(fictionalized from a true account)“What the hell is this?”
“What’s what Brad?”
“This fuckin’ shit you just served me. The God damned yolk is broken. What have I told you about how I like my eggs?”
“I’m… sorry Brad. It must’ve happened after I put them on the plate. I would never do that on purpose.” Rebekah spoke with timidity and hesitation, knowing that a terrible storm may be brewing between herself and her live-in boyfriend. Seated at the dining room table, Brad pushed the plate away with a violent flick of his wrist and upset half of the plate’s contents. He looked away from his girlfriend and shook his head from side-to-side, as if he couldn’t believe the trials and tribulations that he had to cope with. She could tell that his fury was compressing as he brooded over the recent injustice.
With an outward display of controlled anger and righteous indignation, he stood up deliberately, looked over at Rebekah, and ran his tongue into his upper right gum to remove a particle of food and then made a smacking sound from the corner of his mouth. Being 6’2 and 225 pounds, Brad was an imposing man. He was educated and had a productive job over a year ago, but now he relied on Rebekah’s income. He stood there in his blue button-shirt and relaxed fit jeans, paid with her money. He took his large leather belt off, grabbing the buckle and pulling it straight through, loop by loop. He stared at her with his determined brown eyes, the belt dangling by his side.
Rebekah, who had been standing in the kitchen that adjoined the dining room was now in full-on terror mode, although she kept this mainly hidden. “I said I… was sorry,” her voiced trembled as her vocal chords restricted and her breathing became shallow. Her voice was sweet and soothing in an attempt to divert the inevitable. Rebekah’s large, innocent brown eyes seemed to beg to be cared for—or victimized, depending upon the man’s point of view. She was not nearly as big as her intimidator, maybe 5’5 and 110 pounds with long chestnut brown hair that reached to the small of her back.
Responding to her “sorry,” Brad said with mechanical indifference, “You know I gotta do this.” He advanced toward her as she backed up but she soon ran out of room; damned refrigerator! “You’ve been fuckin’ shit up a lot recently. And now you fucked up my whole morning. I’m sick and tired of it, bitch.” He was now within one foot of her as her eyes grew wide and adrenaline pulsed through her body. Her whole frame trembled, the same way her house did when the train passed by. This locomotive meant to run her over. Brad stopped and squinted his eyes with nearly uncontrollable rage and jutted his jaw to show his steely resolve.
A moment later and she was fallen to the ground, sitting on her ass and holding her head down, covering it with her hands to protect herself from the blows. She was crying and sobbing uncontrollably now, her thin façade cracking and peeling off, like cheap stucco on an old house. All of that fear and sadness burst to the surface and washed ashore. All that she could do now was batten down the hatches.
Though she couldn’t see it, Brad’s mouth, which had been tightly pursed with intense hatred, now softened into a slight smirk and then blossomed to a hearty smile. “Ha, ha, ha, you stupid bitch. God, you disgust me. Such a fuckin’ wimp. Get off your ass and make me some more eggs.” Of course, his powerplay would have been nothing had he not backed it up many times before. Resuming his daily activities as though nothing out of the way had happened, he put his belt back on and walked out of the kitchen to the bedroom to “surf the web.” If that kind of surfing were a sport, he’d be a professional.
Lingering for a few seconds on the kitchen floor, she slowly pulled herself up. Her energy had been totally directed to self-defense and to now switch gears was incredibly difficult. But if she didn’t, he might come back. She had no choice, just as she had no choice when her father and others abused her, both sexually and physically. Both then and now, when the pain came in short, intense bursts, she could just take it and deal with the consequences later. But when the pain came slowly, over hours sometimes, she would detach her mind from the body’s sufferings and transport herself elsewhere. She usually dreamed of a field of soft grass bathed in warm springtime light. And there she was as a child, playing with a yellow puppy. She never had a puppy, but always wanted one.
And so she watched the eggs sizzling in the greasy pan, a fitting metaphor for her pathetic existence. She didn’t think this though, at least consciously. She just went through the motions. She was numb: emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Replating the eggs she called for her tormentor but he didn’t bother to come.
