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she knows why. I stand behind her, untie the sash and her robe falls to the floor.
It s soft and cool on my feet. She is soft and cool on my mouth.
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I kiss and lick at her neck. She shivers and her goose bumps tickle my lips.
They cling to my tongue like Velcro. We are one thing.
 I ll be gentle, I promise.
 No you won t, she replies.
Damn it, Dahlia. You presume too much. You believe you can turn me into the
writer that Richard was, but you re wrong. You think you can turn me into the monster
that David was, but that s never going to happen. I will be gentle, gentler than you could
ever imagine.
I put my hands on her shoulders.  Kneel.
From my standpoint it isn t a command or a request, merely an
acknowledgment of what s going to happen next. But nothing is ever that simple
with Dahlia. I press down on her shoulders not hard enough to force her to the
floor, just hard enough to let her pretend she is being forced.
She kneels, knees slightly spread, her head hung low. She is ever so
submissive, so much the innocent by-stander. She has memorized her role, but I
have given mine a great deal of thought as well.
I push her hair over her shoulder. I want her back laid bare. I begin at the
base of her neck and delicately kiss and lick each vertebra. I slide my fingers over
her breasts and across her stomach.
My touch is so light that it barely qualifies as a touch. It s a rumor of a
caress, hovering on a not-too-distant horizon.
By the time I reach the small of her back my fingers are dancing up and
down her thighs. She can t even see the paintings, she is lost in the moment and
the moment will last forever.
My right hand finds her pussy. My finger slides up and down the slit. It s
a delightful, tactile dichotomy. Her pussy is soft and smooth on my fingertip.
Her pubic hairs are coarse and rough.
I cover her ass with dozens of kisses, each more passionate than the last. I
purse my lips and send a stream of air racing down her crack, and watch her skin
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roll like ripples across a pond. I have always been hers; now she is mine. She is a
leaf, lush and green. I am the gentle breeze that makes it quiver and come alive.
I run my tongue across the small dimple at the base of her spine and move
down her ass, burying my face deeper as I go. I was a little concerned about the
taste, but I needn t be. There s not a single part of her that doesn t taste as sweet
as absinthe.
My finger spins around her swollen clit, rubs back and forth across it and
slides in and out of her pussy. It s almost more than she can handle. It s ecstasy
in two-part harmony. My tongue is matching my finger . . . touch for touch,
stroke for stroke, penetration for penetration. She s trapped between my tongue
and finger.
She s getting close and I want her to be very close before we proceed to
the main event. I need to give her a good head start, because I ve been on the
edge since the word sodomy spilled from between her thick, red lips.
I pull my face away and slide my cock between her ass cheeks. There s not
the slightest suggestion of resistance. She s never been readier. I slip inside her;
slowly and not too deep. I promised to be gentle, and I am, for the first few
strokes. After that I can t afford to be. She s too close. I must bring her back.
I grab the back of her neck and shove her face to the floor. I need to get the
best possible angle, and she accommodates me by arching her back to raise her
ass even higher. I slam into her, deep and hard, over and over until the pain
brings her back to me.
She is mine. I have her right where I want, perched on the precipice. I can
keep her there for as long as I choose.
 Look at me, I plead.
She twists her shoulders and looks back. I stare deep into her clear, green
eyes and watch her cycle through the sensations; short, gentle strokes that drive
her to the edge, hard, deep ones that bring her back.
She could go on forever, but I can t. I was nearly finished before we ever
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started. I slow my pace and bring her to the edge once again. This time I don t
pull her back. I wait for her body to quake and convulse with relief so long
awaited.
I slide deeper and deeper until I am all the way inside her. There s no
need for me to move.
She s quivering like a road sign in a wind storm. It only takes a few
moments for her orgasm to give birth to mine.
We are spent; there s nothing left. Kneeling requires too much effort. We
collapse to the floor and I slip out of her. She rolls onto her side and lays her
head on my chest.
 Oh my God, Stephen, she whispers.  Oh my God.
It s a pleasant, placid aftermath to our passion. I enjoy holding her like
this, but I do notice she hasn t looked me in the eyes since we finished. Is she too
embarrassed, or does she think that I will be? I m not, you know. Not even a
little.
She brings my hand to her face and showers it with kisses.
 You have magical fingers, she tells me.
I feel her body go limp and she seems to fall asleep with my fingers
pressed against her lips. But I don t think she ever sleeps . . . not really. I think
she pretends to so that I will. Right now, I think she s pretending to because she
doesn t want to kiss me. I don t really blame her.
* * * * *
Grandfather arrives on the fourth day. It s a little past two when he rings
the doorbell, and we re still in our robes when we answer the door.
 Good morning, he says.  I didn t mean to wake you.
There s not a trace of sarcasm in his voice; he s very good at hiding his
emotions. She smiles and invites him in, which is good, because I might not have.
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Absinthe Eyes and Other Lies
I love him, but he doesn t belong here.
This is my world. She is my world.
He s angry. If I m not doing my job someone else is. He s right; it s not fair
to the rest of the family, but there s nothing I can do about that. I don t exist in
the same world anymore, but I don t have the heart to tell him that; and I don t
know how. But she does.
She takes him by the hand, leads him out to the patio and slides the door
behind her.
How rude. How curious. I can t hear them, but I can read them. He s still
angry, but it s a waste of time. It s a mouse roaring at a lion. He s afraid of her
and I m dumbfounded. I ve known him my entire life. I ve never seen him be
afraid of anyone . . . except, perhaps, Grandmother, God rest her soul.
Dahlia isn t doing anything to be intimidating, and she can be when she
chooses to. She s meeker and more submissive with him than she has ever been
with me, and still he s afraid of her. I study them and ponder the conundrum. I
nod and smile with sudden understanding. She s got something on him. She
knows something he doesn t want anyone to know. I m curious and getting more
so by the minute.
They come back inside and he s had a change of heart. He tells me that
he s glad I ve found someone; I m sure he means it. He pats me on the back and
tells me to write a novel that will make the family proud. Oh, please. What
nonsense has she been telling him? I m not going to write a novel. Not for the
family, not even for her. I ve made my mind up. In the back of that mind I hear a
faceless voice whisper,  You keep telling yourself that.
There s a pitcher of absinthe on the table; there always is. I offer him a
glass, but he holds his hands up in front of him and takes two steps back. I never
ceased to be amazed. He s so scared of her that it looks like he s afraid of the
absinthe. He can t wait to get out of here and I don t try to stop him. He doesn t
belong here. No one belongs here. It s our place.
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G.R. Bretz
She fires up a joint and hands it to me. I m so glad she waited until he was
gone. He wouldn t get it.
 Your grandfather is a very charming man, she says.
 Yes he is, I agree.  What have you got on him? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]