over his section. My name is Jolly. Are you ready to order or should I come back?”

I look up at the sullen twenty-something woman’s name tag to confirm I’d heard her correctly. Closing my eyes, I bow my head. I will not laugh. I will not laugh.

And did she say Dirk or Derek? Though it should not matter one whit, I ask, “Did you say Dirk or Derek?”

I hadn’t expected a hearts and roses reply, but Jollie (with an ie), surprises me when she leans forward like a little bantam rooster, narrows her eyes, and demands, “Why do you want to know?”

For some reason this strikes me funny, even funnier than the “ie” spelling of her name. Instinctively, I know Jollie will not appreciate my laughter on either account.

I press my lips together tight.

When I accidentally glance at her name tag again, I feel the laughter burbling up. Nothing’s working. I bite the inside of my cheek. I think of dead butterflies.

In a tone seeming to suggest “last chance,” Jollie repeats, “Do you know what you want or not?”

At that moment, I make the mistake of looking at you. Oh, no. I know that look and it’s pure mischief.

I often joke about superpowers, but in your case, this one might be real. You have an almost supernatural ability to make anyone, even the most disagreeable person smile. I glance up at Jollie. Jollie glares back at me. I amend the thought from anyone to almost anyone. Jollie may be beyond even your super talent.

When I glance at you again, it seems you’re up for the challenge. I know this part of you well now, have seen it time and again. I see the way you size Jollie up, the way you crack your mental knuckles. I can almost hear the “Rocky” theme blasting inside your head (or the British equivalent—Is there a British equivalent?). Whatever the background track, it appears you’ve heard the silent gauntlet being thrown and you’ve accepted the challenge. With a wink, you squeeze my knee under the table and begin.

CHAPTER 10

“Jarley, is it? What a lovely name. Had an uncle named Jarley once. Poor fellow’s no longer with us though.”

I don’t hesitate. I jump directly on the bandwagon.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. Were you close?”

I glance up at Jarley—I mean, Jollie—to see how she’s taking this.

Our server’s arms are folded tight over her chest. I notice a rectangular item outlined in her apron pocket. I look at her hands and see her fingernails bitten to the quick. Good money says Jollie’s overdue for a smoke break. I glance at you, dubious. Good luck, Chuck.

To me you say, “Thank you, and no we weren’t close.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Jarley put ketchup on turkey.”

After considering this statement for a moment, I think fair enough, then turn to you and grin wide.

You raise a brow and I shrug. “I just like the way you say ‘TUH-key.’”

Jollie clears her throat.

Turning back to face our server, an imaginary bell sounds and you jump back in the ring.

“My Uncle Jarley’s driveway was on an incline you see.” You slant your hand to demonstrate the angle.

“So, one spring day, my Uncle’d stopped at the end of his drive and whilst he was walking ‘round the back of his car, the vehicle slipped out of park. I reckon you can imagine what came next.”

As an aside to me, you say, “Closed casket funeral.”

Attention back on Jollie, you continue, “No one knows exactly why Jarley went behind the car, but everyone has a theory.

Unfortunately, he’s become a particular kind of joke in the local pubs. You know,

‘Why did Jarley fail his driving test?’ ‘Because he didn’t know how to park the car.’

Or—here’s a good one—

‘Why didn’t Jarley cook for his wife?’ ‘Because he only knew how to make himself a pancake.’”

You shake your head. “Poor Uncle Jarley, the butt of a tavern joke after running over himself with his own car.”

“That’s horrible,” I say.

I glance sideways at Jollie. Her hands are loose at her sides. She’s not smiling, but at least the blue vein running across her temple no longer throbs.

Round two, you jump right back in.

“Even worse, ‘Jarley’ has become a by-word for self injury. Say you miss whilst swinging a hammer, then someone might say you’d done a ‘right jarley’ on your thumb.”

Disgusted, I say, “Rude! What about his poor family? You’d think people would be more sensitive.”

You laugh.

“His widow was the one who started it! At the graveside service, when the vicar tripped on his vestments and nearly took a tumble, she’d piped up and said, ‘Careful, vicar. You don’t want to pull a jarley, do ya?’”

My mouth falls open.

“What? She got a massive laugh. And that’s hard work to achieve graveside.”

As I think through the implications of this statement—How many gravesides have you “worked hard” for a massive laugh?—you go in for round three.

“There was great debate about whether the cause of death should be listed as an accident or...” You look to me. “What do you call it in the States when the death’s due to negligence?”

I blink. Incredulous.

“Manslaughter?!”

You snap your fingers. “Exactly. Manslaughter. If it’d been manslaughter, then Uncle Jarley would’ve been charged.”

My voice goes high. “With his own death?!”

You nod. “And that’s not even the most interesting part of the story.”

Dead silence.

At that moment, I remember Jarley—damnit—Jollie. She looks at me and raises a brow, expression seeming to say, are you gonna ask him or what? Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear I see the seeds of amusement.

Silently rooting for you, I quickly turn and ask, “What was it? What was the most interesting part?”

You lean in, voice gone low, conspiratorial, as if you’re about to confide state secrets.

“Well, I should first tell you there was a large bush blooming on the corner of my Uncle’s lot.” You glance at me. “This information will be helpful in a moment.” I nod.

“You see, a neighbor who’d heard the commotion came rushing over just in time to hear Uncle Jarley’s last gasping word.”

I look to Jollie. Jollie looks at me. The set of her jaw tells me she won’t ask on principle. Inner eye roll. Fine.

“What was your Uncle’s last word?”

Your voice goes even lower, your final word barely above a whisper.

“According to the neighbor, Jarley’s final word was.... “

You pause for effect.

“Rosebud.”

I cut my eyes up to Jollie. Nothing. Stone-face. Does she get the reference?

Two beats of silence and then, I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. It’s so absurd, I can’t stop laughing. I shake with laughter until tears roll from the corners of my eyes.

You laugh too, seeming satisfied at having amused me, if not Jollie.

Closing your menu, still chuckling, you say, “I’ll have the shaved sirloin sandwich and a glass of the Stag’s Leap cab, please.”

I grin at you. So much for eating light—and skipping the alcohol. Wiping away tears, I hold my menu out to Jollie.

“And I’ll have the espresso creme brûlée as my entree and a bottle of Lindemann’s Frambois with a champagne glass, please. Oh, and a bottle of water. Thank you.”

Without a word, Jollie tucks the menus under her arm and turns on her heel to go, but not before I catch a glimpse of her wide, toothy grin. When I turn to look at you, I wonder if it’s just me, or if you hear the “Rocky” theme playing in your head as well.

