“So when you suck my tits, you’re doing it for me, because it drives me insane. Not because it makes your tongue feel good,” Mara says.
“That’s right.”
We’re looking at each other like we just discovered one of us has been speaking Spanish and the other Portuguese.
Slowly, Mara climbs up onto my lap, straddling me on the chaise. She pulls her linen dress overhead, letting it drop on the floor behind her. Underneath, she wears only a skimpy lace thong, no bra.
Her bare breasts sit directly in front of my face, small, round, soft, and ripe.
Her tight little nipples poke out, brown as her freckles, pierced through with silver rings.
Cupping the base of my skull in her palm, Mara draws my head toward her breast.
“Close your mouth around my nipple,” she says.
Flushed from that long orgasm, I don’t think or plan. I only obey.
“Suck on my tits,” Mara says. “Soft. Slow. Feel what they feel like in your mouth, against your tongue.”
My mouth latches onto her breast, taking the whole nipple in my mouth. Its stiff pebbled tip lies firmly against my tongue. The round swell of her breast presses pleasantly against my lips. Her skin smells of the intoxicating perfume Mara chose at the store, selecting the one that incited me the most without me ever saying a word.
I suckle on her breast, trying to shut off my impulse to look up at her face to gauge how effective I am. I close my eyes, focusing on my own sensations. Letting the soft sounds of her moans, and the tightness of her waist between my hands, guide me.
Her nipple swells in my mouth, warming and softening against my tongue. The silver ring remains cool and unchanging, ice that can never melt.
Slowly I increase the pressure, not because I can feel that it causes Mara to grind harder on my stiffening cock, but purely for the satisfaction of sucking harder.
Mara pushes herself up, then lowers down on my cock, her lace thong pulled to the side. Her pussy is drenched, so wet that I feel it on my thighs. She’s so close to climax that she’s already riding me hard, starting at a gallop.
I release her breast and seize the other in my mouth, sucking hard, ravaging it, trying to fit as much as possible in my mouth. The silver ring like the tine of a fork, or the lip of a glass: serving her nipple to me.
The sensation satisfies like eating, like drinking. I’m devouring her. Gulping her down.
Mara starts to cum. She’s clutching the back of my head, pushing my mouth harder against her breast, slamming her pussy down on my cock.
I swallow her breasts. When I’m full to the brim, I explode inside of her.
Sometime later, we’re still sitting on the couch in the same position. Mara’s head rests on my shoulder. I’m trailing my fingertips lightly up and down her spine.
I can tell she likes it—her body is heavy and sleepy, her soft sighs tickling my ear.
I’m not thinking about that. I’m focusing on the feeling of her skin beneath my fingertips. Her warmth and her softness.
When Mara finally lifts her head and sits back on my thighs, the silver rings on her chest glint in the moonlight. We’ve yet to turn on any lamps. Stars reflect on the glassy ocean below us, like half have fallen down into the water.
I say, “Those rings are the only useful thing Shaw has ever done.”
Mara’s mouth falls open, letting out an outraged laugh.
“That’s so fucked up!” she cries.
“Oh shut up,” I say. “You like them too.”
Mara smacks me hard on the shoulder, unable to hide that I’m right.
“Why is that?” I ask her.
She considers.
“They suit me. I like the way they feel. And in a strange way, as awful as that night was, it brought me to you. The value in horrible things is what you make of them. As long as you’re alive, you can still turn shit into gold.”
“You’re glad you’re here?” I ask her, my eyes intently fixed on her face. Wanting to know the truth, whatever she might say.
“Yes,” Mara says softly, without hesitation.
“Why?”
I’m thinking it’s what I bring her: the money, the clothes, the connections, the orgasms.
Mara grins. “I told you. It’s interesting. And I hate being bored.”
“Me too,” I say, just as passionate on this topic as Mara. “I really fucking hate it.”
3
Mara
When I first came to Cole’s house, I thought our confrontation with Shaw was imminent.
Instead, Cole sucks me into a cycle of long bouts of labor on our respective work, hedonistic meals to recover, and wild, experimental sex.
Cole meant what he said, that he would always be with me, always by my side. He even breaks his own routine of working in his private studio, joining the rest of us plebs in the shared building.
With all his designs and materials filling the largest studio at the end of the hall, we’re never further than a few doors down from each other.
This is to protect me from Shaw, but also to satisfy Cole’s obsessive need to know where I am and what I’m doing every moment.
It should feel suffocating, but it doesn’t. Probably because Cole is not trying to interfere with what I want to do. Quite the opposite. He wants to help me so he can increase my reliance on him.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s going to pull the rug out from under me. Will he suddenly become violent and cruel when he thinks he has me trapped?
It’s hard to believe he could still be tricking me, that he has some secret plan. I’ve seen him in too many unguarded moments.
But I may only be fooling myself.
Many people have believed they knew Cole, that he was their friend.
I don’t know if that has ever been true.
He does seem to have some real affection for Sonia. He certainly respects how good she is at her job. She accomplishes her tasks creatively and effectively, without instructions from Cole. As kind as she’s always been to me, she has an edge of ruthlessness when getting things done. I’ve heard her cut the Artists’ Guild panel down to size when they dare oppose what Cole has ordered.
I don’t believe Sonia’s warmness to me is only because Cole expects it. She regularly comes to see my work, seeming to feel real pleasure when I’m invited to participate in another show, or when another painting sells.
On one of the last weeks of November, she comes to my doorway, carrying two mugs of tea.
Sonia doesn’t ferry tea for anyone, not even herself—that’s Janice’s job. So I know she’s here for a reason.
“Cream and sweetener, right?” she says, pressing a mug into my hand.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully.
As much as I love all the bare glass in my studio, it’s difficult to keep the space warm. Even with an oversized cardigan and fingerless gloves, I’m still chilly. The air lies heavy and wet outside my window, opaque as milk. Trails of condensation run down the glass like tears.
“Cole told me he’s been working on a design for Corona Heights Park,” Sonia says.
“He has a few ideas. I don’t think he knows which he wants to submit.”
I sip the tea, which is deeply steeped and just the right temperature.