Futile Resistance

French woke in the morning to a bright winter sun shining through the bamboo blinds on her bedroom window. Immediately, instinctively, she knew that she was alone in her apartment. Aidan had left. She felt a vague sense of disappointment that he wasn't there, but she also acknowledged that she needed time away from him to examine their newly forged relationship under the clear light of day.

Getting out of bed, French slid into a kimono of jade-green silk shot through with a red, yellow and black embroidered pattern. She padded barefoot down the hall to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. When she reached the kitchen, she found a note from Aidan leaning against the coffeemaker:

'Morning, Legs - I'm at my house, working. I'll be there most of the day if you want me. Dinner tonight? 6:30-ish? I'll be by to pick you up then. Dress casually. A.

Oh, really? Dinner

, she thought. For a split second, she entertained the idea that she should stand him up. He hadn't really

asked

if she would go out with him for dinner, had he? She wanted to see him, though, and knew that if she didn't go, she'd be depriving herself unnecessarily. She'd go.

French wasn't sure how she felt about Aidan having left without saying goodbye. She supposed that she wasn't entitled to feel anything at all about it. One of the terms of their agreement was that there were no strings attached. That meant that they could each come and go as they pleased, that they would have no real expectations of one another. She had always thought that was what she wanted in a relationship, but it felt strange to be alone after they had shared such a passionate night. Before, they always spent mornings together drinking coffee and chatting before they went their separate ways. She had missed that when they had broken up, but had eventually grown used to being on her own. She had been expecting that they would drift back into their old patterns and habits and was a bit disconcerted that they hadn't.

You've finally gotten what you said you wanted; companionship with no strings, no entanglements

, she told herself sternly,

expectations lead to disappointment and heartbreak.

Smiling ruefully, and maybe a touch sadly, French finished measuring coffee and water and flipped the switch on the coffeemaker. While the coffee brewed, she took a shower, lingering under the hot spray. In spite of the unease that lingered in the back of her mind about the situation with Aidan and a pleasant ache between her thighs, she felt an overall sense of well-being. She felt as she did after a vigorous workout -- energized, centered and strong. She finished her shower and toweled off with a fluffy sage-green towel. Looking in the mirror, she had to acknowledge that her appearance matched the way she felt. She hadn't noticed until now that she had been displaying tension, strain and worry on her face. The absence of those emotions left her with a glowing complexion and relaxed visage.

Well, at least the sex is doing me some good

, she thought as she lavishly applied moisturizer to her body.

She dressed for maximum comfort in a velour tracksuit and a warm pair of wool socks. She planned to spend the day listening to the audition tapes she hadn't gotten to last night. She poured a cup of coffee and grabbed a yogurt and a banana for her breakfast. She went into her office-cum-guest bedroom where she sat at her desk and cued up the first tape.

She worked all day, listening to tape after tape, making notes about each on her laptop and reviewing each applicant's curriculum vitae. Surprisingly, there were a few talented students this time around and hearing their tapes made the day's task seem less onerous. She had to force herself to focus on her work, because thoughts of Aidan and last night were never far from her mind. Sounds, images, tastes and sensations of their lovemaking flashed in her mind. Her body suffused with heat, arousal curled low in her belly as she thought of the things she and Aidan had done. Over and over, she pulled her mind back to the tapes she was listening to and, more than once, she had to rewind a tape in order to give it the undivided attention it deserved. She didn't leave her office at all that day except to satisfy her body's most basic demands. She finished listening to the tapes just as night fell. It was really only late afternoon, but it was as dark as night what with the winter-shortened hours of daylight. She looked at her watch and saw that she had about an hour and a half before Aidan came to pick her up. Her stomach lurched with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

How should she behave with him tonight

, she wondered,

and where was he taking her?

She decided pamper herself a little with a nice hot bath before he picked her up. As the tub filled, she went to her closet and surveyed her wardrobe.

Casual

, she thought,

he'd said to wear something casual...

She decided to wear her favorite pair of jeans; they were low-slung and fit her perfectly, being neither too tight nor too loose. She selected a dove-gray cashmere v-neck sweater that she'd picked up on sale at the Barney's New York clearance outlet. It was sinfully soft and molded to her curves perfectly, displayed a hint of cleavage without looking slutty or overtly provocative.

Now for underwear

, she thought with more than a twinge of gleeful anticipation. She chose a pewter-colored bra with lace cups and matching ultra low-rise lace boy shorts.

Mmm

, she thought approvingly,

just the right mix of casual, understated sexiness. Can't look like I've tried too hard, can I?

Satisfied with her clothing selections, she retreated to the bathroom. She undressed, then drizzled scented oil into the steaming tub of water. She secured her curly hair atop her head in a messy knot secured with two ebony chopsticks she kept for that purpose and stepped into the tub.

