West of Boston: Runner

This story is part of a collection, "West of Boston." The stories can be read in any order.

For Michelle, who helps this breathe

Sometimes she crawls to him on all fours the length of the living room. She appears in a black merry widow, as stark black as her hair. Her breasts are pressed up and threaten to jiggle free. Her skin is pure alabaster against the tight, black fabric. She always smiles, full of joy and lust. Her ponytail curves on her back and falls over one shoulder.

When she reaches him she rises to her knees, black eyes sparkling with sex. She grasps his hard cock. He takes her face between his hands and lowers her mouth onto him, soft wetness enveloping his length. Holding her head, he slides her mouth on him, slowly fucking her face.

Just before he comes, he lifts her and cradles her in his arms then lays her on pure white sheets. She is spread before him, and he binds her with soft cuffs to the four corners of the bed. The trimmed black hair at her loins and the pink wetness of her swollen sex lies open for him. He lowers himself between her legs and plunges into her. Once again there is blackness, her sudden depths, infinite fulfillment. She smiles still, even as he penetrates her over and over, even as he probes her mouth with his tongue. and she struggles to move.

After such wildness, he would waken, breathing hard with exertion, the sheen of sweat on him, his cock still throbbing and his come already chilling on his clothes and in the hollow where his groin joins his leg. Sometimes it would be easier to sleep afterward. But usually he would watch the room take slow shape in the dawn while he imagined her as he usually did, ahead of him on the road, running with her strong kick and graceful stride, her woman hips as vivid as in his dream. Every day he ran, not because of her, but hoping to see her.

She was a good runner. Each time she overtook him she said "G'mornin,' Morgan" as she passed. She had a natural stride, practiced and easy like an athlete who trains often. He enjoyed watching her black ponytail bounce back and forth against her neck. Often, he quickened his pace so he could enjoy for as long as possible her long legs and the way the perfect split beneath her black nylon shorts was revealed at each stride. She always pulled away from him easily, probably unaware he had even sped up. He was past the point of running for speed. Eight minute miles were just fine. So every day he put in his three or five miles, and on many days she passed him.

He had tried to remember the first time he saw her. It wouldn't come to mind, but the first time they spoke was clear enough. He had been signing runners up for a 10k charity event, and he spoke with her beside the road while she was stretching a tired muscle. He'd told her his name was Morgan and asked if she'd like to run in the event, set for Sunday in Fleming, three towns over.

He'd been watching her as she ran since the first time he'd seen her, but he only noticed her eyes when he met her, deep black pools that didn't know to look somewhere else. Her look felt like a sad kiss. She was maybe 5'8" and slender from activity, not diet. She said she was interested in the race but would need to check on transportation.

"There are three more going from town, and I'm taking my SUV," he said. "You're welcome to ride along."

He saw her dark eyes cloud with confusion. "I wouldn't want to intrude," she said, but when he insisted, she accepted. He told her how to get to his place. On the ride, both up and back, she was shy, uncertain. She couldn't figure out where to sit in the car, and he invited her next to him, selfishly, because she was more than pleasant and very nice to look at. At the race, she won the women's division. On the way back, they stopped at a pub to eat; she couldn't decide what to order. He recommended a pasta and shrimp alfredo dish. She looked at him as she ordered it. He knew her name, but he had no need for it; every time he wanted to speak to her, her eyes were on him, dark and sad and trying to see something inside of him. It was on that trip he started to call her 'Runner,' an effort at first to relax her, but she seemed to like it.

Not long after, on a summer night at a lakeside restaurant, he saw her across the room at a table with a man. The man was studying the menu intently; she seemed distracted and was looking about the room. She noticed him and smiled, so he went to say hello. "Hi, Runner," he said.

She smiled. "I like my nickname."

The man's name was Fred, and he was her husband. Morgan chatted with her about their running schedule, his most recent injury, the beauty of the lake. Their waiter came, and he began to leave. She said: "Please stay, if you want."

