Jack O'Connell - Box Nine

His mouth drops lower on her neck and he hits a spot that makes her buck slightly. He feels it and speeds up, his tongue gets more aggressive, his lips pull on her and in spite of herself she lets out a noise, a breath-grabbing sigh and it comes out as a moan and she hopes, for a second, that he doesn’t mistake it for a laugh, and then the thought is gone and their hands are at each other’s clothing, feeling for buttons and zippers where there are none, furious at working so blindly.

His hands fall to the rim of her jeans and start to unbutton them, but she grabs them at the wrist and pulls them up underneath her turtleneck, but on top of the thermal undershirt. He starts to alternately squeeze and rub her breasts, like he can’t decide which he wants to do, and while his hands move she takes a second to pull the jersey off and drop it to the floor. Then she pulls his hands away and places them at the sides of his legs. His head comes up from her neck and he looks like a horrified child, but she smiles and calms him and mourns the word slow , then she starts to unbutton his cardigan and pulls it from his arms. He makes no motion beyond the visible rising and falling of his chest and a smile that he can’t suppress. She knows she now has full control and it sets her off, gives her a charge almost as heady as swallow of meth. She goes slowly to her knees and unties his old sneakers, getting playful, improvising, dipping fingers inside the elastic band of his socks and tickling just above the ankle. He doesn’t say a word, but his body seems to tremble a bit and she loves it.

She lifts each foot and removes the shoe and the sock, slowly, with an almost detached air, like this was her profession, like she’d worked a lifetime at Kinney’s. She rises back up and strips him of his Ezra Pound shirt. She steps back for a second and stares at his chest. It’s neither hairy nor completely void of hair, but rather has a few single curly strands in a dozen or so random places.

Now she steps back up to him, very aggressive, with the same body English she’d use just before a cuffing, or better, a full-blown strip search. He seems to love it. His breathing gets more obvious. His head does a stutter on his neck. She reaches around his back, drops her hand, and squeezes his ass with all her strength. There’s a part of her that would like him to shout out her name, but she controls herself as well as Woo, lets go, and comes back around front to unfasten his chinos. They’re held at the waist by a small metal clip and she releases it fast, but takes her time drawing down the zipper. He’s got a continuous tremble going and Lenore finds it both disturbing and satisfying. For less than a second she questions the sincerity of the tremble, but she lets the thought go and pushes the pants down over his hips.

He’s wearing white boxer shorts underneath. They have a grey pinstripe in them. They feel a little brittle, starchy, as she grabs them at the sides and yanks downward. When they touch the floor, she pats his hip and he steps out of all the clothing around his feet.

He’s naked now, but she keeps her eyes on his eyes as she reaches forward and takes him in her hands. His mouth drops slightly and he makes a noise and takes some air. She squeezes very lightly and he grows. She releases and steps backward and motions that he should lie down on the floor.

He complies, moving carefully, finding a narrow strip of space between the mountains of books. He stretches out on his back, his hands folded behind his head for a pillow, his legs bent up at the knees. She likes him on the floor, likes the picture of him. She wants to remember it, press it into her memory, saved vivid for the distant future, for times when she’s void of a partner and less in control of her life and herself. She wants to save the image in her mind, not as some mild, personal pornography, but more as a symbol, a suggestion of this feeling that has no title she knows of. It’s a feeling beyond the words power, control, dominance , or will.

She walks a full, dramatic circle around Woo, taking giant steps over the smaller book piles. His eyes follow her path, stay on her face. She stops when she arrives back at his feet. She knows there’ll be no speaking, no communication using the spoken language. They’ll exchange messages, or rather, she’ll indicate what she wants and he’ll respond, a simple and efficient cause-and-effect equation.

She starts to give him the full show. She brings her feet together. She grabs her undershirt at its bottom and pulls it up slowly so that it forms loose ribs, bunches of ribbed material, she holds for a minute, arms crossed and prepared to pull, under the bottom rim of her breasts, gives him the hesitation tease she knows he wants, stares at him. Then she pulls the shirt free, up past the neck and head and simultaneously off the arms. Her breasts bob as the shirt rubs past. Her nipples are hard and she brings her fingers up and runs them around the areolas. It’s a show for his benefit and his body continues to visibly respond, but it also feels as good as it looks.

She begins to unbutton and unzip her jeans. She gauges her speed to a midpoint where he’s on the verge of frustration and fulfillment. She pushes the jeans down her legs and steps out of them. She’s wearing white cotton panties, not bikinis, but close enough. Woo doesn’t seem to notice the difference. She smiles at him, places her right hand over her navel for a minute, then inches it downward until her fingertips dip into the waistband. She waits, then teases him with a few more inches of finger sliding downward into still-invisible hair.

He lets out a garbled Oh , starts to rise up to a sitting position, but she gives him a stern shake of the head and he settles back into place.

She bends forward slightly, hovers over his legs. She says, “Don’t speak, Freddy. Don’t open your mouth. No words at all.” She pauses, then says, “Now, do you want me down there? Do you want me on the floor? Do you want me on top of you?”

His mouth opens, then at once snaps closed, all jaw, alligatorlike. His head takes over with a jerking, too-fast nod and she loves it. It’s just the effect she was going for.

“We’re going to need some music,” she says, and turns to the desk area. Woo makes a throat-clearing sound that she ignores. She likes being almost naked in this place. She likes the idea of the huge, open space and the coldness of the brick. She thinks if she lived here, it’d be an effort to throw on clothes and leave each morning.

She fingers the toggle switches at the bottom of the reel-to-reel machine and says, “Let’s see what the doctor likes.” She hits the Play button and the reels start to turn smoothly, at a precise speed, the opposite of Woo’s head. A single, high-pitched electronic tone sounds and she realizes for the first time that she doesn’t know where the speakers are. The tone is followed by silence. She assumes there are probably several speakers, mounted in hidden spots in the study for the best possible acoustics. A guy like Woo would be concerned about sound quality and proper speaker placement.

“Guess we’ve got a blank tape,” she says, but Woo has stopped nodding and now he just stares up at her, maybe impatient, maybe doubtful, insecure.

Lenore slides out of the balance of her underwear, tosses them on top of the desk behind her. She comes down on her knees, in front of his feet, relaxes into a sitting position, ass on heels.

“I’ve always considered getting a tattoo, Freddy. Always wanted one. I’ve debated the question. They’re considered cheap in this country. Biker women. Junkies. Hookers. Every hooker I’ve ever known has had a tattoo. I’m not sure the general public is aware how many tattoos are out there. More than most people would think. But, as you well know, in the Orient it’s a different story. At least for the men. I don’t know what the tattooing standard is for women over there. But with the men it’s considered an art form, right? An enhancement of the skin. And I’ve got to concur. Got to agree with that. I’ve considered placement and for some reason I’m drawn to the erotic areas. I know about the pain involved, but I’m good with pain. No problem there. And, of course, I’ve thought about the design. What would I choose? We can rule out the typical red rose or butterfly right off the bat. I want something unique. Something custom-drawn and more suited to me. And I can’t quite come up with what it should be. So do me a big favor, Freddy, if you would. Give it some thought. Not right now. Don’t say a word right now. But sometime in the future, in the days ahead, give it some thought and tell me what you think would be the best sign for me. Something that would just scream Lenore permanently. From underneath my skin.”