[betweenstories]

[betweenstories]

CHAPTER 11

Two hours later, we enter the Rose Center for Earth and Space. Lunch had been wonderful. The food had been delicious, and a post-smoke break Jollie had turned out to be a real sweetheart.

As we take our seats in the back row of the Hayden Planetarium, I wrap my arms around myself and rub my biceps for warmth.

“I’m glad we picked up our coats first. This place is freezing.”

You smile and shake your head, always amused by my “southern blood.”

“What was that with you and the woman at coat check?”

I get excited. Turning toward you, I tuck my feet underneath my bottom.

“Did you see her name tag? No? Her name was !khas.”

When I make the consonant tongue pop sound, several heads in the rows in front of us turn around in unison.

Immediately, I turn to you with a look of censure, press my forefinger to my lips, and give you an exaggerated shhh.

One corner of your mouth quirks. You dip your head toward the people and toss up a hand in apology. I lean in and kiss your cheek. My hero.

“I’ve only seen that alveolar click on a name tag one other time, and that gentleman was a native African.”

The woman at coat check had spoken English with no accent and she’d looked like Mrs. Claus.

As I sit and lament not asking !khas the story behind her name (there’d been people behind us and I hadn’t wanted to hold up the line), you reach into your coat pocket and pull out a small black gift bag.

“Happy Birthday, love.”

You kiss my cheek.

“Go ahead. Open it.”

Something about your expression gives me pause, but I untie the gold ribbon, reach down past the gold tissue paper...

Eyes stretching wide, I freeze. I’d thought my face couldn’t get any hotter than when the woman had stared at us from the store window. I’d been wrong. Your smile is wicked. You are wicked! I close the bag and quickly stuff it into my purse. I can’t even look at you.

When I speak again, my tone is incredulous.

“You had that in your pocket? This whole time? In the coat you checked? What if someone had looked inside?”

A horrifying thought occurs.

“How’d you make it through the metal detector anyway?”

My eyes go wide. Will I have to pass the metal detector on the way out?

Earlier in the week, I’d wanted to visit a “big city” adult toy store, so we’d headed down to the Museum of Sex on Fifth Avenue. I’d visited the toy store in my own town, but this place had been altogether next level. I hadn’t even recognized some of the products on display. When I’d read the bulletin board promoting their Saturday workshops: Shibari Rope Bondage, Erotic Photography, Strap-On Techniques for Beginners, I’d stared in shocked, open-mouthed wonder.

I’d wanted to buy something though, a souvenir if you will, so I’d been on the hunt for something relatively tame in case airport security decided to search my bag. I’d ended up at a display of bachelorette party supplies. There’d been penis shaped paraphernalia, wine accessories, and even some penis shaped wine accessories. I’d gravitated toward the wine accessories.

Though I’d never actually used one for storing wine, I’d settled on a stainless steel wine stopper with a sparkling aquamarine on top. When I’d found you one aisle over perusing items that’d had me raising a brow, I’d held up the wine stopper and said,

“I like this one with the blue crystal. Whaddayathink?”

You’d narrowed your eyes on the item and then on my face. With a hearty laugh, you’d asked,

“For you or for me?”

If you’d wanted a wine stopper, I would’ve been happy to buy you one, so I’d said,

“You can have this one if you want. It’s the only one I see that’ll fit a standard opening. All the rest look way too big.”

When the woman shopping a few feet away had stifled a laugh, I’d known for sure I’d made a significant error. Turning on my heel, I’d marched back to the bachelorette party section where I’d been mortified to discover I’d drifted from wine accessories into the anal section.

After gently placing the plug back on its display stand, I’d stuffed my hands in my pockets and walked over to quietly inform you I’d be waiting on the bench outside. At least now I knew what’d been inside the bag when you’d exited the store ten minutes later.

While you grin at me, I purse my lips. “You’re enjoying this. Aren’t you.”

You nod your head. “Immensely. I still can’t believe you didn’t know. What were you thinking?”

I face forward when I answer. “It was directly beside a display with those jewellery rings people supposedly put on wine glasses. You know those little charms you hook around a stem to identify your glass that no one’s seen anyone use ever.”

“Are you sure they were wine charms?”

I frown.

“What else could they be.”

You open your mouth then close it. I see the mischief in your eyes, see the little dimple pop when you smile. You open your mouth again, but then shake your head.

“I’m sure you’re right. They must’ve been wine charms.”

Your smile tells me you think different, but I let it go for the moment. I grow animated again.

“I was thinking about large format wine bottles. You know, the ones with cool names like Salamanzer and Jeraboam. I hadn’t even known they made stoppers for bottles that big.”

Pique completely forgotten, I smile as I chatter on. “I was thinking, Wow! New York is sooo sophisticated to stock Nebuchadnezzar stoppers. I had Nebuchadnezzar bottles of champagne at my wedding. They hold 15 litres, if I remember correctly. I have no idea how many regular bottles that is. Maybe 20? I’ll look it up later.

Did you know Pol Roger made a bottle specifically for Winston Churchill that became known as—oddly enough—‘the Winston Churchill?’ It held twenty ounces of champagne which was deemed the perfect amount for the PM in the morning.”

I giggle. PM in the morning.

You blink. I sit back and press my lips together. The more time we spend together, the more comfortable I get and the more I seem to rattle on about anything. I shrug, sheepish.

“Sorry. I guess I’m just excited about In-between Day.”

You smile and surprise me when you ask, “What was the other name?”

I beam at you. The value of a good listener cannot be overstated. Another thing I like about talking to you? Loose threads always weave seamlessly back into the fabric of our conversations.

“The name !guru belonged to a former anaesthesiologist from Namibia who was working the photo counter at Costco.”

CHAPTER 12

As we wait for the show to begin, I sit back and think about the item tucked inside my purse. Was it intended to be a gag gift or .... a functional one?

When I glance at you, I remember the section of the store you’d been perusing when I’d shown you the “stopper.” I hadn’t had time to study any of the individual items on your aisle, but it seemed the general theme might’ve been bondage or spanking or something. I knew I’d seen leather paddles at any rate.

The devil on my shoulder immediately starts talking smack. I try to shush the demon, try to quell the impulse; but ultimately, I can’t resist.

Leaning over the arm rest, I cup a hand behind your ear, and whisper, “I think giving me that gift here was very naughty of you. I think you’ve been a very, very bad boy and you should be punished accordingly.”

You shift in your seat, run your palms down your denim covered thighs. When you shift your weight to lean a little closer in my direction, I’m emboldened.

“Maybe you need a good spanking? What do you think? Should I put you over my knee?”

You groan low. I glance down to see you adjust yourself. Due North again.

