The Opposite of Love (7 page)

James was a corporeal lover, at times more brutish than Melanie’s past boyfriends, but he was also a quick study and after a few weeks of evening and morning sessions two or three times a week, he was giving her orgasms without fail. What struck her as more intimate than the sex, though, was sleeping next to him. He tended to talk in his sleep—nothing that made any sense at all—but she found herself listening in those vulnerable moments to his subconscious spilling out in strange bits of emotion and imagery. “You don’t belong here,” he said once, his face creased in frustration. “Can and will be used against you,” another time. And “The pink one.” Sometimes she had to laugh.

On a Saturday morning several weeks after she and James started having sex, Melanie slept in. Slipping quietly out of bed at nine-thirty, she worked her way through the house, cleaning up as she went. She started a load of laundry, stacked the books and magazines, took out the garbage and answered some work-related emails. By eleven a.m. she was in the pool swimming laps. After doing thirty, she got out to grab some water. That was when she saw James on the other side of the living room slider. He stood there in his boxers, watching her, smiling, his bed head making him look like a child. She motioned for him to come out.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Hey yourself, sexy. What are you up to this fine day?”

“Just doing some laps. I was gonna catch some rays for a bit.”

“Need some company? My tan could use a boost.”

“Sure.”

James pulled off his underwear and threw them on the back of a lounge chair.

“Um, ok.” Melanie laughed. “The pool boy doesn’t come until two, so I guess you’re safe.”

James took a few running steps and cannon-balled into the deep end of the pool. Melanie shook her head. When he surfaced, she asked, “I’m going to grab some water. Want anything?”

“Beer if you have it.”

“I have it. Want me to grab the noodles for the pool?”

“Noodles?”

“You know, the foam things.”

“Afraid I don’t know the foam things.”

“I’ll grab ’em.”

Melanie came back with a bucket of beer on ice and two long, bendable foam sticks.

“Oh, noodles,” said James. “I get it.”

She handed him a beer and tossed the noodles in the pool. James tucked one of the noodles around his back and under his armpits and leaned back, sipping his beer. “Nice. Noodles and beer.”

“I call it pooling.”

“Pooling?” he asked.

“Yeah. Pool, drinks, lounging. It makes something lazy sound active.”

“I can think of other ways to make it active.”

Melanie winked at him. “I bet you can.”

She grabbed an inflatable lounger against the wall and tossed it in the pool. James held her beer while she situated herself on the raft.

Once she was all settled, she sighed and closed her eyes. It was a crystal clear ninety-five degrees out. The rays felt good and the water was doing a fine job of keeping her cool. The wind was calm and had been for the past week, so there weren’t many leaves in the pool. She could hear James paddling lazily around her. After about ten minutes of silence, he said, “You’re gonna get tan lines in that bikini.”

She opened one eye and peeked at him, smiling. “As you’re well aware, I already have tan lines from this bikini.”

“Haven’t you heard?” James smirked. “Tan lines are out.”

“Are they? It’s so hard to keep up with these trends.” She feigned exasperation and waved her hand dismissively. “I gave up trying.”

“Well then I will take it as my job to prevent you from committing a fashion faux pas with your tan lines. You can thank me later.” He put his beer on the deck and paddled closer to her.

He came up behind her raft and tugged at the string at her neck. She glanced toward the block fence on the left side of the yard. It was seven feet high, so it would require a ladder for anyone to peek over. She sat up and giggled as he untied the string at her back and threw her bikini top on the deck. She lay back down and he paddled around to the foot of the raft.

“Bottoms too,” he said.

“If you insist.”

She watched him pull her bikini bottoms off slowly, arching to help him. He was staring at the spot where her legs met. He slid the suit over her feet and let them slip from his hand and hang in the water. She self-consciously closed her legs.

James tucked the noodle around the front of his chest and leaned forward, letting the foam hold his weight up. He wrapped both hands around one of Melanie’s feet and kneaded the sole with his thumbs. She hummed with approval. “Heaven,” she said.

After a few minutes James worked on the other foot, then started rubbing her calves, then her thighs. By the time he reached her upper thighs her legs parted themselves. She loved the way his touch felt. And the combination of being caressed by the sun, the water and James all at the same time was having a narcotic effect.