She ordered, again a pasta and shrimp dish and, when she finished, smiled up at Morgan as if she were sharing a secret. Fred's head was still buried in the menu: "I'm just not sure. What do you think?" he asked her. She said he'd like the cod and he ordered that. When the waiter left, Morgan asked Fred if he ran, not wanting to leave him out.

"No, not really," he said, looking to her to explain. "Fred prefers to support the rest of us," she said, never taking her eyes from Morgan's. He returned to his friends and their table, but throughout dinner he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She looked his way frequently and Fred talked earnestly. She didn't say much.

Morgan recalled the two meetings because of the difference in her behavior, from shy and uncertain the first time to assertive and restless the next. He found her charming in both guises but wondered what it was that made her change so much. He had gotten into the habit of thinking of her as 'Runner,' and so never thought of her by name.

He recalled speaking with her other times but not what was said, though once she touched his arm as they parted, a very womanly and non-athletic touch. He remembered how cool her touch had been. Since then, whenever they made eye contact it was more familiar and intimate than he would have expected. He felt she was looking for something in him. He wondered if he had what she needed. He felt protective, and he felt the interest of his heart and sex pique each time he saw her.

On a beautiful afternoon, after she passed him and dwindled in the distance, he watched her disappear into the high school parking lot. Either she would make the loop and return, passing him going the opposite direction, or she would stop in the grass beside the turnaround and use the parking bumpers for one last stretch. When she didn't come out in a few seconds, he picked up his pace so he might talk with her again.

She was still stretching when he got to her. "Hi, Runner," he said. "Oh, hi, Morgan," she said. Her smile was missing. As they talked, she was even more quiet than usual, and when she stood up, he saw a worried look. He asked if he could help.

"I don't know," she said. "I forgot my keys again, and I'm locked out."

"When will Fred be home?"

She sighed. "Not until tomorrow afternoon. A business trip."

"What if I help you force a window?" he asked.

"Alarms everywhere, and I never remember the codes. Double and triple locks. Fred's such a worry wart." She was frustrated.

"I just don't know," she said, sounding confused, "I could call his mother…. He'll be a wreck."

"I have two bedrooms and a guest bath," he said. "Come with me."

"Oh, no, I …." she began to say. Then she looked at him, trying again to see something in him.

"Do you have any reason not to?" he asked.

"Not yet," she smiled.

He held his hands out to her. He was close enough he could touch her. She looked in his eyes.

"Look at my hands," he said. She did and reached out to take them in her own. Her touch was soft and silky.

"These hands will never touch you…" When he paused for emphasis, she looked back to his eyes. "…without your permission." He smiled at her. "C'mon," he said, "we'll eat beside the water and neither of us will be alone.

He turned and began to run off. "But you'll have to run at my pace."

"But I don't have clothes," she said loud enough for him to hear.

He turned but kept going backwards for a few steps: "I'll take care of you."

She ran to catch up.

At his townhouse by the lake, they showered and grilled swordfish with tomato and lemon slices. He made pasta. They ate on the deck and finished a bottle of pinot. He had never seen her with her hair down. Out of the ponytail, it framed her pale face in soft waves of black. Everything he had wanted to ask her was possible. As the shadows grew longer and the mosquitoes began to dance above the water – and bite – they went inside.

They watched a movie, or the movie was on and Runner watched. Morgan sat across the room and his eyes rarely strayed from her. She was dressed in what he had left on the guest bed for her while she showered: a pair of his boxers, and one of his blue dress shirts with a button down collar. He'd also left a pair of shorts, but they were so loose that she had decided the shirt covered enough and she wore it over just the boxers. In the medicine cabinet she found a safety pin and used it to snug the waist of the boxers.

He didn't try to hide his staring, and every few minutes she looked over at him and smiled. Her hair fell softly onto her shoulders, and occasionally a wisp of it would fall across her cheek. She shifted her position on the sofa, her bare foot and leg lying down the length of the sofa and her other leg curled beneath her.

When she felt him still looking at her, she ran her hands over the soft fabric of the shirt. "Very nice," she smiled again.

"I like the way the fabric feels," he said, "but it doesn't look as good on me."

"Thank you," she said, shy but pleased.