Rebekah cleaned the kitchen and went to the bathroom (but not the masterbath, as that was in the room where he had been posted since the incident). She closed the bathroom door and looked in the mirror. All she saw were two disembodied eyes staring back. She could physically see herself, but the body faded into an unreality and the eyes, well, they didn’t even seem to be hers.
The trip to Mactec, where she worked, was the same unremarkable procession of cars and nameless people that it always was. Her older model Honda Accord served its purpose but her entry-level luxury sedan was nicer. Brad appropriated that. But no matter, the radio worked in the Honda and she didn’t worry about dropping cigarette ashes in the car—they matched the burn marks in the seats. She had thought about quitting the habit but was concerned about putting on weight. Three years before, she had put on ten pounds when she was with her last boyfriend Mike, and he would stab her with comments like, “Hey, tank!” or “How’s it goin’ fatass?” She really didn’t like that, so she smoked to keep thin.
Arriving and swiping her key fob, she entered the two-story gray building to her small office that resided down a long, fluorescent-lit hallway. It could be called some sort of modern catacomb; a beehive of sterility. The walls were painted with the typical flat, off-white paint and the floor was covered with standard issue brown, level-loop, berber carpeting. She walked, closing hugging the wall to her left, with a slow, quiet step. Her attractive eyes were kept cast to the ground, only looking up as much as necessary. She seemed to carry herself so as not to offend the very building in which she worked.
After passing five other offices she arrived at her own, which she shared with Brenda, a heavy-set woman who was twelve years her senior. Brenda was forty-five, Rebekah, thirty-three. Brenda was already at her station, busy sending personal emails. Sitting down at her desk facing the hallway wall with the door to the left of her, she booted up her computer and waited. She hated sitting next to that door, someone could pop-out from around the corner like a jack-in-the-box and she wouldn’t have time to respond, she always used to think. This had bothered her for the last three years. Brenda, however, sat behind her with her desk facing the window onto the parking lot. So they worked all day back-to-back.
After about five minutes, Brenda swung around in her swivel seat, facing the back of Rebekah’s long, shiny, hair. “Are you ok, sweetie?” said the woman with frizzy, overprocessed, yellow hair. “I saw you comin’ from your car through my window. You look like somethin’s botherin’ you.” After a few seconds Rebekah said with clarity, “I’m OK. I just had a long night, that’s all. Thank you for asking.” Unsatisfied with the answer, the large woman pressed her interrogation—she knew that Rebekah couldn’t resist her. “I know when somethin’s wrong, sweetie. I’ve raised three children and have four grandchildren. It’s OK. Did you fight with Brad this morning?”
At this point, Rebekah felt very uncomfortable but knew that Brenda didn’t care about her comfort and wouldn’t quit her god damned questioning. So she answered, “Yeah, we had a fight. I made a stupid mistake. Sometimes I just don’t know what I’m thinking.” After a brief pause in which she bowed her head slightly in embarrassment, she spoke again with timidity, “I’ve also been thinking about Matthew a lot.” At this, Brenda’s painted-up eyes flashed with irritation as she said with a motherly condescension, “You know that’s not gonna do you any good, Rebekah. I’ve told you that before. You need to let bygones be bygones. Matthew’s never known you. He’s only known his real family. How would you feel if someone came out of the blue and said, ‘Hey, I’m your real mom?’”
Before Rebekah could respond, her officemate twisted the dagger with this follow-up: “I’ll tell you how you’d feel…you’d feel confused, and angry, and hurt. Think about someone else for a change, Rebekah. You know that the world doesn’t revolve around you!” With a meek defense Rebekah interjected, “But what if I keep my identity hidden from him. What if I just, I don’t know, arrange to ‘bump into him,’ somewhere. At least I can see what kind of a man he’s become. He’s already seventeen.”
“No! No! No!” said Brenda in a convulsive fit. “That’s not healthy. You need to stop obsessing and move on with your life. The sooner you do that, the better. Trust me. Well, I have to finish typing out this email. I hope things work out with Brad. He seems like a nice guy.” Rebekah turned (she had swiveled her chair too; she was worried that Brenda might take offense if she didn’t), and looked at her computer screen with a blank stare.