He touched her gently, running a finger up and down her slit until she moaned and spread her legs wider. He spread her wetness around, and his breathing deepened, but when she pushed her hips against his hand, he wouldn’t put his fingers inside her. Instead, he stopped touching her long enough to pull the raft toward the shallow end of the pool. Once there, he was able to position his head between her legs and go to work.

The sensation was surreal—the coolness of the water and the warmth of his mouth—and Melanie couldn’t help thinking how lucky she was. This was what she deserved: a lazy Saturday in the pool, soaking up rays, drinking a beer, being pleased by a man who adored her. She imagined there were other things she’d been missing out on too—more important and profound things—but for now, this was all she wanted.

James increased the tempo and pressure until Melanie was on the edge of her orgasm, chasing it, pushing her hips back against his mouth. And he stopped.

Melanie whined. “Why’d you stop?”

“It’s just for a second,” he said. “I’ll be right back. No touching yourself.”

Melanie grunted and splashed water at him.

James got out of the pool and jogged to the slider and into the house, his member erect and bobbing, and emerged a minute later with the package of condoms from the nightstand and two towels. He put the towels at the top of the stairs, then tore one of the condom wrappers open with his teeth and rolled the condom on. He came back to Melanie and resumed where he’d left off.

It only took a few minutes before Melanie was again ready to come, and once again, James stopped.

“Come here,” he said. He took her beer from her, pulled her from the raft and led her to the edge of the pool. He positioned her on all fours on the pool stairs with her knees in the water and her elbows resting on the towels he’d left on the deck. He continued playing with her, running one hand over her slit as his other hand ran up and down her arched back.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

He put himself at her opening and waited. The anticipation was too much for her and she pushed back. James grunted with satisfaction. He moved in long strokes so that the head of his penis escaped her completely on each stroke, and she whined each time it did.

“You want me to stay in?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want you to stay in.”

And with that, he grabbed her by the hips and thrust once, deep and hard, holding the head against her cervix. She cried out.

“You look so beautiful in the sun,” he said.

Ten seconds went by. James caressed her back and then returned his hands to her hips and thrust again. This time Melanie moaned. Eight seconds went by. Again he thrust hard. Six seconds. Again. Four seconds went by. Again. Two seconds. Again. And then he was giving it to her, the water around them churning as he pulled her into him, skin slapping wetly against skin.

Melanie moaned and lowered her head to the towel. She could feel her knees starting to chafe against the step, but she was very close to coming. She reached between her legs and before she could touch herself James grabbed her elbow and pulled her arm back—not to the point of hurting her, but close.

“Babe…” she whined.

“No touching yourself. I’ll get you there.”

“Ok. Let go of my arm.”

James didn’t say anything, and he didn’t let go of her arm. His stroke slowed slightly. Melanie started to push herself up so she could turn and look at him, but he pushed her head down to the towel.

He leaned over her so that his chest was pressed against her back. “Do you trust me?”

“What are you doing?”

“Just trust me, ok?”

“Ok.” Melanie had no intention of trusting him if this got out of hand. But so far nothing had been painful except the chafing on her knees, so she gave him a little leeway.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked.

Melanie didn’t respond.

James increased the tempo again and Melanie felt her muscles start to tighten. It appeared she would be able to get there without touching herself, and she was beyond ready for it.

James wrapped her hair around his free hand and held it against the back of her head. He was thrusting hard and strong and panting into her ear. Melanie was moaning more with each stroke and trying not to be loud enough that the neighbors would hear if they were out in their yards.

James whispered, “We’re being watched.”

“What?” Melanie tried to lift her head to look around but James tightened his fist in her hair and held her where she was with her cheek against the towel. She squirmed under him but he was still holding her arm and she couldn’t get free. He slowed his stroke again.

“Who’s watching?” she whispered loudly.

“It’s ok. Just relax. I’m not letting you go until you come.”

She wasn’t fighting him, but she wasn’t sure she could relax with someone watching. The urge to come was ebbing and flowing and her mind was racing.

