Faces

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Alicia Night Orchid

Copyright 2006 Alicia Night Orchid All Rights Reserved 

Michael glimpsed her as he entered the elevator, before the crowd spun him around and forced him to stare at the closing doors. She was dressed demurely in a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, white blouse and low heels. He stood next to her, separated only by the width of the slender brief case she held in her hand. Her dark hair cascaded onto her shoulders and hid her profile, despite his best efforts to view her with his peripheral vision. When she exited on the 21^st floor, he strained for another peek at her features—the wide-set eyes, the high cheek bones, the full lips, the strong jaw line.

He was still puzzling over her when he reached his cubicle on the 32^nd floor. Did he know her from The Strand, where he ran every other morning? Maybe she lived on his street in Manhattan Beach or hung out at that bar he frequented, Hennessey’s? Could they have attended school together?

Throughout the day, he traded derivatives and took positions worth millions of dollars. Most of the time he liked his work. He was good at it, well paid. But some days it felt like any other job. Repetitive, boring.

Today, the minutes passed like eons, and into the long afternoon the woman’s face continued to haunt him.

When the market closed that afternoon, Marty and Ben wanted him to join them for a drink. But, by then, he had a plan. He declined their invitation and, instead, posted himself on the plaza outside his building. He had a good view of both the employee entrance and the Santa Monica Pier.

A large law firm—Wilkins and Sloan—occupied the entire 21^st floor where she worked. He guessed her to be a lawyer and not merely an administrative assistant because she carried a brief case. He suspected that he was out ahead of her—the law firms were notorious for working their young associates long hours. If he was patient enough, she would eventually come through those doors. If he could only see her again, surely it would be enough to jog his memory.

An hour passed, maybe more. He loosened his tie and pretended to read the Wall Street Journal. Five o’clock rolled around and the office buildings along Santa Monica Boulevard and Wilshire emptied into the streets. The women in their smart-looking business attire and heels clicked past. He was late twenties, tall and slender, good-looking in a dark, brooding way. Now and then, he drew a glance or a smile. Now and then, he allowed his eyes to follow the roll and shift of a tight derrière. Behind him, the sun sunk lower, bathing the city in sepia tones as it reflected off the sea.

It was nearly 6:30 when his patience was rewarded. She strode through the doors, looking as crisp and together as she had nearly twelve hours earlier. He held his ground, thinking that he needed only a good, long look at her face. Then, just as she approached, she reached into the purse slung over a shoulder and withdrew her sunglasses. She was wearing them as she strode in front of him, no more than an arm’s length away. It was enough to throw him off, enough to make her seem only vaguely familiar.

Yet, he was more certain than ever that he’d seen this woman before, and seen her in an intimate way. But how could that be? He’d made love to nine women in his life, starting with Jodie Miller in high school and ending most recently with Samantha Howard. He remembered each of them distinctly. The acts he’d performed with them were etched into his brain like photographs and video clips. There was no way he could have been with this woman and not remember the circumstances.

He watched until she was out of sight—the narrow waist, the firm bottom, the muscular calves. But it wasn’t her body that called to him. It was her face. Where had he seen that face?

* * *

Marissa lived in a restored mansion in Beverly Hills with a man named Umberto who was a screenwriter for one of the major studios. She’d met him at a cocktail party where associates and partners of the law firm she worked for mingled with clients. She’d been attracted to his dark skin, black Latin eyes and macho style from the outset. He wore a pencil-thin mustache above his lip, a large diamond earring in his left ear and listed several film credits to his name.

He was known as Umberto, only Umberto.

The sun was nearly setting by the time she pulled the sleek gray Jaguar into the circular drive and entered the foyer through the large double doors. She placed her heavy briefcase on the floor and thumbed through the pile of mail left by the postman earlier in the day. Bills, invitations to parties and charitable events, correspondence from Umberto’s many friends, rarely anything for her. She had a sister in Atlanta, but they’d lost touch. She had friends from college and law school, but she’d drifted away.