Rearranging the jacket in your lap, I slide my hand underneath and grip you tight.

“Or maybe you’ve been too loud in the university library? Maybe your punishment should come from a stern librarian?

If I were your librarian, I’d wear my tightest pencil skirt, back seamed Cuban heel stockings, high collared white blouse, and maybe a pair of dark framed glasses. Hmm... Should I wear my hair loose or in a tight bun?”

I nip your earlobe as I slide my hand lower to cup and squeeze.

“Should I make you push your pants down to your ankles and bend over my desk while I go find my paddle? Make you wait like that, bent over in your underwear as your classmates stare in wide-eyed anticipation?

I’d stand behind you and stare at your bottom, stare at all the bits barely covered by thin white cotton while I tapped my deep red nail against my deep red lips. I’d make you spread your legs wide while I circled my desk, while I contemplated. Decisions. Decisions. Should I use the wood paddle .... or the leather?”

You turn your head and kiss my neck, score my skin with your teeth. I shiver when I feel your hot tongue. Squeezing the hard outline encased inside your jeans, I move my hand up and down, long and lazy from base to tip. I slow my words to match my strokes.

“Or maybe I should make you come back after class so I can give you all the discipline you so clearly need? I’d make you take off your pants and your underwear and stand there wearing nothing but your shirt and socks.

I’d make you stand and wait, cool air on your private parts. I’d give you plenty of time to think about just how naughty you’ve been.

Once I’d decided on a paddle, I’d slowly unbutton my blouse, and then unzip my skirt. I couldn’t have you wrinkling my clothes now could I? Which punishment do you deserve? Hm? In front of your classmates? Or in my office after school?”

At some point in this little game I’ve gotten nervous that maybe I’ve gone too far. I lean back a little so I can see your face. Your eyes are round, pupils blown. I pull my hand back and stare at your massive erection. Liquid heat pools low just as the theatre lights go down.

CHAPTER 13

You whisper at my ear.

“I deserve the second option. Definitely option number two.”

Leaning in my direction, you position your ear close to my mouth as if to say continue.

I swallow hard, unprepared. I have no idea what might actually be a turn-on in this scenario. I knew I should’ve Googled “erotic spanking” the moment we’d returned from the toy store. Searching my mind, I inventory what I know about the topic.

I’d seen a couple of video previews when I’d quasi-investigated porn. I remember one with three women doing things to one man, spanking him with a paddle being one among several interesting activities. I hadn’t minded the activities; I just hadn’t cared for the dialogue.

Not wanting those images in my head, I’d simply left those links alone. I think through the little bit I had seen. Degradation and humiliation: definitely not for me. Making you squirm during a little role play? Well, I do like to dress up.

Just for kicks, I run the idea through my mind from the opposite angle aaaand ...

Nope. Absolutely nothing.

I have no interest in being spanked myself. Years ago I’d worn a smaller bikini on a boat outing and gotten a sunburn on the newly exposed skin. That night, my bottom had been on fire, so I’d rubbed on some aloe and laid on my stomach on the couch. I must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I’d known was pain. I’d jumped up to see my husband standing there with my paddle hair brush in hand.

Let’s just say this did not turn me on in the slightest. I believe I’d said something to the effect that if he ever struck me again, he could count on me to hit him back and ten times harder.

So, with next to no information in my archives, I guess I’d be winging this. Taking a deep breath, I lean close to your ear and let my imagination run wild.

CHAPTER 14

“When I see you standing outside my office after school, I give you a stern look and usher you inside. The click sounds loud when I shut the door. Drawing the shade over the interior glass window, I turn to you, arms folded over my chest.

‘You’ve been a very naughty boy, very disrespectful. What shall we do about it? Hm?’

Filled with remorse, you stare down at your shoes.

‘Place your books on the table over there and bring me that wooden paddle.’

I motion to a round paddle hanging by a strip of leather from a peg on the wall. You do as instructed and again, stare down at the floor. As a first year librarian, I’m a similar age to many of the students, and some of the faculty think because I’m American, I must be fundamentally rebellious. If I wish to be respected, it’s imperative I enforce strict discipline. I’ll need to be extra tough on you today. I look you up and down.

Yes, we might be close in age, and under different circumstances I might even be attracted to you; but my primary responsibility is to the library, and the rules must be followed.

When I shift my weight to one leg, and tap my black patent leather heel, the noise echoes loud against the bare wood floor.

‘You knew talking wasn’t allowed in that section of the library. Didn’t you? You’ve been very naughty, indeed. When you break the rules, you must face the consequences. Now take off your pants, underwear too. And please don’t dally. I have a tutoring session scheduled to start soon.’”

I’m so caught up in my own story, it barely registers when you unwind my Burberry scarf, curl an arm around my shoulders, and drape the scarf over my chest. I’m warmed by the sentiment as much as your body heat, but then I frown when I feel your fingers working the wooden buttons on the shoulder of my sweater dress.

Beneath the scarf, you peel down one side of my dress and lean in to whisper, “Been wanting to do that all day.”

I feel more movement, but I can’t tell what you’re doing. You reach for my hand, slide it under your jacket and press my palm directly between your legs. My eyes go wide when I feel hot, bare skin. Surely you can’t mean to... here? I should pull my hand away. I should. But the sensation of soft skin over hard steel feels too good.

I nibble my bottom lip and glance around the dark theater. The show hasn’t started yet. Stragglers take their seats, but the three rows in front us are still empty. Decision made, I give a long, experimental stroke. And then another.

Just when I’ve worked into a slow, steady rhythm, Neil deGrasse Tyson’s recorded voice booms in surround sound, “Get ready for the Big Bang!” I barely stifle a giggle.

CHAPTER 15

“Do you make me bend over your lap or the desk?”

Good question. I brush my lips against your ear.

“Once I’ve cleared off my desk, I grab my cosmetics bag and hop up to sit on top. While you stand and wait, erect and half-naked, I take my time reapplying my red lipstick. I check my eye makeup and rub lotion on my hands and wrists. Since it’s grown stuffy in my office, I open the top two buttons of my blouse. I touch perfume behind my ears and between my cleavage.

When I lean forward, I catch you staring at my black lace bra and my signature strand of pearls. I stand, fold my arms, and turn my back to you.

Though the number of paddle strokes has yet to be determined, I say, ‘I saw you looking down my blouse. For the additional disrespect, you’ve earned five more strokes with the paddle.’

When I glance at your reflection in the glass of a picture frame, I’m almost certain I see a look of jubilation; but when I quickly turn around, you’re staring at the floor looking forlorn. I narrow my eyes and return to the front of my desk to sit. When I hop up again and cross my legs, your eyes are fixed on my shoe, on the pointed toe that bobs a mere inch from the tip of your erect penis. Arms folded, I slowly look you up and down.