Maybe Brenda is right, Rebekah thought to herself. Maybe I shouldn’t obsess like I have been. He’s been on my mind nonstop and that can’t be healthy. But it’s been seventeen long years. Maybe I can just find him on the internet and leave it at that. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I don’t really want to mess his life up; I just want to see how he is.
So Rebekah spent part of the day searching social websites for Matthew and working. She had looked for him before on the internet but only haphazardly, she would always stop herself. Now, though, she was determined to find him. She desperately wanted to connect with that lost part of her life, no matter how she tried to rationalize her decision to search for him. So many nights she lay awake with a festering soul, longing to fill that yawning void in her life. About two months ago, Rebekah had gone so far as to open her “little box” in which she kept memory fragments of better times. Times which in her revisionist mind were happy for her. That cardboard box, brown and chewed-up looking, contained pieces of a life that was now spinning rapidly to a black hole of painful oblivion. The one point in time that Rebekah would revisit most was the fateful day that she gave up Matthew. As she stared at her son’s hospital blanket from her box, she used to think to herself, I can’t change the decision that I made, but I can make up for it by showing the selfless love that I failed to show then.
That day was mundane enough. He work load was light, so she had plenty of time to search for Matthew. It helped that she knew the family’s name that had adopted him and although she had looked them up in the phone book many times before, she never had the courage to even drive by their house. At about 4:30 in the afternoon, after scrolling through hundreds of people’s profiles on the most popular social sites, she got a promising lead. The young man looked like her ex-boyfriend, Mark. He had Mark’s eyes and her olive-colored skin. Yeah, that might be him, she thought. Searching his profile and reading his blogs, she finally found all of the proof needed. He had blogged six months ago over his feelings of being adopted.
So this is my son, she thought to herself. She fell back in her chair and took his image into her heart and soul. God, I’ve longed for you to be in my life for so long, she said to the picture. I need you back. I need you. Rebekah’s mind kept looping around this central theme until she finally reengaged intellectually and started reading his blog post about his adoption. He didn’t know much about the particulars but he expressed anger at his true mother for giving him up. Rebekah felt crushed inside.
It was in this emotional state that she hurriedly wrapped up her work for the day and left to rush home. She did the same thing five days a week, work—home, home—work. If she were late in getting home by even fifteen minutes then Brad would start calling on her cell phone. If she weren’t just around the corner when he called then he would start accusing her of cheating on him or worse yet, get in the car and start looking for her. Many bruises resulted from traffic hang-ups. So when it came to getting home, she didn’t play games.
Coming in the front at door at 5:12 pm and jingling her keys conspicuously she called out, “Hi, Brad. I’m here!” Coming from around the corner, as if he had been waiting, he said with a smooth voice, “Hey, baby. How was work?” While he said this he reached out and embraced her with one arm as she placed her head into his chest. He stroked her hair with his free arm and spoke further. “Sorry about this morning. I get too worked up sometimes. But you know that what you did can upset me. Look, I got you something.” She kept her cheek against his strong chest for a few more seconds before she pulled back to see what he was taking from his pant pocket. Warm feelings of affection washed over her. Anytime a man showed compassion or interest in her she would feel that way. She tucked her recent discovery into the back of her mind and basked in Brad’s attention.
He had gotten her some inexpensive gold necklace from a department store. Her money, of course, paid for it. As he put the necklace on her, she looked up at him with her two chocolate-drop eyes that fluttered with flirtatious overtones. Her eyes narrowed as she gave him visual cues to proceed further. Stooping considerably, he reached behind her and sensuously kneaded her apple-shaped ass with both hands. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders to pull him in and started kissing his neck as he fondled her. He could feel the nipples of her small, perky breasts harden.
A few minutes later and they were naked and writhing violently in bed like two entangled snakes. Rebekah was a sexual nymphomaniac. Sex was like a drug to her. Her whole body, soul, and mind were poured into those carnal acts of lust that she mistook for love. She was driven by demons to seek closeness with a man to banish her longing to be cared for. It never came.
