Megan Hart - Switch

with a flip-top cap, but his had a squirt top, and he

with a flip-top cap, but his had a squirt top, and he

sprayed his hands and cock liberaly before tucking it back

under his pilow.

I didn't laugh because this was funny, but because this

secret glimpse into his private sex life was so adorable,

and told me a lot. He jerked off a lot and didn't bring

women home to sleep over very often—people who

shared their beds frequently didn't keep their sex supplies

under the pilow. My earlier assessment had been right.

People and cars passed on the street below, but I didn't let

that distract me from the show across the way. I heard the

squeal of tires and rumble of an occasional engine as wel

as the hum of the parking-garage elevator, but nobody

arrived or left on this level. Tucked against the concrete

pilar with the wal in front of me and the night wind

occasionaly blowing the scent of the river over me, I

immersed myself in what he was doing and wished I were

with him.

I pressed my thighs together against the ache of arousal as

I watched Eric stroking himself. Slow, then faster. I

watched his prick disappear inside his curled fingers,

watched how he added an extra stroke around the head

and how he dipped lower every couple of strokes to give

and how he dipped lower every couple of strokes to give

his bals some attention, too. I watched, and I thought of

how I could get the chance to show him what I'd learned.

I couldn't hear him, but I could see his mouth open and

watch his face contort with pleasure. His fist pumped

faster, slick with lube, and his hips rose and fel to meet

every stroke. If I were on top of him now, he'd be pushing

deep inside me and my clit would be hitting his bely with

every thrust. My cunt clenched as I watched, my clit hard

and begging for more than the press of my panties against

it. But I didn't touch myself. My fingers gripped the

concrete, the pebbly surface biting into my fingertips and

keeping me centered. Reminding me I was not in any place

where I could risk shoving a hand down my pants and

jiling off. I was risking enough standing here and watching.

My body might crave the same sort of release Eric was

giving himself, but my brain wouldn't alow me to act on it.

Later, I promised myself grimly as sweat lined my hairline

and trickled down my spine, tickling like a tongue. Just a

few more minutes and he'd be done, and I'd go home and

finish this.

I licked salt from my upper lip and imagined it as the taste

of him. My cunt clutched again empty, and I squeezed my

of him. My cunt clutched again empty, and I squeezed my

thigh muscles. God, it felt so good I did it again. And

again.

I watched him as he came, jetting his desire al over his

flat, taut bely, and I came, too, without ever having

touched myself. I coughed on the moist river breeze and

scent of exhaust as pleasure ripped through me. My pussy

spasmed, but I held stil and quiet as the door from the

stairs opened and a laughing couple came out and headed

for their car.

I couldn't duck and couldn't hide, so I pretended to be

talking on my cel phone, leaning casualy against the hood

of a car I didn't own. Orgasm stil rippled through me as I

lifted a hand to wave in response to their casual greeting,

and I thanked the gods of kink I hadn't given in to ful-out

wanking in public.

They didn't even look toward the Manor, but I did. Eric

had falen back into his pilows, his chest rising and faling

and a hand flung over his eyes. I'd already put his number

in my phone, and now I entered a rapid text message.

Very nice.

Half a minute later his head turned toward the nightstand,

and he roled to his side to flip open his phone. He read

the message and looked at the window. He got off the bed

and stood at the window for a few seconds, his hand on

the curtain.

I thought he mouthed "thank you," but then he puled the

curtain before I could be sure.

Chapter 22

It had begun.

I'd thought I'd known what it was to crave the discipline of

an anonymous master who understood just what I needed

and how to give it to me. With one short letter, one shorter

text message, I'd become Pink Floyd. Dark side of the

moon. I'd ventured into the unknown.

But was it, realy?

In al my life, what had I craved more than anything?

Control. Of my life, of my emotions. Of whatever situation

I'd found myself in. The need for it was a weight I'd known

a long time without acknowledging. It had been a huge

part of the reason my marriage had ended, and even

admitting it hadn't done much to change me.

Giving up some smal measure of that control had been a

relief. It had lifted the weight for a little while. Made it a

little easier to bear, anyway. Because in the end, what had

I learned but that I didn't want to give it up. I only wanted

to learn how to use it, that desire.

After watching Eric make himself come, I went straight to

my apartment. I sat at my table, desire an unrelenting ache

in my bely. I opened the lid of my satin box and puled out

a sheet of the fine paper. I let it slide through my fingers. I

put it to my face and smeled it, that inexplicably delightful

scent of fresh paper.

Miriam had been right about my need for this paper, how

if I bought it I'd find something important to write on it.

She'd been right, too, about the pen. The writing

instrument, I reminded myself with a smile. I wasn't a

surgeon or even an artist, but that pen was perfect for this.

Its weight shifted just right in my fingers as I put it to the

paper. The ink scroled every stroke without blots or skids

or spots left blank. Now I only had to find the perfect

words to write.

