Fugue 
 
(MF mast rom) 
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com  
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html  
 
 
 
 
She leaned back against the back of the couch, lifting the glass of 
Chardonnay to her lips and taking a sip, watching the pale liquid form 
sheets on the inside of the wineglass. 
 
He leaned back on the hotel bed and reached for his drink, swirling the 
glass, making the ice clink in its bath of mini-bar scotch before taking 
a sip. 
 
The house was quiet without him, she thought.  He always seemed to have 
something on, the radio, the television, even when he brought work home 
from the office.  It was a trait both endearing and annoying, especially 
at night when they'd sit together in bed while he tapped away at his 
laptop with a college basketball game on the television, the sound 
turned low, the roar of the crowd competing with the click of the 
keyboard. 
 
The room felt empty without her, he thought, reaching for the remote and 
hunting for a game, flicking through channels until he found college 
basketball on ESPN.  He thought about how annoyed she looked sometimes, 
watching him divide his attention between a game and whatever he was 
working on.  Paradoxically, it helped him concentrate, it helped him 
think, it kept his mind from straying too far from his work. 
 
I wish I could have gone with him this time, she thought.  It wasn't the 
first time he had to travel across the country for a week, and it 
certainly wouldn't be the last.  But this was a special week for them, 
with both their anniversary and Valentine's Day falling within this span 
of days.  She'd traveled with him before, paying her own way, 
sightseeing and shopping while he sat in conference rooms and offices, 
but money was tight after she was "downsized" from her job.  Besides, 
she had two interviews scheduled, and they'd both agreed that they were 
important enough for her to stay in town while he was gone. 
 
I wish she could have come with me, he thought.  He enjoyed taking her 
along on his trips, coming back to the hotel to see the things she'd 
bought, to hear about the sights she saw.  It was difficult to be so far 
from her, especially on this special week, a week he always looked 
forward to.  A nice dinner out for their anniversary, the look on her 
face when he brought her flowers or a special gift, the taste of wine on 
her lips when they kissed in a candlelit bedroom, the way their bodies 
fit together afterwards.  He knew that she had to stay in town, though; 
she needed to find herself another job if only to escape the current 
emptiness of her days. 
 
She took another sip of her wine and put her feet up on the coffee 
table, closing her eyes as she wondered what he was doing right now.  
Probably still at dinner with his business associates, or maybe back in 
his room, listening to a game on the television while he tapped away at 
his laptop.  She thought about calling him again, but they'd already 
spoken twice that day, once before breakfast, and again after he'd gone 
to lunch.  The morning conversation bordered on phone sex, something she 
always felt was so tawdry, but she couldn't help herself.  She must have 
dreamed about him, though the phone's ringing had pushed the memory of 
the dream from her mind, leaving her with just a pang of disappointment 
when she realized that he wasn't in bed with her. 
 
He took another sip of his scotch and kicked off his shoes, closing his 
eyes as he wondered what she was doing right now.  Probably just 
starting dinner, or maybe puttering around the house, cleaning out a 
closet or painting the bathroom to match the new tiles they'd had 
installed.  He thought about calling her again, but they'd already 
spoken twice that day, once that morning when he woke her up, and again 
after lunch, when she'd called him on his cell.  That first conversation 
had made it hard to concentrate during the morning round of meetings.  
She said that she'd dreamed about him, but what really got him going 
wasn't what she said, it was the way she said it, in that slow, husky, 
morning voice of hers.  It was all he could do to keep himself from 
changing his ticket and flying home that day. 
 
She remembered how she'd greeted him at the door when he came home after 
his last trip, in just a pair of heels and a smile.  He'd dropped his 
bags and held her, their lips pressing together, his tongue finding 
hers.  As they kissed, she could feel him growing hard inside his 
trousers, pressing against her thighs as her pebbly nipples rubbed 
against his Burberry trenchcoat.  She had taken his hand and led him to 
their bedroom as he undressed along the way, leaving a trail of 
discarded clothes that led from the front door to their bed.  She'd lit 
dozens of candles, and as she lay back on their bed she watched his 
flickering shadow on the wall as he yanked off the rest of his suit. 
 
He remembered how she'd greeted him at the door after his last trip, 
naked except for her high heels, her smile lighting up the room.  He 
dropped his bags and held her, his hands running over her soft skin as 
they kissed, pulling her closer, pressing her against his hardness.  He 
couldn't get undressed fast enough, and he could have easily taken her 
on the polished wood floor of their foyer, but she had led him to their 
bedroom while he wrestled off his clothes, a hundred candles flickering 
around their room.  She laid back on the bed and watched him undress, 
the light of the candles reflected in her big brown eyes. 
 
It was making her horny, thinking about that night, how he'd entered 
her, pressing his body against hers as he began to thrust, feeling his 
hips move against hers, his lips on her nipples, his hands on her waist.  
She'd daubed a bit of Austrian dessert wine on her areolae, just enough 
to make them taste sweet without making them too sticky, and the look on 
his face as he tasted them was priceless.  He licked and suckled them 
greedily, his hips moving faster, filling her, pleasing her, loving her.  
She reached for her wine glass and dipped a finger in the Chardonnay, 
opening the top of her robe and circling her nipple with the moist 
fingertip, feeling it stiffen against the chilled liquid. 
 
It was making him horny, thinking about that night, how he knelt between 
her creamy thighs, pressing his hardness inside her and then stretching 
out on top of her body.  Her nipples felt funny against his chest, just 
a bit sticky, and as he began to thrust inside her he'd leaned his head 
and took one between his lips.  The sweetness surprised him, made him 
wonder what she'd done, but then he saw the bottle of wine on the night 
table, that sweet Austrian white that she loved to sip with a plate of 
fresh strawberries.  Despite the scotch he'd been drinking, he could 
still taste the wine, and he felt himself harden in his trousers. 
 