The men, in this particular case Brad, loved her only for her bedroom prowess. She went from a terrified, little girl to a demanding sex hound. She would scream, “Fuck me harder, Brad! Fuck me harder!” She would groan and climax over and over again. And every time that she was on the bottom and would cum, her whole body would tense as she lifted her hips and groaned his name in a long, tortured tone. Every orgasmic wave would shudder through her body. A second later and she would force her way to the top and ride his oversized cock while she voluptuously fondled her own breasts. She would close her eyes and pinch her nipples as hard as she could. That made her scream with painful ecstasy as she felt his sexual energy surge from his lightning rod dick up through her body and to her sex crazed brain. There she was, her long hair swinging from side to side as she leaned forward, braced her hands on his shoulders and rode him as fast as her small frame would allow.
This would go on for as long as Brad could keep up, usually an hour or so. After it was over, or at least when she relented to his protests to stop, she would roll over and lay on her side at the edge of the bed, facing the wall. She knew that he didn’t want to hold her. In reality, her frenzied lovemaking was a compulsive attempt to connect with a man, to make him love her. But the whole time she was merely “fucking,” not loving. In fact, she felt emotionally detached from herself and her partner, almost as if she were watching a porn flick. Her bedroom skills and insatiableness were so finely tuned from thousands of experiences that they masked her emotional corpselike state. But all of this never stopped her from desperately trying to love… or be loved. The result, though, was never in doubt.
* * * * *
That evening was like most others; she made him dinner and he ate; she drove to the store to buy beer; she was accused of flirting with someone. Seeing that he could not goad her into a confrontation, Brad gave her a shove as he walked past her to the bedroom. Her shoulder was badly strained as she was driven into the wall but she just let him go, he’d probably pass out soon anyway, she thought.
At work the next morning Rebekah, whose mind had been spinning like a top wobbling to its final rest, was still devising how to approach Matthew. Beginning her normal work routine, a flash of obsessive brilliance lit her brain. She thought to herself, I could pretend to be a writer’s agent! Matthew said on his webpage that he liked to write poetry. I could arrange a meeting and actually get to talk to him. He would never have to know who I am. This is great!
With hands quivering from a mixture of fear, excitement, and anticipation, she typed out a brief email to Matthew stating that she was a writer’s agent of first-time authors, that she was interested in some of his material, and would like a face-to-face meeting. That was that, she said. It has to seem formal and businesslike. It was sent about nine o’clock in the morning.
The rest of that day was a painful agony. Each excruciating minute that the email went unanswered was like death-row inmates having to await their hour of reckoning. At least they know the result. Instead, these thoughts burned in her brain: will he reject me? Will he even answer me? what will I do if he accepts? Oh God, the stress from waiting seventeen years is too much. I’m so afraid. I’ll never give you up again, Matthew. Never.
Finally, the answer came at 3:43 in the afternoon. He was excited about the opportunity and wanted to know when they could meet. She hastily replied, “How about this evening?” No sooner had she sent the email than she realized how amateurish and foolish that message seemed. Damn it! I should have said tomorrow, she said to herself as she bit her lower lip in frustration. Matthew’s reply wasn’t long in coming. He said that that was not possible but that he could meet tomorrow, however. Perfect, Rebekah thought. That will give me time to prepare myself. She sent her affirmative response along with a time and place, a coffee house not far from where she lived, “Jumpin’ Java” at 5:30. Her son accepted this proposal and said that he looked forward to meeting her.
As she sat in her chair becoming enraptured in anticipatory delight and floating on “happy vapors,” she was slapped into reality by a seemingly insurmountable obstacle in her path: Brad.
* * * * *
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” said a red faced Brad that same evening. He was sitting on the sofa watching TV and had been ordering Rebekah to get him another beer and to take his plate to the kitchen. She, too, was looking at the TV on the other side of the sofa but her mind was twenty-four hours away in a coffee shop and more importantly, how she was going to meet Matthew without raising the suspicion of her jealous boyfriend.