“Who is it?” she asked again. If it was her creepy next door neighbor she’d pretty much have to sell her house and move. The thought of him masturbating to her was too nauseating to bear.

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s the pool boy.”

Melanie tried to turn her head toward the gate where the pool boy always let himself in, but James held her firmly. She closed her eyes and groaned. At least he was young and attractive. The thought of him seeing her—and liking what he saw—didn’t seem completely offensive. Maybe just the opposite. She tried not to think about it and just concentrated on her orgasm. She knew the sooner she came the sooner this would be over, and she knew better than to try and fake it. She’d tried that the week before when she was tired from a trip. He’d become suspicious, but she’d been able to convince him that she’d had a small orgasm.

“Come for me,” he said now, the water splashing around them as he whispered into her ear.

James started thrusting faster again and her body continued to spasm and arch despite her self-consciousness. When she began moving back against him, he put his knees outside of hers so she could squeeze her legs together, and within moments they were both coming. Melanie was able to turn her face enough to muffle her cries in the towel as her muscles convulsed hard and long. James released her arm and hair. He leaned back and moaned up toward the sky as he thrust into her slowly, once, twice, three times.

Before the waves of pleasure had subsided completely, Melanie slowly lifted her head and turned toward the gate. There was no one there.

There are things that happen in the dark between two people that make everything that happens in the light seem all right.

—Erica Jong,
“Any Woman’s Blues”

Chapter Five

“It’s only twelve forty-five. Why would he come by that early?”

Melanie was sitting on a deck chair with a towel wrapped tightly around her naked body despite that no one besides James was around to see it.

“Dunno.” James sat in the water on the pool stairs and sipped his beer looking unreasonably happy, his flaccid member bobbing against the surface of the water.

“How long was he standing there?”

“I told you he was there right after I noticed him.”

“Are you sure it was the pool boy?”

“How would I know? I’ve never seen your pool boy.”

“What did he look like?” Melanie asked.

James shrugged. “Young. About my height I guess. I barely glanced at him. I didn’t want to scare him off.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted you to see what it felt like to have someone watch you enjoy yourself. And you liked it. Admit it.”

“Are you kidding? I was completely freaked out.”

“I felt how hard you came. You loved it.”

“If I came hard it was because of all the stuff you’d done before that. Not because someone was watching me.”

“If you were turned off by it you wouldn’t have been able to come at all.”

Melanie sat quietly for a moment. Had the pool boy really been there? Or was this some kind of game?

“Was someone really here?” she asked.

“Tell you what, what time is he supposed to come clean the pool?”

“Two.”

“When he gets here, ask him.”

“I’m not going to ask him. I’m asking you.”

“And I already told you.”

Exasperated, Melanie gave up. “I’m going in.” She was able to reach the raft from the edge of the pool and she dragged it out and propped it against the wall. “Grab the noodles and my bikini bottoms before you get out.”

“Will do,” he said cheerfully.

She picked up her bikini top from the pool deck and laid it across a lounge chair to dry. The condom James had used was tied off and laying by the pool stairs. She walked over to get it so she could flush it down the toilet, but before she could pick it up he grabbed it.

“I got it,” he said.

She held out her hand. “Just give it to me and I’ll flush it.”

“It’s ok,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

She hesitated. Then she turned around and walked into the house. She had learned long ago that men with something going for them—a lucrative job, a house, a good reputation—would guard their sperm like Fort Knox, no matter how much they said they trusted a woman. It was the ones who didn’t have anything going for them who would leave a condom overnight to dry up and shellac itself to the nightstand.

James remained in a great mood. He squeezed her behind and kissed her deeply before he left to go home. He even called ten minutes later to ask if he could see her that night, and she said yes.

At a quarter past two, Melanie was folding laundry in the bedroom when she glanced out the window and saw the pool boy checking the chlorine level. It was the first Saturday of the month, so she needed to pay him. She considered leaving a check on the patio table and not even making eye contact with him, but if James had made everything up, that would be rude.

She went to her office and wrote out a check, including her usual tip. As she opened the slider to the patio, she called out, “Hey Brian, how are things?”