‘Take off your shirt as well, please. I can’t have you getting all wrinkled.’

You do as instructed, then return to stand in your previous spot wearing only your socks. I zero in on the bead of moisture clinging to your tip. After turning to grab a tissue, I glide off the desk and lean down for a close inspection. My warm breaths skate over your taut skin.

After I’ve examined you from every angle, I make a tsk! sound. ‘I can’t have you making a mess in my office either.’

I dab at your tip, feather-light. I barely touch your skin. After tossing away the tissue, I stalk a circle around you. The clock on the wall ticks loud. I tap my lips as I stare at your penis, your narrow hips, and your bare bottom. ‘I’m trying to decide whether I should spank you over my desk, or if I should bend you over my knee. Have you ever been spanked before? And don’t lie because I’ll know.’

Just then, my office door swings open. One of your classmates walks in.

‘I’m here for tutoring, Ms....’

Her words trail off when she sees you standing there in only your socks, painfully erect. She starts to slowly back out the door.

‘It’s okay, Julie. You can stay. Come in and have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment. I was just asking your friend if he’d ever been spanked.

[betweenstories]

CHAPTER 16

‘So, have you been spanked?’

Staring at the floor, you swallow and nod slowly.

‘Hm. Have you been spanked over a desk?’

You nod again. I’m sure I’m mistaken, but your expression seems to shift to something rather dreamy, a half-smile of remembered... pleasure? Interesting.

‘Have you ever been spanked over a lap?’

Now, your expression turns calculating. What you are calculating, I can’t imagine.

As you shake your head, you hiss in a breath when I accidentally brush my hip against your tip.

To Julie, I ask, ‘Have you ever seen someone receive a spanking?’

Wide-eyed, she nods her head.

Attention fixed on your erection, she says, ‘....but not .... I’ve never seen it bare.’

Once I’ve settled into my desk chair, I slide my skirt high up my legs so I have more room to work. I motion to you.

‘Come here then and bend over my knees. You can rest your hands on the floor.’

You do as instructed. You’re nearly upside down. Your rigid penis points straight down between my stockinged thighs.

‘Julie, you’re welcome to move closer if you’d like a better view.’

Sliding her chair across the room, she settles in only inches behind you. When I notice her curiosity over your dangly bits, I ask, ‘Have you ever seen a man’s testicles?’

She shakes her head.

‘Have you ever touched a man there?’

Again, she shakes her head. As an educator, I feel obligated to take advantage of this opportunity.

I place my fingertips on your shoulder. ‘Before we begin, would you mind if Julie touches you a little? It will only take a moment.’

You make a noise that sounds like agreement.

‘Julie, your friend says you’re free to explore before his spanking begins. Since I need to finish a letter of recommendation for another student, you can describe what you see while I work.’

Grabbing my pen, paper and a clipboard, I use your back as a flat writing surface.

Julie nods and leans forward for a closer inspection. When she speaks, her voice is calm, matter-of-fact.

‘Well, I see his knob...’

At my look of censure, Julie starts again.

‘I see his penis pointing straight down.’

I nod my approval and she continues.

‘I have two older brothers, so I’ve seen one of those before, but I’ve never seen a bo—I mean, I’ve never seen an erection. And then above his penis, I see his bollocks...’

She glances at me, apologetic.

‘Testicles. I see his testicles. They have a little bit of hair and there’s a line running down the middle.’

‘Excellent observation, Julie. That line is called a raphe.’

‘Can I touch it?’

‘Most certainly.’

She must touch you then because you jump in my lap.

‘Sorry, I guess my hands are cold. Um. It looks like his penis might be leaking a little.’

I purse my lips, displeased. I lean down to see you are indeed “leaking a little.”

Without warning, I give you two sharp smacks with my open hand, one on each cheek. You yelp in surprise and squeeze your buttocks tight. Julie’s eyes are wide, but not from the sudden slaps. She stares at the twin pink handprints blooming on your bottom.

‘Let’s go ahead and get the extra five out of the way. Shall we? I want you to remember this punishment, so I’d like you to count them off as we go.’

Placing one hand on the small of your back to hold you still, I raise my hand and bring it down with a loud smack on your bottom. You make an ‘oof’ sound. I wait, but you say nothing.

‘You must count the strokes, remember? Now we must start again.’

When I repeat the stroke, you grunt as the blow lands and say, ‘One.’

I put a little more force behind the next two strokes.

You count ‘two’ and ‘three.’

Perhaps I’m not spanking hard enough? I put all my effort in the final two strokes, slapping lower near your thighs where your skin is unmarked. You count the final two strokes, but twist around to give me a look that might be censure, an unspoken ‘slow your roll, sister.’

I lift my chin, unapologetic.

Eyes glued on your reddening skin, Julie says, ‘Two questions: Are his bollocks, I mean testicles supposed to draw up like that? And do you think I could, I mean, would it be okay if I spanked him next time?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

Seeing another teaching opportunity, I tap your bottom. ‘Stand up, tut-tut. Go around to the front of my desk and bend over so I can be more hands on with Julie.’

You walk to the front of my desk, hard penis bobbing as you go. Bending at the waist, you rest your elbows on the desk and wrap your fingers around the opposite edge. Pulling my glasses from a desk drawer, I sit in one of the two chairs Julie has so thoughtfully placed behind you. I lean in close.

My office door swings open again and another classmate, Cass, walks in. Cass takes in the scene and freezes in place.

Eyes glued to you, Cass says, ‘I was just looking for Julie. She’s my ride home.’

‘Come in, dear. Julie’s in the middle of a lesson. Please close the door behind you and have a seat.

CHAPTER 17

Circling the desk, Cass’s gaze roams every inch of your muscular back and thighs, the angry red welts rising on your bottom. Eyes fixed, Cass backs into her seat. I raise a brow as Julie pulls Cass onto her lap, cupping her round bottom in the process. Hm. I had no idea the girls were so close.

Cass is the direct opposite of Julie. Where Julie is tall and lean with olive skin and long, jet black hair, Cass is short and plump with milky white skin and strawberry blond ringlet curls.

Cass must’ve hit a spurt in development recently, as the buttons of her white shirt strain to contain her ample breasts. When Cass leans forward, her lips hover bare inches above your bare bottom.

I reach out and cup your testicles.

‘We were just having an impromptu lesson on male anatomy. You’re welcome to participate. Julie was just asking about the tight state of this area here.’

I trace my nail around the perimeter while I explain.