Brad’s rising fury was enough to refocus her wandering mind. Leaning over, he backslapped Rebekah’s mouth with his hand closest to her. Her head snapped backwards not only from pain but shock. She then slumped forward and buried her face in her hands. “Jesus, I don’t know why you make me do that shit, Rebekah,” he said with fake remorse, as his voice didn’t lower. She remained silent. “So, are you gonna get me another beer or what?” Rebekah stayed still, an open act of defiance. “God damn it,” he yelled as he stood up to push her off of the sofa.
With the same criminal hand that popped her mouth, he gave her a shove. Instead of tumbling to the floor however, she sprung to her feet with a speed and violence that so stunned him that he fell back into the sofa. For the next few seconds, she had control. “I hate you, bastard! I do everything for you and you treat me like shit!” Years of desperation and solitude had driven her shrill voice to the very top of her throat where it quivered with rage. “I want you out of my fucking house. Now!”
Brad, who up to this point was stunned by her defiance, quickly regained his senses and leapt to his feet, ready to seize the initiative. “You fuckin’ bitch. You don’t talk to me that way!” There ensued a violent but brief melee but he never actually landed a sound blow to any part of her body. This was just another scuffle to Rebekah, so she was mainly able to avoid him, run to the neighbor’s house, and phone the police.
Upon arriving the authorities, seeing the disheveled house and Rebekah, quickly realized what had taken place and after questioning, she stated that Brad had struck her and that she wished to press charges. And he, after a pathetic flurry of protestations, submitted to the handcuffing and was stuffed into the waiting police cruiser. After giving a more detailed description of the incident to one of the officers, she reentered her home, locked the door and set about cleaning and straightening up the place. She didn’t show any discernable emotion; her mind was set on tomorrow.
* * * * *
The air was infused with the smell of freshly ground coffee beans and sweet syrups of all varieties. The concrete floor was stained with a tan and brown swirl pattern, no doubt to give the “Jumpin Java” customer a further indication of the delightful caffeine concoctions that awaited him. About fifteen small tables with brown chairs were irregularly placed about the dining area where a few self-absorbed individuals quietly pecked at computers or read.
After ordering a double espresso from the young male barista with an oversized mustache that was twirled at the ends, Rebekah sat at the back of the shop where it was most private and dark. The other lone wolfs sat towards the front where the ordering counter and the mustached man stood. He took an order from a young woman with indifference.
Rebekah was nervous and fidgeting in her seat, the espresso didn’t help matters. Being twenty minutes early was fine—she needed to rehearse her character. She was Rebekah, a writer’s agent from 22nd Century Publishing. With her folio, yellow notepad, and pen, she seemed legitimate. So there she sat, a beautiful young woman with a deceptive innocence and sweaty palms, waiting for an appointment seventeen years in the making.
Fifteen minutes passed before three young men entered the shop at the same time. She recognized the first as her son from his picture and because he was carrying a notebook with loose sheets. She looked at him with loving eyes and took in every move of his body, every facial expression that he made no matter how slight, and every flutter of his eyelashes. Rebekah’s unfulfilled affection rushed to the surface with a boiling rapidity that threatened to bleed through her eyes and give her identity away. Matthew was tall, well built, and handsome with dirty blond hair that was finger-combed straight back. His green eyes had an intense glow. Her heart fluttered in her throat as he scanned the coffee shop looking for her. Finally, his eyes lit on hers.
With a slight hesitation, her body responded as she stood up and walked towards him. In order to prevent herself from embracing him, she forced her hand out to shake his a full three steps before it was needed. When they did, he spoke first. “Are you Rebekah Winslow?” “Yes. Are you Matthew?” her voice completely broke at his name, betraying her nervousness. Over the next few exchanges, she held his hand in an extended handshake, which most people would mistake for personal attraction.
