A Taste of Amber

I return home to find her sprawled across my bed, as though there’s no place she would rather be. But I know all too well that isn’t true. The trail of clothing shed slowly up the staircase spoils the surprise of her visit long before I reach the threshold, but the view is just as spectacular. She has something new that she’s dying to share; I can smell her excitement from across the room. Why else would she be here?

Her body still glistens with sweat, not all of it her own, while the marks across her flesh and the savaged lace of her panties hint at the story to come. This is how I visit her world: vicariously, like glimpses through a keyhole—seeing only what she chooses to reveal, and only as often as she desires my captive audience.

Why have I let this one in when my resolve has held for so many? The question’s as rhetorical as it has become repetitive. Yet I ask myself once again, for habit or old time’s sake.

Her flowing copper hair begs to be pulled, so evocative of the vixen she embodies. But is this what lures me in? Might it be her soulful blue eyes, incapable of concealing their deviance even in those rare instances when she might actually wish to? Or is it the body itself, each hard-earned curve chiseled with experience and promising unparalleled treasures beneath a tease of lingerie?

No, this one’s perfection lies in her purity, impure as she outwardly seems. She is dichotomy personified. Caustic and sweet. Filthy yet true, and brutally honest in her depravity. Preying on weakness while feasting on my strength, her smile is soft and delicate. But her hunger for sensation is ferocious. She is utterly unique, and she feels no shame in exploiting it.

Her thighs part slightly in conditioned response to the groan of the door as I enter—a greeting that has long been her custom. I step into a familiar room, made new again by licks of candlelight and the amorphous creep of shadow. She releases a silent breath as her back arches slowly from the bed, as if trapped in mid-gasp between the sting of the last dominant strike landed and the anticipation of the next one to come.

“What’s her name?” she asks, watching with eyes on fire as I slide free of my jacket and then reaching lazily for the tie still hung around my neck.

“What’s yours?” I respond, silencing her faster than a mouthful of flesh buried hard between her lips. Or so I’ve often imagined.

She has learned to pierce my defenses at will. Unseen by security and undeterred by the iron gates of the mansion, she has never been granted a key. Not once has she parked a vehicle outside or called a taxi before leaving. Amorphous as the mist that haunts the lawn at midnight, she comes and goes at her whim, releasing her sins across my bed yet reticent to honor me with her true identity.

Her smile turns coy, hiding a smirk of satisfaction that she hit the very nerve she aimed for. Laying back to embrace the prospect of whatever may follow, she snaps the silk of my tie taut over her eyes, whetting that inviting pink as she blinds herself to the night.

A warm bayou breeze blows through a crack in the window, billowing the white silk of our sheets like gossamer beneath her, kissing across each breast with just enough bite to send her crimson nails clawing into the mattress. I don’t need to touch

The first moan escapes from somewhere deep inside, taunting and purposeful as the bitten lip that accompanies it. As the scent of sex mingles with jasmine and fresh rain, her fingertips rake dangerously up each inner thigh, trying desperately to crack my armor with a nearly irresistible performance. Closer… Closer…as the tan of her endless legs fades to a milky white in regions rarely borne to the sun.

She knows I will not touch, not in the ways that she begs for. No matter how hungrily she purrs or how desperately her body drips, to do so would cross a line that could poison the pristine beauty of our arrangement. But that has never stopped her from trying.

My resistance, though rigid, is not for lack of desire; our bond has grown more complicated than desire could ever contain. In many ways, she reminds me of another—the other—and that is precisely why I will not bend. Deep down, I know she understands. Perhaps the only one who truly does.

While I allow her an illusion of control, she is here to serve a role, cold as that may sound. The mischief to her method is a necessary evil, if not a reluctantly pleasurable torment. Through it, I gain touch and taste into a new dominion of euphoria, pain and excess.

She is a self-serving informant of fresh sensual perspective, an eye into a culture of raw liberation that trades in sexual fantasy. In return, I pay her attention—genuine, probing attention. I offer an outlet, a release, a sensual letting of those swelling sensations that, once taken in, will otherwise threaten to consume her.

I step to the sink to dampen a cloth and settle lovingly at her side. The bed creaks beneath my approach, eliciting another gasp. We’ve played this game before. I will lay close enough to wash the evening from her skin and receive her latest confession.

As I harness the ache of temptation to fuel a quest of my own, she relives every sordid detail of her latest adventure, heaving and writhing beneath my hand. Her nerves begin to fire, gradually at first, until her recollection rivals the intensity of the experience itself.

As her breathing quickens and her hips grind to drive a vivid memory, she tells me her name is Amber. We both know it isn’t. And tonight she has brought me something very special…