She left the mail on the large, mahogany table Umberto had purchased from a man in Spain and sauntered down the hall to their bedroom. The large four-poster bed, the cathedral ceiling, the sliding glass doors that opened onto their garden greeted her.

She slipped out of her dress, her bra and panties. She paused for a moment to consider her reflection in the mirror over their dresser. She was slender as a reed, her legs long and lean, her belly flat. Her breasts were small, the size and shape of mangoes, the nipples brown and proud. Umberto preferred his women natural, so she was trimmed, but unshaven. The patch of hair that began below her navel and covered her sex was black and shiny as onyx. She grasped a bed post and swayed back and forth. Over her shoulder she could see her ass, hard and inviting as an autumn apple.

Umberto liked to take her like this—standing up, hanging onto the bedpost, legs spread wide, ass thrust out.

She slipped into a bathrobe and went into the kitchen. She made herself a Martini and carried it onto the deck. From here, they had a clear view of the city as it stretched to the ocean. She sipped her drink and watched the sun set into the haze and the sea. She placed her cell phone on the table and waited for Umberto’s call.

Umberto, Umberto. Just the sound of his name excited her.

* * *

The house was small. No more than 1,500 square feet, it had been a bargain at only $1.5 million. Michael was close enough to the ocean that he could hear the waves crashing on the beach at night, smell the surf when he awakened, see the dark backs of the dolphins feeding in the waters between the Manhattan Beach pier and the Hermosa pier while he prepared dinner.

For openers, he made a tuna tartar, flavored with soy, ginger and cilantro, served on a delicate round of seedless watermelon and topped with micro-greens purchased at the Santa Monica Boulevard Farmer’s Market. Next, he reduced tomato water with a clove of garlic, bits of onion and Habanera pepper. He intended to serve it chilled, gazpacho style, with fresh corn and cucumber. He filleted a wild-caught salmon, seasoned it with salt and pepper, then poached it in white wine, clam juice and shallots. While the salmon cooled, he combined a bunch of fresh tarragon and virgin olive oil in the blender, then strained the oil through cheesecloth. He placed the salmon atop a bed of quinoa and drizzled it with the tarragon oil.

Pleased with his efforts, he opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio, poured himself a glass and carried it onto his patio. He swirled the wine in the glass, sniffed and tasted, while waiting for Samantha to arrive. The last of the sun dropped into the sea and the lights of the city began to come up.

Samantha was a beautiful woman. A California blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a beachfront figure. In fact, he’d met her on the beach, both of them making small talk while breathy and pouring sweat following a hard fought volleyball match. A few days later, they had their first date—dinner at a French Bistro in Hermosa.

Afterwards, as he drove them home, she busied herself, kissing his neck and ears, searching deep inside her jeans. She brought forth fingers, redolent with her scent, sticky with her syrup, and titillated him with tastes of herself. When they reached his house, she pushed him against a wall, pressed her denimed pelvis against his thigh and humped him until she came, her breath like an explosion in his ear. His turn came when he bent over the arm of his sofa, her ass thrust in the air, and fucked her until they both screamed.

Nearly six months spanned the distance between then and now. Yet not much had changed. They played volleyball on the weekends and a couple of times a week he made dinner for her at his place. Afterwards, they had sex. Good sex. Neither of them asked the other for nor expected exclusivity. Both of them avoided talk about where this, whatever this was, might be headed. He’d never met her friends, nor her his. He had no idea what she did when she wasn’t with him. She never asked him about his time away from her.

He supposed it was strange, but it was the routine they’d fallen into.

The doorbell rang. Michael stood, crossed the lushly carpeted floor and opened the door. Another evening with Sam was about to begin.

* * *

“Marissa.” His voice was thick and raspy. He was calling from London where he was consulting on a shoot. It was morning there. He was still in bed. She liked him in the morning. She liked waking up in his arms, his furry chest against her back, his hardness pressed into the furrow of her ass.

“Oh, Umberto. I miss you.” He’d been gone two weeks.

“I miss you, too.” A pause, a rustling of sheets. “You were incredible.”