‘His testicles are contained here inside the scrotum. Currently, his scrotum appears to be in a nervous state. If it were in a relaxed state, it would be hanging lower.’

I motion the girls closer as I tap the inside of you thigh.

‘Spread your legs further apart please, so the girls can get a better look.’

You straighten your arms out to the side, grip the opposite corners of the desk, and turn to rest your cheek on the flat surface.

‘Thank you, that’s lovely.’

Squeezing your bottom, I add a little pat in praise.

Still cupping your scrotum, I run a finger over each testicle as I explain.

‘The cremaster muscles and darta fascia muscles are designed to move the testicles close to or away from the body to help keep the temperature in this region several degrees cooler than the rest of his body. A lower temperature is ideal for sperm production.

The darta fascia muscles contract or expand the skin of the scrotum while the cremaster muscles move the testicles up or down. This tightening effect can also be part of a fight or flight mechanism.’

Julie makes a face that says, “whatever, good to know.” Cass moves in closer.

‘Watch this, girls.’

As I stroke a nail up the length of your inner thigh, your scrotum draws even tighter. Cass smiles and claps, delighted.

‘Can I try?’

‘Absolutely.’

While Cass alternates between running her fingernails up your thighs and squeezing your scrotum to access the changes, I glance sidelong to gage Julie’s reaction. Her gaze bounces between the paddle on the desk and Cass’s round bottom.

‘Now, let’s see if we can get him into a more relaxed state so you can really see the difference.

CHAPTER 18

For all my academic knowledge in this area, my field knowledge is sorely limited. Isn’t massage usually good for relaxing? Figuring there’s no better time to experiment than the present, I roll your testicles in my palm. I squeeze and tug to get a feel for their texture and weight. When I check your scrotum, I can’t tell if my efforts have been effective or not. Silently, I chastise myself for not taking baseline measurements. Gripping your penis, I begin long steady strokes.

You widen your stance further, so I massage your testicles in time with my strokes. I tilt my head and frown. This doesn’t appear to be working. I move my hands faster, but your scrotum seems to be heading in the opposite direction, growing tighter and tighter. Ultimately, no amount of stroking achieves the desired effect. With a long sigh, I release your testicles.

‘Sorry girls. It appears we won’t see the relaxed state today.’

Continuing the lesson, I draw my fingernail down the faint line between your testicles.

‘This line is called the scrotal raphe. It extends all the way around and up the front of his penis, and all the way back past his perineum to his anus. Raphe is from the Latin, which simply means “seam.” Anus, by the way, is from the Latin meaning “circle” or “ring.”

Cass tilts her head.

‘If anus means “ring” why is Saturn named Saturn and not Uranus?’

I open my mouth to respond. Frown and then close it. ‘Excellent question, Cass. I’ll need to investigate and get back to you.’

Cass beams at the praise and leans closer to you, clearly interested in anatomy.

Julie, however, picks up the paddle appearing deeply interested in the grain of the wood.

When Cass raises her hand, her shirt buttons hang on for dear life.

‘Yes, Cass. You don’t have to raise your hand by the way. You can just ask your questions.’

‘Can you show me that raphe line again. I don’t quite understand.’

‘Certainly.’

To you, I say,

‘Turn and lie on your back, please.’

You do as instructed, seeming unsure where to put your feet. I tell you to bend your knees and place your feet on the desk, but your socks slide off the edge.

‘Girls, why don’t you help your friend out and hold his legs still?’

The girls stand on either side. Julie sits with her back propped against your calf. Cass presses her breasts against your leg as she strokes slow, wide circles against your thigh. We all lean in close to inspect your penis. I start identifying parts from the top.

‘The tip is called the head or the bulb or the glans. This slit is called the meatus.’

Sounding bored, Julie reports. ‘He’s leaking again.’

CHAPTER 19

I turn to Cass. ‘Cass, would you be a dear and...’

Before I finish my sentence, Cass grasps your erection and licks the moisture from your tip. You hiss in a breath and quickly prop up on your elbows for a better view. Cass sucks your tip into her mouth before releasing it with a loud pop. Grinning wide, she gently lays your erection on your stomach before giving it a soft pat. With a look of what appears to be affection, she sighs as she returns to her post at your calf.

I’m about to inform her I was going to say, ‘Could you grab a tissue,’ but I don’t want to dim her enthusiasm, so I simply say.

‘Thank you, Cass. Well done.’

Brows raised, you watch this by-play with avid attention.

Back to the lesson, I pinch my thumb and forefinger together just under your tip.

‘This area just below the head is called the frenulum, and just below that is where the raphe begins.’

I run a finger down the faint line on the front of your penis.

‘This part of the seam is called the penile raphe.’

I’ve barely finished my sentence when Cass asks,

‘Can I touch it?’

I look to you. Expression magnanimous, you wave a hand that seems to say, “by all means, proceed.”

Cass immediately circles both fists around your penis, one on top of the other and begins steadily stroking.

Immediately, I see visions of a medieval milkmaid churning butter. Cass’s ponderous bouncing breasts only serve to enhance the visual. Much to Cass’s delight, your whole body goes tense.

‘Oooo... I like the way his abs bunch up when I do this.’

At that, you smile at Cass and ‘bunch up’ your stomach muscles once more.

‘Thank you, Cass. That’s enough for now.’

Julie asks, ‘Can we start the spanking?’

Cass answers for me.

‘Cool your jets, Jules. I need to see where this line goes first.’

Impressed by her commitment to learning, I smile at Cass and resume the lesson.

‘The penile raphe extends down to the scrotal raphe...’

Moving slowly, I trace all the way down and around the mid-line of your testicles. I pat your bottom and have you turn onto your stomach once again. Julie sits down but Cass remains standing.

I pick up where I left off at the base of your testicles and begin tracing the line upward.

‘.... and this line is the perineal raphe which goes over the perineum and extends up to his anus.’

Cass reaches out, presses one cheek to the side and runs a finger down your raphe.

‘What did you call this part again?’

‘The perineal raphe. The entire area is called the perineum.’

As Cass slowly traces up and down the seam, you begin to squirm on the desk and make noises that might be pleasure or pain.

‘I’ve heard pressing against that area can be particularly pleasurable for a male.’

Cass nods, seeming to catalog this information. Julie pipes up.

‘My cousin told me if you stick your finger in his... ‘

She trails off, looks to me, then slowly says the word “anus.” I nod and she continues.

‘My cousin said if you stick your finger in, you can make his knob leak. It had something to do with milk. I didn’t believe her, though.’

At that, you move your feet close together and squeeze your buttocks tight.

Both girls look at me, waiting. As an educator, I believe it’s more important to show integrity than it is to know all the answers, so I respond honestly.

‘Actually girls, I’m not 100% sure, but I’ll do some research and let you know what I find out. Okay?’

Seeming satisfied with my response, Cass leans back as Julie says,

‘Can we start the spanking now?’

‘Of course. Bring the paddle and come stand right here.’

Once Julie is in position, I say, ‘Why don’t you try a light swing at first, just to get a feel for it.’

Julie nods her head, raises her arm and immediately lands a succession of heavy blows. The paddle cracks loud against your skin again and again, and though you grunt and flex with each new blow, you remain in position.

By the time Julie stops, she’s breathless and grinning. Meanwhile, you grip your reddened bottom with both hands. I glance down at your penis, which—impossibly—seems harder than before. How curious.

‘Um, thank you, Julie. You may sit back down now. I’ll take it from here. Julie hands me the paddle and practically skips back to her seat.

Eyeing your pink, swollen bottom, I say, ‘You might’ve been a little rough on him. If you want to rub out a little of the sting, you can.’

Julie wrinkles her nose and shakes her head as she crosses her arms over her chest.

‘Nope. I’m good.’

Cass raises her hand.

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Ah, what a sweet friend you are.’

Again, Cass beams at the praise. I open my desk drawer, and retrieve a bottle of lotion.

I press the pad of a forefinger under your chin and raise your gaze to mine. You stare at my lips when I speak. ‘Your skin is very red. It must be quite painful. Would you like Cass to rub some lotion on your bottom?’

You meet my eyes and nod your agreement. Cass touches your skin, delighted to report,

‘Oooo, his bum’s on fire!’

Humming a jaunty tune, she begins rubbing in the lotion.

CHAPTER 20

I’ve almost finished my letter when I look up and realise Cass has moved from your bottom to your testicles and is currently stroking your perineum with one hand and circling the base of your cock with the other. I open my mouth to stop her, but she’s clearly a sensitive girl and I don’t want to hurt her feelings so I let her continue. Julie interjects,

‘Almost all the pink’s gone. Is it time for more spanking?’

‘I think perhaps we should reschedule the rest of your lesson for tomorrow.’

Cass stills her hands and looks up, disappointed.

‘Please, can I keep going? I’m practicing getting his scrotum tighter. At that, you fail to suppress a low groan.

Pleased by her use of new vocabulary, I say, ‘How about this? My file says he took three years of Spanish as his foreign language. You may apply as many strokes as he can count in Spanish. Cass is thrilled. You cut your eyes up to me with a look of ... anger?

I’d heard a rumour that athletes did not have to attend class to receive an “A” in Spanish. Again, I look at you and lift my chin.

Still gripping you tight, Cass stands poised, waiting. ‘Go ahead. I’m ready.’

Cass gives your penis a light slap, as if you might’ve fallen asleep. You jump, but say nothing. After three more slaps, you’ve still said nothing. Cass releases you and walks around to stand beside your head. Hands on her hips, she sounds incredulous.

‘You can’t even count to one? I can count to ten and I didn’t even take Spanish!’

Julie snickers as Cass throws her hands up in the air.

Though she barely seems aware of it, Cass reaches out with one hand and slowly kneads your bare bottom.

‘Can I at least kiss him goodbye?’

I place my hand on your shoulder. You nod once, though the set of your jaw tells me you’re still miffed.

I expect Cass to return to your head at my side of the desk, but she quickly moves to sit on the floor between your legs where she immediately begins kissing the tip of your penis. You freeze in place, then groan low with obvious pleasure.

The Spanish challenge was a little mean spirited, and I’d like to support Cass’s obvious aptitude for anatomy, so I let her continue.

When she progresses to taking you in deep and reaching up to fondle your testicles, I’m just about to stop her when Julie kneels down between Cass’s thighs. Without preamble, she reaches under Cass’s skirt and pulls down a pair of white cotton panties before her head and hands disappear below the plaid. Within seconds, Cass begins to squeal, though the sound is muffled due to the tight seal of her lips around your cock. I shrug and let them continue.

Girls will be girls.

When I see your whole body begin to shake, see your thigh muscles go taut, I give your bottom two sharp slaps. Julie groans and does something that makes Cass squeal even louder. I move around close to your ear and whisper,

‘It would be very rude of you to orgasm inside Cass’s mouth without her permission. Don’t you agree? You mustn’t spend no matter what. Do you understand?’

You make a choked sound as your hips go still. The room is quiet except for wet sounds, Julie’s low moans, and Cass’s muted squeals.

Every muscle in your body seems strung tight. Seeing your white knuckles gripping the edges of the desk and the hard line of your jaw, I appreciate your effort to follow the rules. Maybe you should get an additional reward?

While the girls are preoccupied, I unbutton my blouse further, slip the cup of my bra below one breast, and tease a taut nipple back and forth against your lips.

Eager, you latch onto my nipple and suck hard. Sitting in my desk chair, my chest is level with your head. I push the other bra cup low and tunnel my fingers through your hair as I press you close. You groan and pump your hips up and down as you alternate sucking each swollen nipple. At the sound of Cass’s muffled scream, she reaches up from her position on the floor and slaps both palms against your buttocks. You groan and make little humming sounds of pleasure.

When your thighs begin to shake once again. I lean close to your ear and whisper, ‘You mustn’t spend in Cass’s mouth. You absolutely mustn’t. If you spill one drop, the consequences will be severe indeed.’

When Cass’s pink nails dig into your bottom, your hips pump faster and faster and then .... your muffled shout joins Cass’s muffled scream.

[betweenstories]

[betweenstories]

CHAPTER 21

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but you need to save the rest of that story for the hotel.”

I open my eyes and blink. Your lips brush my neck. Your voice is practically a growl. “If you say another word...” You nip my earlobe. “I can’t be held responsible for what I might do.”

Lights flash overhead, and far-flung planets dance across a darkened dome. Underneath me, my seat vibrates with deep bass acoustics. I’ve been so caught up in the story, I’ve lost track of where I am.

American Museum of Natural History...

Hayden Planetarium...

New York City.......with you—

Suddenly, I’m keenly aware of the smooth, taut skin pulsing hot against my palm. By reflex, I try to stroke, but you tighten your grip around my wrist. I freeze.

Pulling away from my ear, you press your forehead against mine. Everything about you feels tight. Even your whisper sounds strained.

“I need you to give me a minute.”

In the stillness between us, details from the story return in a rush. Where had all that come from? Heat rises to my cheeks. I’m shocked by my own imagination.