She traced the lower curve of her breast with a wine-moistened 
fingertip, wishing it could be his hand on her instead of her own.  She 
missed his gentle touch most of all, the way he worshipped her body, 
sculpting her curves and hollows with his fingers, softly kissing her in 
all the right places.  Opening her robe the rest of the way, she ran her 
hands over her breasts, the gentle swell of her belly, down her hips, 
along her thighs. 
 
He squeezed himself through his trousers, wishing it could be her hand 
instead of his own.  He missed her gentle touch most of all, the way she 
loved to please him, sliding down his body, her breasts pressing against 
his thighs as she gently stroked his hardness, softly kissing the tip.  
Loosening his trousers, he reached into his boxers, wrapping his fingers 
around his shaft. 
 
I'm so wet for him, she thought as she dipped a finger in her sex.  She 
teased herself, bringing her nectar up to her pearl and circling it, 
trying carefully to avoid touching it directly.  She placed her other 
hand on her breast, cupping it, squeezing it, feeling the tension in her 
belly begin to grow. 
 
I'm so hard for her, he thought as he felt his member.  He teased 
himself, squeezing his shaft, trying to resist the compulsion to stroke 
himself.  Pulling off his trousers and boxers, he placed his other hand 
on his sac, cupping it, fondling it, feeling the tension in his loins 
begin to grow. 
 
She held off as long as she could, resisting the urge to touch her 
button until the tension became excruciating.  When her fingertip made 
its first contact it felt like an electric charge arcing from her 
clitoris, through her belly, down her thighs and up her spine.  She 
squeezed her breast again and began to move her hips, rocking them back 
and forth as if he was actually inside her. 
 
He held off as long as he could, resisting the urge to stroke his 
hardness until the tension became almost painful.  When his fingers 
began to glide along his shaft, it felt like an electric charge surging 
through his groin, making his thighs tense and his stomach muscles 
tighten.  He squeezed his scrotum again and began to move his hips, 
rocking them back and forth as if he was actually inside her. 
 
She brought her hand from her breasts to her sex, dipping a finger 
inside her cleft as she rubbed her button with her other hand, looking 
down over her heaving breasts before closing her eyes.  A finger was a 
poor substitute for his beautiful manhood, but he was three thousand 
miles away. 
 
He brought other hand up to his shaft, circling the base with his 
fingers and holding his skin taut as he stroked himself.  He looked down 
between his legs before closing his eyes.  A hand was a poor substitute 
for her lovely sex, but she was three thousand miles away. 
 
As she pleasured herself she brought up her favorite memory, from the 
week they'd spent at that rented cabin by the lake, laying together on a 
lumpy mattress, making the creaky old bed squeak with their lovemaking.  
He'd kept her in a state of constant arousal, unable to keep his hands 
off her, taking her wherever they happened to be at the time, in the 
woods, on the porch, in the kitchen, by the fireplace.  Behind closed 
eyelids, she saw him kneeling between her thighs, feeling his breath on 
her sex, the touch of his tongue. 
 
As he pleasured himself, he recalled that week they had spent at the 
cabin by the lake, lying together on that old brass bed, almost hearing 
the bedsprings complain about their coupling.  She'd kept him constantly 
horny, wearing next to nothing, always rubbing against him, and he 
couldn't keep his hands off of her, making love with her everywhere, 
beneath the trees, on the floor, even on the kitchen table.  In his 
mind's eye he could see her kneeling between his legs, feeling her warm 
breath on his hardness, her lips on his shaft. 
 
It never failed to bring her to her release, that memory of their week 
alone together.  Her hands were moving quickly now, one worrying her 
swollen pearl while the other plunged in and out of her passage.  Her 
hips were moving quickly as well, as if she were meeting his thrusts, 
urging him to take her faster, deeper.  The kernel of pleasure inside 
her began to grow, spreading through her body, making her toes curl and 
the skin above her breasts flush.  She leaned her head back on the couch 
and called his name as she climaxed, saying it again and again as she 
shuddered on the plush cushions. 
 
It never failed to make him come, the memory of that week at the lake.  
His hand was moving quickly now, gliding up and down over his shaft as 
he circled the base with the fingers of his other hand.  His hips were 
rocking quickly as well, as if he were thrusting inside her, plumbing 
the depths of her sex with his hardness, taking her faster, deeper.  
That familiar feeling began to grow between his legs, spreading down his 
thighs, making them tense with each stroke of his hand.  He leaned his 
head back against the pillow and whispered her name as he let go, 
whispering it again as he released his seed, feeling the warm, sticky 
fluid dripping between his fingers. 
 
She brought the hem of her robe up between her legs, using the plush 
terrycloth to blot her moist sex.  Taking another sip of her wine, she 
closed her eyes and relaxed. 
 
He reached for the box of tissues on the table next to the bed, cleaning 
up the sticky mess between his legs.  Taking another sip of scotch, he 
unbuttoned his shirt and sat down on the bed. 
 
She opened her eyes and looked at the phone, debating whether she should 
call him or not.  She decided to call.  He'd understand.  He knew how 
much she missed him when he was away.  She lifted the receiver and began 
to dial his number. 
 
He put down his scotch and looked at the phone, wondering if he should 
call now or wait until he was sure she was done with dinner.  He did a 
quick mental calculation of time zones and decided that she probably 
hadn't sat down to eat yet.  The line was busy, and as he was putting 
down the phone his cell began to chirp its ring tone, the first few 
notes of Bach's "Art of the Fugue". 
 
 
                                  * * *  
  
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com  
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html