Grażyna Plebanek - Illegal Liaisons

They move away from each other and, feigning cool, go to the bedroom. Beside the bed, she unbuttons his shirt and licks his chest; he impatiently throws off his trousers, slips off his boxer shorts. He forgets that the socks should go first, then pulls them off, holding on to her hand like a blind man. He kneels in front of the triangle of hair, catches her labia in his lips, slips his tongue beneath them and licks the hollows. He is in her groin, smoothes her clitoris, teases her pussy with his tip.

Juices run from her when he grabs the muscles of her thighs. He strokes them gently; they shake beneath his fingers. He sits her on the edge of the bed and with one hand on her hips, parts her thighs with the other. He licks her there, listening to her sighs; her smooth thighs tug at his ears.

She lies on her back; shudders run through her body; she tingles right down to her toes. She tells him this but the words become incomprehensible; the explosion of orgasm leaves her wordless for a few seconds. He licks her belly, sides, breasts; gathers all of her, submissive and hot, and lies on her. Nothing separates them, except his cock between their naked bellies.

She pushes him on his back and wraps her thighs around his hips; the tip of his penis jabs her groin. “Sit, sit!” he begs her while she lowers herself with teasing slowness, her hair hiding her wide-open eyes and falling over her lips. She rocks rhythmically until the muscles in his stomach grow tense. He has to get out of her, cool off a bit.

He enters her again, smoothly, from the back, he draws the shape of her butt with his fingers, harder and harder. “I mustn’t have any marks,” she pleads breathlessly, and lies on her side while he, behind her, enters and pulls out, a sweating automaton. He turns on his back and scoops up her butt; she sits on him backward; her gently muscular back arches beneath his fingers. He slides his hands down to her hips and leads them up and down, spears her so her head sways, her face turns to the ceiling – until her groan bounces off him.

He pulls her damp body on top of him, turns her lips to his lips and slips into her from beneath; slowly he pushes his tongue into her mouth. The head of his cock, hard as stone, rubs against her inner lining; and finally shudders convulsively. As he injects his charge of sperm into her, Andrea bites his lips. They bleed, but Jonathan doesn’t feel it.

WHEN HE RETURNEDfrom Poland after Christmas, Jonathan understood why people in the north didn’t know how to flirt while those in the south seemed constantly aroused. The secret lay in the amount of clothing. As soon as he left the plane in Brussels, although busy gathering the children and suitcases, and finding a taxi, his eyes veered toward several girls; he did what he hadn’t done for a long time – he undressed them with his eyes.

A perfectly real question – what a woman wore underneath – started to prey on him, not sparing even the mothers he met at school when he fetched the children. With a new proficiency, he divided the women into categories so as not to bother eyeing those in tracksuits, those who dressed sensibly, or those who were too tall or plump.

Showiness ceased to offend him. If a woman emphasized something with what she wore – or didn’t wear – she must obviously have something to show. He rejected Megi’s comments – with which he had until recently agreed – that an attitude like that was crude and followed the line of least resistance. He was now a turned-on teenager and a self-confident man. To his satisfaction, there was no woman who didn’t feel this – even through layers of winter clothing.

When he walked down the street with Stefan, their heads now turned in rhythm: a woman – turn of the neck – another – a fawning glance – a chick in boots – aaah! The last remnants of embarrassment dissolved, and Jonathan rode the wave of spring that overtook the winter and set itself free from the shell of ice in a stream of smiles, glances and flutterings, until he felt a whirlpool of heat within.

“What is it?” he asked his friend once when they’d popped into a bar for a beer after the gym.

Stefan followed his bright eyes.

“An umbrella stand,” he explained.

“I wasn’t thinking about that. Are you having something?” Jonathan broke off because the waiter they called the Lion King, due to his mane of hair, stood beside them.

“All that exercise has made me hungry, I think I’ll have a croque monsieur.” Stefan flicked through the menu, undecided. “Or no, I’ll have a croque madame. Pour moi, le croque madame, s’il vous plaît .”

Instead of listening to Stefan who was telling him all about Przemek’s maneuvers to settle into a government position in the future, Jonathan immersed himself in recollections of the previous evening.

The lights on the sound system glimmered, music seeped slowly, the sound of horses’ hooves came from the window.

“Mounted police,” whispered Andrea and huddled up closer in the crook of his arm.

“They won’t find us.” He smiled in the half-light and kissed her hair.

The squeaking of trams and the distant wail of a fire engine woke him at dawn. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He stared at the colorful stripes of the sheets, the books piled up by the wall, the navy-blue alarm clock, children’s drawings. He peered over his shoulder – next to him lay Megi.

He curled up into a pretzel. He was in his apartment – this was his home. He called this period in time home because during it there was room for his family, Megi, and Andrea. His home was large, sunny, and full of love …

The waiter placed a plate with a hot sandwich covered with minced meat in tomato sauce and melted cheese on the table. Jonathan, with difficulty, shook the recollections aside.

“… the option of going back to Poland.” He heard Stefan’s voice. “And then he might propose that Megi should carry on working for him. What do you think about it?”

“About what?” Jonathan drank a little of his beer, the pleasant coolness tickling his throat.

“Going back to Poland.”

Jonathan looked at Stefan as if he were intending to lip-read from now on.

“It probably won’t come to it, they’re only rumors.” Stefan patted him on the shoulder and bit into his croque.

“Based on what?”

Yellow ribbons of cheese stretched from Stefan’s mouth. The thought of cutting it from the croque flashed through Jonathan’s mind.

“To Poland?” He half stated, half asked.

“Mhm.” Stefan shook his head in all directions.

“Impossible.” Jonathan leaned forcefully back in his chair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Stefan nodded enthusiastically.

“Anywhere,” repeated Jonathan.

“Of course.” Barely concealed compassion appeared on Stefan’s face.

Jonathan leaned forward then back, and forward again – he rocked like someone autistic. Stefan pushed the plate aside and put his arm on Jonathan’s shoulder, but Jonathan brushed it away.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Megi thinks she’s running out of eye cream, Tomaszek’s voice is hoarse, the emails are piling up, and she doesn’t know where to buy the small celery she needs for a stock. Oh yes! And the dry-cleaners – she has to drop off their spring jackets. And buy some pretty underwear to surprise Jonathan .

The sun is shining over Brussels like a light bulb over the chaos of a bedroom, laying bare tricks of make-up and worming its way beneath warm clothes, making people rub their eyes and untie their scarves .

Megi enters Exki and picks up a sandwich labelled “Romeo et Juliette.” As she makes her way to the check-out she hears someone calling her. The trainee is waving to her from a table; next to her sits a long-haired girl. The girl turns and Megi sees it’s Andrea .