To you, I nod my agreement, relieved. I’d had no idea what to say next anyway. When I start to pull away, you place a warm palm on the back of my neck.

Since my hand’s still wrapped tight around you, I ask, “Should I—“

Before I finish the question, you quickly cut me off.

“Don’t .... “

You soften your tone. Your breaths come slow, measured.

“Just don’t say anything. I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

I nod again and keep my lips tightly sealed. Time passes—eons according to the show overhead, until finally, you kiss my forehead and reach beneath your jacket to uncurl my fingers. Lifting my hand, you brush your lips between each of my knuckles, kiss the fleshy pad below my thumb. I shiver at the rough graze of your beard.

Once I’ve buttoned my dress and smoothed my hair, I shift in my seat to take you in. Your jaw is tight, your movements stiff. I see you wince as you button your fly.

Genuinely concerned, I ask, “Are you okay? I mean, are you in pain?”

Brows raised, you seem surprised by the question. After a silent beat, one corner of your lips curls upward.

“I’ve been stiff on and off—mostly on—for fourteen hours. Of course, I’m in pain.”

I quickly look down at my lap. This isn’t funny. When I glance at you again, you rub your palms down your thighs and blow out a breath.

“Truth be told, I’ve been hard for the better part of a week.” Your smile turns wry. “I’m getting used to it. It’s like being sixteen all over again.

I study my hands in my lap and try to look contrite. “I’m sorry. I’ll be good. No more teasing then.”

Still smiling, you curl an arm around my shoulders and prop an ankle over a bent knee. You stroke my bicep with your thumb. “Trust me, love. I’m not complaining. Besides, I know you can’t help it. Expecting you not to tease is like expecting a fish not to swim.

I knit my brows. “Thank you?”

CHAPTER 22

“I’ve literally had an erection since before the dawn of time.”

With your jacket draped over one arm as a shield, you shake your head as you stare up at the entry point of the 13.6 billion year universal timeline. I bite my bottom lip to hide a smile.

The Harriet and Robert Heilbrunn Cosmic Pathway is a 360 foot spiral ramp that connects the Rose Center’s first and second floors. As it winds around the exterior of the Hayden Sphere, it tells the story of the universe from birth to present day through a built-to-scale timeline. Each of the eight interactive platforms and thirteen equally spaced stations showcases the nature and size of the universe at different points in time.

When the theatre lights had come up after the show, we’d both been buttoned up and decent. Well, I’d been decent. You’d been—what had you called it? Semi-turgid.

With a long-suffering sigh, you’d stood, reached for my hand, and then we’d made our way onto the pathway.

I’d tried to be good, tried so hard not to flirt, but it was difficult. I couldn’t stop myself from being charmed by every little thing you did; and remarkably, it seemed you felt the same way. We had too much in common. There was too much chemistry. Simply put, we had too much fun.

When we’d stopped at the set of blank panels at the beginning of the timeline, I’d said, “Nerd cocky! I love it!”

You’d grasped my hips, pulled me tight against you, and whispered, “If you love ‘nerd cocky,’ I can deliver on half your fantasy.”

I’d tapped my lips and said, “Hm... now if I could just figure out how to satisfy the cocky part.”

Pretending insult, you’d tickled me until I’d escaped and made a run for the next station.

At another display, you’d studied a conversion scale marked on the floor and announced, “According to this, chart, every step I take is equivalent to seventy-five million years!”

When I’d estimated the distance between us (about a billion years) I’d asked if you’d wait for me.

Looking thoughtful, you’d said, “Nope. Got a better idea.”

At that, you’d locked your bent arms like Mr. Roboto and stiffly walked backward to where I’d stood. When you’d added rhythmic beep sound effects and said, “This is my impersonation of New York at 3am,” I’d smiled my goofiest grin.

At the station describing the birth of the Milky Way, you’d reached under my cloak and grazed your fingertips back and forth over my hardened nipples. When I’d said I was trying very hard to control my inner flirt, but you weren’t making it easy, you’d leaned in and purred, “Maybe I don’t want you in control? Maybe I want your hands on me right now?”

As if you’d flipped a switch, my body had instantly hummed with desire. Just as I’d turned to you, ready to accept imminent indecency charges, a family with young children had rounded the corner. I’d quickly scrambled away and focused all my attention on the toes of my boots.

Once the group had moved along, I’d returned to you and pretended to wipe sweat from my brow.

“Phew! That was a close call! Five more seconds and I would’ve been coaxing you toward that alcove other there.” I’d nodded toward the shadowy corner behind you. “I had a whole speech prepared on why you should celebrate the formation of the galaxy with a ceremonial blow job.”

Your brows had shot sky high as you’d slowly turned to stare at said alcove. When you’d finally turned back to face me, you’d scrubbed a hand over your mouth and declared,

“Well, celebration is important.”

Back in the present, you stare up beyond the Rose Center’s glass ceiling at a cloudless cornflower blue sky. I crouch to read the fine print at the dinosaur station. The sheer size of the tooth is amazing.

“It’s incredible these guys don’t show up until two feet from the end of the ramp.”

You turn your attention back to the display. “True. And what we consider “life” didn’t make an appearance until two-thirds of the way down. I really liked seeing the trilobite fossil, by the way.”

“Me too. When I visited here a few years ago, I didn’t have time to process everything while I was seeing it. I was here with a few friends and our daughters and everybody rushed me through every exhibit because they’d all wanted to go shop for knock-off Louis Vuitton.” I roll my eyes. “Anyway, that night before I went to sleep, I spent a long time thinking about trilobites and the creatures that came before them. Talk about putting things in perspective. Our species has been around—what?—a couple million years? But the trilobites survived hundreds of millions. I wonder if they were the first creatures with eyes because they’d survived long enough to evolve them, or if they’d survived that long because they’d evolved eyes.” I shrug. “I guess it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

You appear contemplative. “It makes one wonder how long our species will survive.”

“I grin. “Well, we’ve got Elon Musk on our side now, so I think that doubles our longevity at least.” I frown. “But we’ve also got the Kardashians, so they may cancel each other out.”

You hold your hands out to each side, palms up as if weighing. “Musk versus a Kardashian? I’m not sure which one I’d put my money on.”

“I think it would depend on which Kardashian.”

You chuckle.

I thread my fingers with yours. “I really liked seeing the meteorite as well. It’s hard to imagine standing that close to one of the rarest things on the planet.”

You look at me and your eyes go soft. When you lean in, place a sweet kiss on my forehead, and say, “It’s not so hard for me,” I nearly melt on the spot.

And then, we take the final two steps to land in the present day. Though the trilobites had piqued my interest during the earlier visit; this last, tiny station had made the biggest impression by far. A single strand of hair is displayed between two sheets of glass, its width meant to represent the timeline encompassing all of human history.