He looked up from where he was working on the opposite side of the pool. “Hey Miss Leon,” he called back. “Things are good, thanks.” Then he went back to work.

Melanie thought she noticed a bit of redness in his cheeks, but then he worked on pools, so it was probably just sun, right? She waited to see if he would offer any more conversation; he was usually a little chattier than this. When he didn’t, she set the check down on the patio table.

“I’ll just leave your check over here,” she said. “Have a good weekend.”

“Ok, thanks Miss Leon,” he said without looking up. “You too.”

Melanie picked up her bikini from the lounge chair and was about to head back inside when she noticed the bottoms were missing. She turned around slowly, and there they were, hovering like a jellyfish near the bottom of the pool.

She turned back around and went inside, shutting the slider behind her.

Soon after the pool incident, James started pushing for more kinkiness in their sex life. He wanted to tie her up, which she allowed with no ill effects, spank her, which she found she liked immensely, and to take her to a sex club. The latter was something she'd heard of but never imagined doing. More than anything, she was concerned about being recognized. James wasn't worried about it at all, explaining that it was perfectly legal and that anyone seeing them was being seen there as well.

This wasn't as much comfort as it was meant to be; feeling somewhat snobbish about it, Melanie considered that it made a difference if you were higher up on the food chain status-wise. If she had still been pushing luxury homes for a living, there would have been no way she could risk her reputation. But she was a consultant now, and the idea of her life belonging solely to her, to do with whatever her heart desired, was downright sexy. She was sure she’d encounter boundaries that she wasn't willing to push, and the sex club might turn out to be one of them, but for now, she was having fun and finding out surprising things about what turned her on and what didn't.

James didn’t much care
for the kind of women who liked to fuck the way he did. Sure, he liked to fuck them, and he shuddered to think of a world without them in it, ready and waiting on barstools to be chatted up, liquored up and dicked down. But he found it hard to respect someone who would let herself be defiled and debased, let alone enjoy it. He veiled his distaste with dirty talk, calling a redhead a filthy slut while fucking her throat until she gagged and coughed up white mucus, calling a blond a dirty bitch while fucking her ass. And they ate that stuff up. “Yeah, Daddy,” they said. “Give it to me.” Like starving nymphos who’d hump furniture in the absence of a stiff dick.

These weren’t women he took out to dinner. If one demanded preamble to the act, he would offer a movie on the sofa and takeout, but no more. To acquiesce on this was to open the door to a litany of invitations to parties and social events where introductions were inevitable and assumptions automatic. James was careful not to be identified as anyone’s beau and thus off the market.

There had been a time when he would let a woman sleep over out of sheer exhaustion. But after a few bad breakups and several stalkers, he realized the wisdom in keeping his address a secret. Now he always offered to come to them—even disguised it as chivalry—plus it was easier to leave when he wanted than to convince a woman he’d just fucked that she didn’t want to sleep over. In the past, he’d told them he snored, farted, kicked, and sleepwalked, but a well-fucked woman was undeterred. They always wanted to sleep over. He once told a leggy brunette who’d been particularly vocal in bed that he had PTSD from an incident at work and he’d been known to wake up choking a bedmate on occasion. She slept on the couch.

He found it was always best to get out early. Yes, there was the possibility of middle-of-the-night sex or morning sex, of course. But mid-night sex was often a one-sided come-dump and morning sex was when they wanted the tender stuff. It never lived up to the intensity of the alcohol-induced, end-of-the-evening sex, and the law of diminishing returns was to be respected.

Additionally, there was the transformation: watching a woman go from legs crossed, spine straight to spread eagle, sweaty and swearing; buttoned up and proper to pried open, carved out and lumped into a hot mess on the bed—and this was what they wanted him to do. Sometimes it made him a little sick.

With Melanie, it was different. She had allowed him to coax her and had slowly opened up to the idea of experimenting with things she’d never done before. It was almost like having a virgin to teach about the joys of sex. He wanted to help her explore her boundaries, to find her inner kinky girl, and to be that person just for him.

Their safe word was zenith. (Melanie had wanted it to be blue, but James explained that it had to be something unmistakable; lots of words sound like blue.) If her mouth was full and she was unable to speak, she could tap him twice and the scene would stop.