"Smile for me," he said. She was suddenly radiant again, her smile not only showing her teeth but the heart that danced in her. He laughed with happiness.

"It's fun to make you happy," she said softly, still smiling. "I like pleasing you."

The windows and sliders to the deck were open and the soft night air caressed them. There was the sound of crickets, a couple of night birds, and far out on the lake the drone of an outboard as a fisherman returned home.

"Doesn't it worry you that people may look in?" she asked.

"No," he said. "But if you're nervous, we can shut them."

"Oh no," she said, "but at home Fred …. well, Fred worries … about everything."

"Poor Fred," he said. "He'll be worried about you.

"You should call him."

"I suppose," she said.

He tossed his cell phone to her underhanded. "If you want privacy," he said, and nodded toward the stairs leading to the guest bedroom, "but you are welcome to stay." She shook her head and dialed.

As she spoke with her husband, she looked at Morgan. She explained where she was staying and left the number with him. She reassured Fred that she was fine and comfortable and there was nothing to worry about. Her eyes twinkled at Morgan, but as the conversation went on she said less, said 'okay' and 'It's okay, Fred' more often, and her smile faded. When she hung up, she put the phone on the sofa by her hip and lowered her head into her folded arms. "Ohhhh, Fred," she said, exasperated.

"He's worried," he said.

"That's his thing," she said.

"You'll be safe here. I would like to take care of you."

She looked at him intently, as if making a decision. "Really?" she said. "Would you?"

She looked out toward the water, a few fireflies lighting and disappearing in the dark.

"I think that's what I want: someone who will take care of me, not someone who will just worry.

"Does that make me weak?" she said.

"I don't think so," he said after a minute. She looked back at him. "I only have the power you give me." She thought but still looked confused.

He stood and walked across the room to where she sat.

"Your trust makes me strong. It doesn't make you weak." She moved her leg to make room next to her. As she did he caught a glimpse of her skin far up the leg of the boxers. The side of the shirt revealed a little of her soft midriff. He grinned. She asked him why.

"I was just thinking of how happy my boxers must be."

She adjusted both her posture and his shorts but laughed with him.

He went back to being serious and looked in her eyes, intent. "You know," he said, "being taken care of means you yield to ideas that aren't your own. The person you accept needs that right."

She nodded, just as serious, and held his eyes again, "Yes. It's possible, and even good to think about … if you believe in his feelings … and if you trust him." She was quiet for a long minute.

"I would like that," she said.

"Well, you think about it," he said, and stood, holding his hand out to her so that she would stand with him. She smelled like musk, like night, like fresh air. He wanted to wrap his fingers in her hair and pull her to him. But he put his hands on her shoulders and gently moved her toward him, then put his arms on her waist and moved his mouth down so it covered hers.

Her kiss was tentative. His was gentle but firm. He held her to him for a long minute, and then he felt her arms go around his neck and he touched her lips with his tongue. At first she did nothing. He touched, first along her upper lip, and then the lower. When the tip of his tongue pressed gently against her mouth, her lips parted and their tongues caressed. The kiss lasted. She began to press her body against his. He put his hand in her black hair and held her head hard against his mouth until they both were panting.

They separated. He saw the lust in her eyes. He knew it was in his. "Think about it," he said again. "I'm going to bed," and he turned and went up the stairs. "Make yourself comfortable," he called back. Still breathing heavily, she watched his back and his strong legs as he turned on the landing and went up to the master bedroom.

In the middle of the night he woke from a dream of her. He was very hard, close to his edge. He carefully did not touch himself. He lay on his back, trying to remove her from his mind so he could go back to sleep. He imagined what she looked like in her sleep.

He dozed off but was suddenly wide awake. He thought he had heard something, like one of the chairs in the kitchen moving. She was up. He got out of bed, padding in his bare feet down the carpeted stairs. Over the railing, he could see her in the kitchen. She was raiding the refrigerator, and one question was answered. She slept nude.

The refrigerator light outlined her so he could dimly see the fullness of her breasts and her flat, taut stomach. Her hair was mussed and fell about her face. He felt his pulse race again and felt his erection return beneath his shorts.