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Winslow,” he said with respect. She corrected him as she looked at his eyes with an unusual directness, “Miss, Winslow. But you can call me Rebekah.” After staring at his eyes, tracing them back and forth and still holding his hand, Matthew then spoke with akwardness, “Uh… well… where do you want to sit?” Glaring just a second longer, she said, “Over there,” as she motioned in the direction of her table for two. Disengaging, he led the way and sat at the seat opposite the one marked as hers by the notepad on the table. She sat down also, looked up at him and asked with a caring quality to her voice, “Would you like some coffee, Matthew?” Somewhat taken aback by the seeming overfriendliness of his attractive interviewer, he stumbled to say that he didn’t really like coffee.
Clearing her throat and looking down at her notepad, she started, “Did you bring me any material to review later?” “I didn’t know how many you wanted me to bring, so I brought my three best poems. The last one deals with always searching for love and self-affirmation. It would be nice for love to search for me for a change,” he said with a nervous laughter that people give when they expose their emotions without knowing how the hearer will respond. She followed up immediately to both soothe and confirm his decision to confide in her. “Yes, I know what you mean, Matthew.” She used his name often, unknowingly kindling a personal bond between them.
“What’s the name of your publishing company?” he said after a few seconds. Still in a trance, she snapped to attention and stumbled momentarily, “Um… 22nd Century Publishing. I’ve been with them for five years.” He followed up, “How does this process normally work? I mean, do I just give you my material and then wait to hear back from you?” “Precisely,” she said. She didn’t have a damned idea how the process worked but what he said sounded good to her.
It was her turn to ask questions as she began with this: “Do you have any brothers and sisters? How are you doing in school?” After answering these in a straightforward fashion; two brothers, no sisters; high honors in school, they exchanged more pieces of personal information. He was apprised that she was single (she certainly didn’t want him to know anything of that ogre Brad, as she had already moved most of his personal possessions from the house to the garage). Maybe twenty minutes of pleasant conversation went by before he finally asked, “So what now?” As he asked this, he stroked his left arm with his right and peered inquisitively with his light green eyes. They made a fine complement to his smooth, olive-colored skin, she thought.
“Well, we normally give a welcoming gift to our prospective authors. I forgot it at home but I only live ten minutes from here. If you wouldn’t mind following me, I can get it to you.” She spoke with clarity and firmness, as it had been rehearsed many times. Rebekah wished to have as much time with Matthew as possible and a coffee shop was not going to be the first and possibly final meeting place with her son. He hesitated. She told him that it would only take a few minutes anyway. Finally relenting, he said to himself, OK, I want to go anyway.
* * * * *
Entering through the front door, Rebekah stepped inside and placed her keys on a small table that stood nearby. She waited for Matthew to finish parking. It seemed that the house bore a lingering stillness, as if Brad were still there—watching her. She knew this not to be the case; he was in jail awaiting arraignment. A few seconds later and Matthew stood in the doorway, halting momentarily. Rebekah flashed a quick smile with her head cocked to the left side, causing her hair to fall lazily over her right eye. This was enough to reassure the young man who entered with a confident step.
“Make yourself at home, Matthew,” said with a familiar tone as she stepped away to her bedroom. As the living room was next to the front door, he sat on the sofa where the unpleasantness of only a day ago had taken place. He slouched down and laid his head back to look at the ceiling. He ran his hand through his hair as he thought to himself, man, this woman really likes me. I hope she likes my poetry just as much. He audibly expelled air from his chest in a half sigh.
As he pondered Rebekah, she came from her bedroom and sat next to Matthew on the sofa. He straightened up slightly but remained relaxed, while she was sat facing him with perfect posture, like a showhorse on parade. Presenting him with a penbox, which he opened to expose a gold plated ink pen with his name engraved on it, he straightened up to face her directly and sat at the edge of the sofa, as she was. As he looked at the gift his eyebrows knit into a serious expression. He then looked up at her and said with a low, soft voice, “Thank you. This is very nice, Rebekah.”
Now only a few inches apart, their eyes froze into an extended stare. Each of their separate identities were quickly winding together in a mystic way. Matthew felt an inner “falling” sensation as she felt the same. They were at the same place in time and space; there was no separating them now.