James had explained all this to Melanie through emails, web links, over drinks. Scenes, safe words, bondage, spanking, discipline; surprisingly she hadn’t balked. She’d flinched when he brought up whipping, but he assured her that was a long way off—if they ever got there at all. They would take it slow. Baby steps, he told her.

They’d started with spanking. On a weekend afternoon, he stripped her and bent her over the armchair in her bedroom, her behind high and taught against his hand. He’d started with small, sharp slaps, and she was tense and silent at first. But as his strikes landed harder, she began to relax, to wiggle her behind, to moan. He caressed her after each slap and as her ass got red his erection grew. She loved it. Most women did if they could just get over themselves long enough to try it.

“You like that, don’t you?” he asked.

She moaned. Even now, with her ass wiggling under his hand, she wouldn’t admit it.

He slapped her harder. “You’re going to tell me,” he said, and slapped her other cheek. “You’re going to tell me you love it or you’re going to use the safe word.” He knew her pride wouldn’t let her do the latter.

He landed three hard slaps in succession and she arched, her head tilted back, but she didn’t speak. James did the same to the opposite butt cheek and her ass grew hot with redness. His cock was straining against his jeans and he wished he’d taken them off before he started. Looking at her now, her ass high and inviting, he started to wonder if he might give in before she did, and the thought made him angry. He rained down five hard slaps on her rear end and she let out a wail. Then, mercifully, she said it. “I love it.”

“Don’t move,” he said.

He was out of his jeans and had a condom on in moments. He grabbed her hips and slid into her easily. She was soaking wet. The sight of her bright red ass as he pounded into her was too much, and he came hard, pushing deep and throwing his head back, thrusting one, two, three times.

Melanie was still wiggling her backside against his deflating penis. She hadn’t come. James knew he wouldn’t be able to perform again anytime soon given how hard he’d come, and he was tempted to just owe her one—except that it would set a treacherous precedent.

He led her over to the bed and pushed her down onto her back. He kissed her hard, pinched and sucked her nipples; he loved the way they responded to him, standing at attention against his tongue.

He moved down, kissing her stomach, her navel, and she moaned when he spread her legs, covering her eyes with her forearm to shut out the afternoon light.

He didn’t tease her like he would have if this were foreplay. Rather, he dove in and spelled his name on her clit in capital letters. She was responding, grinding against his face, but it was taking time and he wanted desperately to take a nap.

He reached for the nightstand closest to the bathroom. Along with condoms and lube were several toys of varying sizes. He chose a purple dildo which was actually pretty close to his own size.

The dildo buzzed when he turned the knob at the base and he slid the head up and down against her wetness. She hummed in approval and pushed her hips forward. James slid it in easily, about halfway, then began sliding it in and out rhythmically. Melanie increased her tempo and James responded by giving her more of its length, turning the dial all the way to the right.

“Come for me,” he said.

Melanie bucked hard, pushing against the dildo and closing her thighs tight over James’ hand as she came. Her chest was flushed and she still had her forearm over her eyes.

James slowly withdrew the dildo and lay down next to Melanie, pulling her arm away from her face. He looked her in the eyes, brushed her hair away from her face. “Good girl,” he said.

When Melanie’s parents
took the girls to the mall, they insisted on taking them to the art store or the bookstore as the last stop. It was their choice—although it was usually a two out of three vote. During one trip to the art store with just their father, the same year that he died, Sara discovered Michael Parkes’ art and the younger girls jumped on the bandwagon. They all picked a favorite. Sarah chose “Gargoyle,” a print of a little girl standing atop a large building blowing bubbles, and a wicked-looking gargoyle leaping off his perch to chase them, which was indicative of her willingness to see the good in people. Jen picked “Dream for Rosa,” with the ballerina en pointe on a thin rope. Jen’s choice did not surprise Melanie, given her sister’s casual risk-taking. Melanie chose “Athena.” In the print, Athena is naked except for her stockings, standing on the edge of a tiny cliff with an enormous black horse looking calm, even serene, in complete control of herself. Her horse is strong, stoic, but she is not on his back, she is standing on her own.