She bit her lower lip, took a sip of the Martini. “Did you like that?”

“What’s not to like.”

He’d told her about a website, www.beautifulagony.com. On the site, men and women posted video clips of their faces while they pleasured themselves to orgasm. He’d asked her to do it for him, so he could see her in his absence. The clip had been posted two days earlier.

She returned the Martini to the table and reached inside her robe with her free hand. She cupped her left breast in her palm and milked it absentmindedly. “I want you,” she told him across the miles.

“I want you, too,” a sudden urgency in his voice. “I loved it that you came twice in your “agony.”

She rolled her nipple between a thumb and forefinger. “The first time was so quick. I was so excited, knowing you’d see me. I needed more.”

“What were you thinking?” he asked her.

She allowed her hand to trail down her belly and opened her legs. The sun was gone and the air had turned cooler. “I was thinking of that time on Maui. We’d just come in from the beach.”

“You were in that black one-piece suit that fits your body like a second skin.” It was more of a statement than a question. She heard a breathiness in his voice and knew that he held his cock in his hand.

“We’d just come in from the beach and were slippery with oil and sweat. I could see the droplets on your chest hair. You kissed me and pulled the suit down to my waist.”

“Yes,” he said. “You were fantasizing about that during your agony?”

She used two fingers to open her labia. She was already wet. She dipped one finger inside and drew moisture. She painted circles around her clit. “Yes,” she strained to keep her voice even. “I was thinking about how you hadn’t shaved and your beard was rough on my skin and I liked that. I didn’t think I would, but I did. And you were nipping at my nipples and squeezing my breasts and I didn’t think I’d like that either, but I did. I liked the pain mixed with the pleasure. And that was my first come. In my agony video.”

“Oh, Marissa,” She could tell he was aroused, knew he was hard now. She’d seen him stroke himself before. She delighted in watching him thrust out his chin while he stroked off for her. “What else did you think about?” he asked.

Her clit was swollen and she was having a hard time sitting still, her hips rocked involuntarily in the chair. She brought her hand to her mouth and lubricated her fingers with saliva. She placed a forefinger on one side of her clit and an index finger on the other and began to rub, just as she had done while making her agony video. “I thought about the rest of it. What we did that day in Maui,” she told him. “I thought about how after you mauled my breasts you peeled off my suit and went down on me.”

“I love how you smell, how you taste.”

“You said I tasted like the sea.”

“Yes,” he groaned.

“Oh, Umberto,” she sighed into the phone as the pace of her movements quickened. “I thought about how you tongue fucked me and sucked on my pussy lips, taking one and then the other into your mouth. I thought about how you sucked on my clit and fingered me until I screamed.”

“I love to suck your clit,” he was breathing harder and she could make out the slap of his hand against his hardness. “I love how you squirm on the bed when I eat you.”

“I’m squirming for you now,” she whispered. She inserted her fingers deep inside her cunt and ground the heel of her hand against her clit. “I thought about how you flipped me over and my ass was up in the air and my legs were falling off the bed and my face was buried in the covers. I thought about how you were so big and hard and how you pushed the head of your beautiful cock against my pussy.”

“I told you how bad I wanted to fuck you.”

“Fuck me, Umberto,” she said. “Fuck me good, baby.” She fingered herself, in and out, imagining it was his cock filling her, wetting her.

“I’m fucking you so good, Marissa, so good.”

The squishy sounds of her finger play filled the night air. Those same sounds had been audible on her agony tape. “I remember how full you made me feel,” she breathed into the phone. “I was just coming and coming and we were slippery and drippy and all of that. Your balls, oh Umberto, your beautiful furry balls were slapping against my thighs.”

“And just as I was about to shoot inside you, I wet my finger with your juices and slipped it inside your ass. I’m so close, baby.”

She withdrew her fingers from inside and worked her clit again, intent on finishing with him. “Oh, yes, I loved that. I thought about that while I was masturbating for you in front of the camera. Your cock in my pussy and your finger in my ass. Your hot breath in my ear. Umberto, I’m almost there.”