Rebekah’s eyes flickered from his eyes to his soft, red lips and then back again. He could see this and responded instinctually, as if an unbreakable tether from time immemorial were pulling him to his foreordained course. He leaned slightly, closed his eyes and gently kissed her lips. She was receptive to his advance and they sat, locked in a motionless kiss. After ten seconds, she pulled back to look into his emerald eyes as he looked into her velvety brown ones. The iron hand of nature had just seized the both of them and shipwrecked their souls upon the dangerous shores of the other’s flesh.
In an instant the sexual heat was blazing like a kiln. He was furiously kissing her cheek and neck as she leaned her head back to receive it, at the same time pressing and squeezing his chest with her delicate hands. She began unbuttoning his shirt with fits and starts as their bodies were pushing one against the other. He would push forward in an aggressive series of kisses while she responded in kind. Finally, she was able to remove his shirt, which he quickly sloughed off. Now it was her turn and he lost no time, but in a passionate eruption he tore her low-cut top as she leaned back to give access to her breasts and rock-like nipples. As he leaned forward and rapidly sucked and scraped her nipple with his teeth, he fondled her unoccupied breast. All the while her head remained tilted to the ceiling with her eyes closed, sighing sensually.
Being titillated to the point of an almost palpable tension, she pushed him from her chest and he fell back onto the sofa, his feet still on the floor. She hungrily forced open his dress slacks and with both hands grabbed the shaft of his solid masculinity. Closing his eyes, she sucked like a soulical leech, bleeding all of the sensation to the very ends of his pleasure nerves. She rhythmically metered the sucking of her soft mouth with the stroking of her silky hands. Every fifth or sixth time she would swallow the pulsing rod until her lips touched the base and would suck the whole length of the shaft. When she did this he would groan and lift his hips slightly as the tip of his penis touched the back of her throat.
Ten minutes of this torturous pleasure was enough for him to lean up and push her away gently. “I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that,” he said. She said nothing, but nodded an OK gesture and stood up by his side, unbuttoned her slacks and with a switching motion of her hips, forced them down. Now her thong underwear joined the slacks on the floor. He watched with burning anticipation as she then finished pulling his pants and underwear off, leaving them both naked and brilliant as perfect specimens of a woman and man.
Having already brought his legs to the sofa, he was completely outstretched, awaiting her. Rebekah straddled but did not insert him immediately. Instead, she held her groin above his as she looked down at him and into his yearning eyes. For so long she had waited for him to return. For so long she ached to hold him again, to feel him. And now he was here, both a strong, young man and a part of her, ready to become one again.
She closed her eyes and, losing herself, she reached between their bodies and guided his trembling cock to a pussy drenched with scalding hot desire. They both moaned as he slid into her. She paused at the tip of his shaft and then slowly pressed her full weight down to feel every inch of him penetrate her flesh and soul. Again she paused at the bottom to savor the feelings of warmth as he reached out to place his hands on her ribs to hold her.
In a fit of orgasmic rage, she started riding him with such speed and deftness that it wasn’t long before their mutual climax. His hips tensed and forced her into the air as she started slowing; shuddering. He was the first to go, his groan swelled to a long gasp as he exploded like a bombshell being forced deeply into its target. She went next, her whole body convulsing into a near epileptic fit. She screamed with an unmistakable cry of sexual delight. Finally, she collapsed onto his naked, sweaty body.
Though it seemed like hours had passed by, only a few minutes elapsed as she lay on him. Stirring, she lifted her head from his chest to look into his face. His eyes were closed. He sensed her looking at him and so spoke with indifference, “What do you want?” “How do you feel?” she said with tenderness, inwardly jubilant about connecting with her son in such an intimate way. He forced her off of him and stood up, taking her torn blouse from the floor to clean his dick. She sat on the sofa with a confused and disconcerted expression, naked. He looked down at her and said, “I feel like I just fucked a crazy-ass woman. God, what the hell is wrong with you. Keep the poems.” In all of a few seconds he finished dressing and exited by the front door, leaving her alone with the salt stinging her eyes.