When I’d viewed this before, I’d thought about how lucky I was to be alive during this blip of time in the history of the universe. I’d also thought about how much time I’d been wasting.

Staring up at the ramp, I think about 13.6 billion years. I think about the years that divide a century, the centuries that divide millennia. I think about all the divisions, all the middle spaces between every eon, era, and epoch. I think about the nature of in-between places. Wasn’t in-between just another word for change?

I’m still lost in thought when you surprise me by lifting me off my feet and hugging me tight. You spin me around until I’m laughing, breathless.

When you set me down, I place my hands on your shoulders for balance.

“What was that for?”

You spur my mind reading suspicions once again. “No reason. This is the best In-Between Day ever. That’s all.”

CHAPTER 23

As we swipe our Metro cards to enter the subway station under the museum, I marvel once again at the ease of big city transportation. When I’d first visited New York, I’d been a teenager. The running joke had been, if I couldn’t make it home from the local store, I’d get lost in the Big Apple never to be seen again. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth. The city planners had been brilliant. The streets were laid out in beautiful, sequential numbers. There was uptown, midtown, and downtown. It was clear, simple. With a pocket full of tokens, I could’ve hopped on a bus or the subway and gone anywhere I’d wanted at any time. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. Back then, the city wasn’t as clean or as safe as it is today. Hat tip to Rudy Giuliani.

As we wait on the train platform, a classical trio of two violins and a cello plays Mozart. The museum must pump some kind of scented oil through the air ducts, because the entire place smells of gardenias.

You inhale deep as you scan the mosaic tile. “This is the nicest subway station I’ve ever seen.”

“I know, right? The Taj Mahal of public transit.”

When I lean out to peer down the tracks, you tug the back of my scarf to pull me back.

“Careful, love. You don’t want to pull a jarley, do ya?”

I grin at you, lace my fingers, with yours, and swing our hands back and forth.

“You know, I haven’t teased you once in the better part of an hour. I should get a prize.”

You give me a look of censure.

“Okay. Maybe twice.”

You slowly shake your head.

“Fine.” I grin. “I’ve teased you three times, and that’s maximum.”

Your expression says we both know better.

“How’re things going down there, by the way?”

I give a chin jerk toward the jacket you hold in front of you.

Your mouth quirks.

“Let’s put it this way: No part of me is in ‘the relaxed state’ right now.”

Though my cheeks heat, I move in and press the length of my body close against you. I lean up to whisper in your ear.

“Mayhap your raphe needs special attention? It is In-between Day after all, and that’s definitely a middle line.”

Smoothing your hands down my back, you settle a firm grip on my bottom and pull me even closer.

“I assure you, attention to my raphe will not lead to a more relaxed state...” You brush your lips against mine. “... at least not immediately.”

With a quick nip at your chin, I turn and press my bottom against you. I bend to look down the tracks once more. Wrapping your arms around my waist, you pull me in and nuzzle the curve of my neck.

Closing my eyes, I reach a hand back and tunnel my fingers through the hair at your nape. I sway a little as I speak.

“Your warm breath against my neck is one of the finest things on the planet. Whenever I braid my hair to the side or tie a ribbon around a low ponytail, I imagine this exactly. Your lips on my bare skin, the scrape of your beard against my cheek.”

Your groan is a tickling buzz at my ear. By the time the train arrives, you’ve escalated from “semi” to 100% tumescent and I’m soaking wet.

Since several families with small children enter the subway car along with us, I sit across from you instead of beside you.

You raise a brow. I glance toward the little girl seated next to me, who I’d guestimate to be about four or five. You smile and nod your understanding. The girl stares up at me wide-eyed. I know this look. I see the little wheels turning. Silently, I pray she won’t say what she’s thinking out loud. For some reason, I don’t want you to hear it.

Just then, the little girl tilts her head and says, “You look like Elsa.”

Her mother (or possibly grandmother?) smiles apologetically and whispers in the girl’s ear to try and shush her. I accept there must be something to this observation since I hear this fairly often, but personally, I just don’t see it.

I smile as I lean down.

“You think so? I’ll tell you one thing, if I had Elsa’s powers, I’d make an Olaf straight away. How about you? What’s the first thing you’d do?”

When she smiles wide, I see she’s missing her two front teeth. I up my age guess to six.

“Olaf’s my favorite. I’d make him first too.”

We smile and sit in silence half a minute before she adds, “My Mama says Elsa’s the best princess ‘cause she don’t need no man.”

She puts her hands on her hips and weaves her neck back and forth as she says the last. The grandmother looks to see my reaction, glances at you, and again tries to shush the little girl.

You smile, clearly amused.

As the two stand to get off at the next stop, the girl waves goodbye. I think about my own grandmother. She’d firmly believed you had to wave until the person was “clean outta sight.” I remember watching her from the back window of my parents’ car. I’d waved until my arm had grown tired, while she’d stood at the end of her driveway and waved until we were, indeed, “clean outta sight.”

I smile at the little girl and wave until she disappears beyond the train’s sliding doors.

Since the car’s mostly full now, I move to sit on your lap. I twine my arms around your neck, and kiss your cheek.

You glance at your watch. “What time do we need to leave the hotel?”

“Let’s see. Doors open at six-thirty and the pre-show starts at eight. I’ve never heard of the opening band, so if you don’t mind missing a few minutes I don’t either. As long as we leave the hotel by seven-thirty, we should be fine.”

Tonight, one of my favorite singers would be playing the Garden. After resuming his European tour post-pandemic, Teddy Swims had become a huge international star. Except for the nosebleed seats, tonight’s concert had sold out within hours. I still didn’t know how you’d scored such primo tickets.

Since you’d decided on lunch, I jump in with plans for dinner.

“I know you’re still dealing with the time change, so I’ll get ready quick and head down to the bar if you want to take a power nap.” I pull out my phone. “I’ll have a crudités platter sent up to the room now, so you can have something to nibble on. I’ll call you at six-thirty to make sure you’re awake and order you something more substantial then. If you come down around seven, that should give you plenty of time to eat without being rushed. Sound like a plan?”

You nod. The first time the question of food had come up, I’d pondered aloud, “What if we made a pact never to debate food choices? Unless one of us has a specific meal preference, I say we take turns making decisions by default.”

Always easy to get along with, you’d agreed, though you’d seemed largely indifferent on the subject. That is, until I’d added, “Imagine if I devoted all that extra time and energy to honing my fellatio technique.”

“Where to eat” had never been a topic of debate since.

[betweenstories]