“Oh…”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Marissa.”

And then she was coming on her fingers, imagining his semen bathing her insides, imagining his finger probing her tight brown orifice.

“Oh, Marissa. I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too, Umberto,” she whispered, her voice like the susurration of the wind on a woman’s skirt. “I love you, too.”

* * *

Samantha changed out of her business attire and into khaki shorts and a white polo shirt. Michael served the appetizers upstairs on his roof. While they ate, she told him about someone she knew who was moving to the Napa Valley to produce organic olive oil—she wondered if she could do that, live close to the earth and raise olive trees. It didn’t seem very likely. She paused to tell him that the tuna was incredible, melting on her tongue like an exotic jelly from the sea. She sipped wine and rested a foot in Michael’s lap. He massaged it—the heel, the metatarsals, the space between her red-painted toes—before moving on to the next course.

They finished the Pinot Grigio over the gazpacho. Michael noticed how the Habanera made her dewy under the eyes and around the nose. He was thinking that he’d drink every drop of her sweat for a month.

“God, this is good,” she said.

The wild-caught Alaskan salmon was rich and fat as butter, the tarragon oil balancing its sweetness with just the right touch of bitterness. They moved on to the Pinot Noir. When she drank, her face acquired the color of the salmon. He leaned over, kissed her and slid a hand along the inside of her thigh.

She stood and took his plate, pausing to lean over him, her breasts brushing his shoulders. “I love the way you smell,” she said into his hair. “Like food and wine. I love it.”

“Not like a stuffy office crammed with computers?” He couldn’t remember if he’d ever told her what he did for a living, or if she’d ever asked. He thought she sold clothing, but he couldn’t swear to it.

“Why don’t you put on some music? I’ll take care of this.”

While she cued up Sinatra, he did a quick rinse of the dishes. When he entered the living room, he found her reclining on the sofa, tan legs tucked beneath her. She’d lit candles. After a glass or two of wine, she always wanted candles.

He sat down next to her and kissed her again. His tongue swirled in her mouth, teased across her teeth and lips. It had been days since they’d last been together and the want in him was strong.

“Let me help you with that.” He pulled the shirt from her shorts and lifted it over her head.

She was braless and her breasts fell loose. He lowered his lips to first one nipple, then the other. A moan escaped her.

“I l want you in my mouth,” she whispered.

“God, yes.”

She turned and slid off the sofa onto her knees. She positioned herself between his legs, unzipped him and removed his stiff cock from his trousers. "I want you for dessert,” she told him.

Michael dug his fingers into the sofa. He whispered her name. Samantha’s soft blonde hair fell across his lap. She looked up at him, his cock between her pink lips, her eyes sweet and slutty at the same time. He ran his fingers through her hair and caressed the back of her neck. She took him in all the way, down the back of her throat. Then, as she retreated, her lips tightened around the shaft. She tugged at him with rhythmic swallowing motions, all the time her tongue flicking at the head.

Her left hand cupped his balls, captured them in her palm, then liberated them. Capture and release. Again and again. She held his cock in her right hand and drew it across her lips and cheeks, smearing her face with saliva and pre-cum. She licked the shaft like a lollipop, before enveloping him inside her warm mouth. She bobbed up and down, her hand working in concert with her lips and tongue.

Suddenly, her mouth left him, her hand stopped pumping. He looked down. Samantha’s eyes squeezed shut. She bit her lower lip, the muscles in her neck strained. He knew that look. She was coming. Her face betrayed the spasms in her pussy. She moaned and shuddered before exhaling sweetly and laying her cheek on his thigh. “I just soaked my panties,” she said with a giggle.

“I know,” he said and ran his fingers through her hair. His cock stood at attention, twitching with a life of its own.