She must have heard him. As she turned toward him and closed the refrigerator door he caught a glimpse of her hips in the light just before it went out.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she said. "I wanted fruit."

"That's fine," he said. The silence held.

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you." He had been walking toward her shape. She was a shadow near the moonlight crossing the floor.

"It's your house," she said. "No reason to apologize." He saw her take a small step closer to him. The dark air filled with sexual tension.

He said: "I'm going to kiss you."

She didn't move. He gripped her wrists and backed her against the wall, spreading her arms out and up against it. He smelled the sweetness in her hair. As their mouths melted together, he heard her groan and felt their chests touch. He could feel the hardness of her nipples and the softness of her breasts. Her skin was warm. Her thigh brushed the thin cotton over his penis. They breathed their sexual rhythms into one another's mouths. He moved his hands down her arms to her ribs and then over her breasts. She kept her arms against the wall. He let his right hand continue until he felt the smoothness of her navel and abdomen. He felt his passion mounting.

"Do you want me to love you," he whispered. He stopped his hand just above her mound.

She was quiet, and then each word she said became a thought: "Yes. Not now. I'm not ready. Yet. Morgan."

He kissed her again on the lips, softly, and turned to leave.

As he mounted the stairs, she said: "I've been awake thinking about what you said."

"I hope you have," he said, and "Good night."

She stood in the dark kitchen, and touched the places where his hands had been tight on her wrists. She touched the place on her lip where his teeth had been.

The next morning they were both in good spirits and wanted to run early, before the rain. It was cloudy and, for late June, cold. They decided they would run their usual routes, though her starting point would be new. She had washed their gear from the day before. After they stretched she ran with him for a quarter mile as part of her warm up and then promised to meet him back at his house. When she picked up her pace, he watched her black ponytail disappear in front of him one more time, but now with more knowledge of what was beneath it.

She was lovely and special. He was sure he was reading her right; when she decided to trust, he wanted to be the one. She wanted someone to direct her, to protect her from herself, and to tell her what was needed, not because she was weak or incompetent but because she was happiest in pleasing. Her desire to please was the way she loved. With her, he would feel the power her trust would give him and the joy of her runner's spirit. He could help her, and he would help her break dangerous habits, like losing keys.

When he came to the road to the high school, she passed him at almost the same spot as yesterday. "I cut some miles out," she said as she passed. "I'll see you at the house," she said over her shoulder. He wanted to call out his desire. He watched her turn as usual into the high school lot. This time she came back on her return lap. She would be at his house and stretched and back inside and in the shower before he got there. He was not surprised. She had his key.

As she ran toward him, he watched her radiant smile, her shining black hair, and the gleam of sweat on her face even with thick clouds and no sun. Her breasts were high and tight, held by a sports bra no doubt, but bounced with each step. She waved to him. He made sure he let his smile show the way he felt.

Even running, the air was raw. It was starting to drizzle and rain. When he reached the drive into the high school, he went around the loop and returned to the road. In the distance he could still see her. She should have been over the hilltop by now, but it didn't look as if she was running. Perhaps she hadn't warmed up enough for the cold day and was stretching a spasm from her leg. He saw her falter and sit backward onto the ground beside the road. He ran faster. Clearly, she was in some sort of trouble.

As he came close, she called out: "Watch for the hole."

He saw what she meant. There was a sharp depression partially full of leaves next to the lightly-traveled road, the sort of thing you could easily break an ankle in. It felt colder, and the rain had picked up. He went to his knees at her side, breathing heavily. "You twisted an ankle in it, huh?"

Her face was screwed with pain, but it wasn't so bad that she was crying. She bit her lower lip and nodded emphatically. Her left leg was out straight, and she held the injured right ankle folded over it, her hands wrapped around it.

"May I see it?" he asked.

She extended her foot to him. The stretch of muscle in her legs made him remember how she looked on his sofa. He was on his knees and placed her foot on his thighs. He moved her foot against the ankle gently, watching her deep, blue eyes for a sign of pain. They decided the sprain was on the inside of her foot. It seemed minor, but the pain was real enough and they couldn't be sure of a roadside diagnosis.