I knew I should do what my high school English teacher

had caled a "sloppy copy." None of the letters that had

passed through me first had contained scratch-outs or

misspelings. They hadn't exactly been poetry, but they had

been neat and clean. My pen hovered over the paper as I

thought of what I needed and wanted to say.

I was working too hard on it, overthinking. The sense of

I was working too hard on it, overthinking. The sense of

responsibility had pushed back even my arousal. I'd

actualy bitten down on my lower lip hard enough to sting

as I thought.

I put down the pen and pushed back in my chair. I got up

and poured myself a glass of orange juice that I sipped as I

leaned against my counter and stared at the paper and pen

on the table.

One thing I knew that Eric's previous unseen mistress had

never seemed to grasp. He had a sense of humor about al

this. It might also satisfy him sexualy, and he might crave

the hand of command as much as I briefly had, but in the

end, he was no leather-masked pussy boy slavering to lick

a woman's boots. He was not a cliché, and I couldn't

make this one. I wouldn't. It was already more than that,

to me, and had been from the first moment I'd taken the

words meant for him as my own.

Juice finished, I paced. The first note had been easy,

written on a whim. The second hadn't been much harder.

Now, though, now…I wanted so much for it to be perfect

I was paralyzing myself. In the end, I thought of his sense

of humor and the list he'd written. I took my pen, and I put

it to the paper.

it to the paper.

Have tacos for dinner.

"Paige!"

I'm not the blushing sort, but heat flooded me when I

turned and saw Eric waving at me from the elevator. I

paused at the Manor's big glass front doors to hold one

open for him, and he folowed me out into the spring-

breezy morning. "Hi, Eric."

"Going for a jog?" He wore black track pants and a tight

black T-shirt that showed off his biceps.

I looked down at my sneakers and workout clothes, then

up at him with a grin. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

"I guessed wrong?" He put a hand over his heart and

staggered a step. "Don't tel me you're going to the

Embassy Bal."

"Nope. But I don't jog. I can manage a fast walk, though,

if you're up for it."

"Fast walk it is," he said agreeably.

"I don't want to hold you back." I faked adjusting the tie at my waist to give my hands something to do while I

watched his reaction.

He didn't give me much of one, just a shrug and an easy

smile that lit his dark eyes. "Nah. I used to run a lot, but it's hard on the knees. A fast walk can give you a good

workout too without being so tough on the joints. I see a

lot of injuries from people pushing too hard. I don't want

that to be me."

We crossed Front Street to the sidewalk just beyond. The

Susquehanna River was running high with the last of the

winter's melt and a few days of rain. It sweled, greenish

brown, high up the concrete steps that had been set into

the bank. Halfway across on City Island, I saw the bright

red-and-white stripes of the bathhouse awnings at the

public swimming beach. I'd dip a foot in that water.

Maybe. But there was no way I'd ever swim in it.

"Left or right?" Eric said as he stretched one long leg, then the other.

Left would take us toward downtown and eventualy, the

highway, but we could walk down along the river if we

wanted instead of up here. Right would take us past

residential neighborhoods and the line of mansions that had

once been private homes but now mostly housed offices.

Oh, and the Governor's Mansion, which for some reason

never failed to fascinate me. I guess it was because such

an important building seemed out of place right out there in

the open, where anyone could stand in front of the fence

and look in. I felt the same way about the White House the

one time I'd been to D.C.

"Right." I nodded that way and watched him stretch. I

made an effort at doing the same, but since I never

stretched before any workout, it was half-assed.

Eric eyed me with a grin but made no comment. "Ready?"

"Sure."

There had been a heyday of walking when I was around

eight or nine. We'd been living in a cluster of trailers, too

few to realy be caled a park, with my mother's then

boyfriend, Bob. My mom had been laid off from her job in

the packing department at the Hershey factory, and for the

first time I could ever remember she'd formed a group of

girlfriends who did the sorts of things moms did on

television. Lunches where they dished over their men, and

television. Lunches where they dished over their men, and

trips to the mal where they walked and shopped but

hardly ever bought anything. Though my mom had never

carried an extra pound and wouldn't until after she had

Arty, they'd formed a group to walk around the

neighborhood to help get in shape. It was more an excuse

to get away from us ever-present kids as they gossiped,

but I'd often watched them from the concrete front porch

as they passed by on their rounds and wondered what

made them laugh so loud.

There was no laughing as Eric and I walked. I'd set the

initial pace, but his legs were much longer and we ended

up walking faster than I usualy did. Pride kept me from

asking him to slow, and I didn't have breath left for chatter.

We passed office buildings and finaly, Green Street,

where Harrisburg went from city to neighborhood most

drasticaly. We passed bikes and other joggers, most

heading the opposite direction. I was glad for the pace that

made talk impossible. Eric didn't seem the chatty type,

anyway. Arms swinging, he didn't walk so much as lope

along the sidewalk.

Somehow I didn't care about the sweat ringing my armpits