She looked up and smiled before taking him into her mouth again. She flicked at that most sensitive spot on the underside of his head while pumping his shaft furiously. He felt the pressure begin at the base of his cock. He felt the semen rise like white hot lava. He groaned, lifted his hips and was there and there and there, spurting sweet and salty and sticky down her throat, across her cheeks, onto her chin. Her hand continued to work, milking every drop from him, until suddenly she paused, and gasped out another climax of her own. Again, he watched the sweet agony play out across the landscape of her face, watched the flush that rose from her breasts, watched the pressure mount, then release, release, release.

Afterwards she lapped at his belly, his balls, his cock, cleaning him up like a cat lapping milk from a bowl.

* * *

After saying goodbye to Umberto, she finished the Martini. She pocketed the cell phone and went back inside the large, empty house.

Seated at the desk in Umberto’s office she logged onto the computer She typed in the web address, www.beautifulagony.com. She was still featured on the front page. Miss 360 something. The expression on her face was one of total bliss. Her black hair fanned out across the white sheets of her bed, her eyes opened wide to the world. She looked almost surprised, startled by her orgasm. But there had been no surprise. She’d touched herself and thought of Umberto. She’d touched herself, wet and slippery for all the world to enjoy and she’d come, not once, but twice.

But it had all been for Umberto. Her sweet man, Umberto. In her world, there was only her and Umberto.

* * *

Samantha claimed she had an early morning. Michael didn’t ask what for. It seemed awkward to start asking now. He walked her to the door, kissed her lightly and said he’d be in touch. She said she’d see him at the beach for volleyball.

After she left, he finished cleaning up in the kitchen, then carried the last of the Pinot Noir into the bedroom. He logged into a site he’d discovered recently—www.beautifulagony.com. He searched the faces on the first screen. Mostly women, women that looked like the women you saw in the laundry room, the coffee shop, the bookstore. Normal women. Except for whatever reason, they’d agreed to masturbate in front of a camera, and then show themselves to the world. Three to five minute clips captured their faces in various stages of ecstasy. Their shoulders and arm muscles worked, their bosoms heaved, their invisible hips slid to and fro. Sometimes you could hear the squishy sounds of their fingers in their pussies, or the buzz of a vibrator.

But the way they used their fingers or their vibrators remained hidden from sight, left to the imagination. You saw their faces, only their faces.

Michael selected one that looked vaguely familiar. A dark-haired woman who he felt he should know, but couldn’t place. He’d watched her “agony” once before and liked the way the woman in it came twice in the clip. She was beautiful and serene. Except when she came. Then she was anything but serene. Then she was passionate and wanton. He watched her and touched his cock through his under shorts. After that first come, she relaxed a moment before touching herself anew. You could see the muscles in her arm, working, working.

Her eyes were closed and he could only guess what fantasy she played out behind those eyes that excited her so. What lover lay with her, kissed her, caressed her, entered her?

He reached inside the fly of his boxers and began to stroke himself. Even after his encounter with Samantha earlier in the evening, he was hard. He pumped as the woman in the “agony” video fingered. He matched her stroke for stroke. When her second orgasm arrived, he sprayed his belly with seed.

When he looked at the screen again, the woman’s eyes were open wide. She looked as if she’d been surprised by the intensity of it. As she regained her composure, her face muscles relaxed, leaving her smile frozen onscreen for an instant before she faded out.

He sat for a while in the soft glow of the monitor light and finished his wine, before going into the bathroom to clean up.

On his way to bed, he paused naked before his dining room window and looked out to the sea. Far in the distance, he could make out the lights of ships passing in the night. He watched them for long minutes, considering their exotic destinations, their mysterious missions. The men and women on those ships lived life on the edge, exposed to the mercy of nature and the cranky mechanics of their vessels. When he was still in graduate school, he’d imagined that his life as a derivatives trader would be exciting—all that money, all that risk.

But compared to those sailors, his life seemed suddenly dull and boring, his little house close and stifling, his relationship with Samantha pointless. He hadn’t expected to end up here. He wondered how it could have happened.

His breath fogged the window. He placed his fingertips on the glass. He stood there the rest of the night, watching the ships pass and fade into the darkness. At dawn, he didn’t bother to dress for work.

Copyright 2005 Alicia Night Orchid All Rights Reserved 

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