At the table in the corner of her office the dregs of Bordeaux cast

ruby glints through crystal glasses. Crisp strawberries glow wetly in

sugar snow; body-odoured brie melts on its marble slab. Nervously she

fiddles with her knife.  Glancing up to his  mocking eyes the offer of

 

dessert shrivels on her tongue. She moves to the sunny window and

peers down at the business of the street, seeing nothing. At the sound

of his soft rising she watches him stroll to her desk. He kneels, and

he pulls the master plug, plunging her vital arteries into silence. The

 

room is very strange. Her shadow falls dark on the thick carpet. Slowly

he removes his jacket and adjusts it just so over the back of her swivel

chair, smoothing the lapels and arranging the sleeves in faultless folds,

like a fastidious valet. He drops his silk shirt and turns to her his naked

 

back. The rich wine is dry in her throat. Into his glossy shoes he tucks

his socks, as subtle as lingerie, and he sets the gleaming duet under the

chair, exactly together. Elegantly, he steps out of his shapely trousers

draping them across the seat. Pressed against the cool window her hot

 

palms are sticky. Around his loins a black cord bisects his chiseled ass.

You gorgeous bastard, she hardly breathes. Over his shoulder he throws

a velvet laugh, and profiles a bulging silver triangle. With a choked gasp

she drops into the carpet’s plush sunlight, to feast on his primitive glory.

 

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas