Bestowal

I'm having a dream in which a beautiful woman is cuddled against me and stroking my manliness, and then I awaken enough to realize that it's not a dream, Christie is beside me, holding me. I know I'm fully erect, and Christie pushes me back and straddles me, mounts me. I'm fully inside her, and when I press a palm to her breast, she clasps it, cherishing the caress. Quickly she's moaning in her sudden climax, and just as quickly I'm coming, my juices mingling with hers. Without words, she understands my needs and presses her pelvic bone hard against mine, allowing for the ultimate fury. She controls the motion, and I allow her to dominate the act of love. Even after I finish, she continues to gyrate in orgasm, and I hold the wisp of a waist, helping her to move, to inflame.

When the passion is consummated, she simply leans forward, her chest on mine, and we snuggle. I feel our pounding heartbeats calm, and soon I hear the soft sounds of her heavy breathing indicating her loss of consciousness, and minutes before I, too, drift off I feel my softness slip from her silky passage.

The sunlight streams through the window as I rouse, and the first vision I have is of Christie's sapphire eyes looking at me, watching me awaken. Her smile immediately brightens my day, and I hear her say, "I couldn't stop myself. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," I say, and mean, and I clutch her to me, sensing our flesh converge. For an hour or more we make love in spurts, first I on top of her, then again, she on top of me, then hunger and thirst drive us to the kitchen, and she sits on my lap, feeding me fruits, sucking juices from my mouth with her kisses. She pulls me to the couch, and again we share our bodies.

Afterwards, we discern that the day is passing and we need to pack for the trip home. And it is at that point, when we are showered and clothes again hide our beautiful bodies from each other's stare, that shyness begins to settle in. Christie is more subdued now, less likely to embrace or caress me.

On the drive to the airport, she smiles at me as if recollecting the passion, but the intimacy we shared for a few wondrous hours dissipates. On the flight to Atlanta she sits beside me yet few words pass between us.

As we wait for the plane to depart Hartfield, she sighs heavily and confesses, "We shouldn't have done that. It was my fault, of course, I never should have let it go so far. I wonder what will happen when Jake finds out?"

"You're not going to tell him, are you?"

"I have to," she seriously declares, "it wouldn't be fair to him not to know what I've done."

"But . . ." I start, then stop. I want to tell her not to, I want to explain it's not necessary, and I want to ask her to leave Jake, to come with me. But I haven't the nerve to ask for even the smallest boon.

We're separated on the full flight, she sitting in the front rows, I near the back pressed against a window, watching the evening gloaming from thirty-five thousand feet, wondering just how my life has changed. When the aircraft approaches the jetway and the two bells alarm us to the arrival, I barely glimpse the blonde ponytail depart long moments before my chance looms.

When at last I'm freed from the tunnel, I lumber through the terminal. Occasionally I spy Christie through the crowd, her hair swishing first left, then right, her rump following suit. She's nearly jogging, and I know there's no chance I'll catch her in the crowd. I lose her as she passes the metal detectors and I trail her down the escalators to the baggage claim. And then I see her, poised next to my best friend, perhaps my newest enemy. Christie droops her head in shame, and Jake grimaces. I realize that he now knows of the treachery.

He catches my approach, points his finger at me and crooks it, bidding me to approach. As I gravely draw near, ready to confess my sins, I'm shocked to detect the silver tones of Christie's giggles and Jake's joyful cry of, "Happy Birthday, Bud!"