She luxuriated in the bath, allowing the scented steam to permeate her senses. Leaning her head back against the inflatable bath pillow, she replayed the events of last evening in her mind. She had thoroughly enjoyed being with Aidan. Even from the first moment she saw him, she had been unable to resist or deny that she was still strongly attracted to him. She had been laboring under the delusion that she was over him; seeing him had quickly disabused her of that notion. The fact that she hadn't successfully mastered her emotions had seriously annoyed her and as she thought about it now, she felt a little ashamed that she'd behaved like a spoiled child who wasn't getting what she wanted. She knew that she'd been unpleasant in her behavior toward Aidan. She wouldn't have blamed him if he'd told her to go to hell. In fact, she would have told him exactly that had the shoe been on the other foot.

She felt a little guilty when she thought of what it must have cost Aidan to persist in his pursuit of her in the face of her petulance.

Well, he did ultimately get what he wanted out of it

, she thought with a naughty grin,

she couldn't feel guilty about everything that happened last night!

Her smile dimmed as she decided that, at the very least, she should apologize and try to make it up to him somehow.

That was the hard thing, though. As a result of the turbulent home life her mother had provided, she had a hard time dealing with emotions. Even something as simple as an apology, made her feel uneasy, vulnerable and just, well... messy. She had never been physically abused, but she had been exposed to many overly adult conversations and situations growing up and they had left an indelible mark on her. Strong emotions, she had learned, led people to behave irrationally. She also knew that she never wanted to be held hostage by her emotions; she did not want to feel that someone else had power over her because of feelings she may have for that person.

She vividly remembered one incident when she'd awoken in the night and heard her mother's raised voice, shrill one minute, pleading the next. French had left her bed and crept down the hallway to her mother's room to investigate. The door was only partially closed and French saw her mother with tears streaming down her face as she looked beseechingly at her lover. French couldn't remember the man's name. Indeed, his name was unimportant, for he was just another one of the interchangeable wealthy businessmen her mother met through her job as an executive assistant at an investment firm downtown. The tall, aristocratic looking blond man stood next to the bed, mostly dressed, but his pants were still unzipped, his shirt unbuttoned. Her mother, dressed a silk wrapper, her long, curly black hair wild and loose, stood on the opposite side of the bed. The huge bed between them was a mess of expensive tangled sheets. The light in the room was dim and French remembered how candlelight had flickered across the ceiling and could recall the musky floral scent the candles had emitted. Her mother, Marcheline, had begged the man not to leave, telling him she'd do anything if only he'd keep seeing her. The man told her in no uncertain terms that he was through with her and sat down on the end of the bed to put on his shoes and socks. Not willing to take no for an answer, her mother had stripped out of her robe and stood naked before her lover.

She lowered her voice, adopting a seductive tone as she ran her hands over her silky dark skin.

"Baby, you won't ever find anyone who does you like I do," she whispered, cupping her small breasts, squeezing her engorged nipples between her fingers. She walked slowly to where the man sat at the foot of the bed.

"Aren't you going to miss this?" she asked, placing a foot on the bed next to his thigh. She ran her slim hand between her breasts, caressing herself, moving her hand ever downward until she reached the nest of curls between her legs. With her foot propped on the bed, the lips of her pussy were spread open. Marcheline's plan was working: she had her lover's undivided attention. She stroked her pussy for a moment, then probed one finger deep inside and brought it out, waved it under her lover's nose, sighing,

"Mmmm, smell me. Taste me."

The man's eyes darkened as he inhaled then grabbed hold of her mother's hand and sucked her fingers into his mouth. Marcheline had purred in delight. She took his hand and guided it to her pussy. The man played there for a long while. French couldn't see what he did, but her mother seemed to like it. She was moaning, encouraging him, begging him for more.

"Do you feel that, baby? Do you feel how wet I am for you?" her mother had purred. Dropping to her knees in front of him, she tugged at his pants and underwear until they fell in a pool around his ankles. She slid her hands seductively up and down his thighs. French had never seen a naked man before and couldn't tear her eyes away from the sight of the man's thick length. Marcheline took his throbbing cock in her hands, cooing something French couldn't hear. Wide-eyed, she watched her mother stroke and tease the man's cock with her lips and tongue until finally he had taken her head in his hands and said hoarsely,

"Marcheline, take it, take it all in."

Her mother gazed up at him with heavy lidded eyes and slowly took the whole length of him in her mouth. The man moaned, eyes closed as his head fell back. French thought he looked like he might be in pain, but intuited that it might be a pain he enjoyed because he kept moaning and saying things like,

"Yeah, that's it, that it's, Marcheline, suck my cock."

Artfully, deliberately, Marcheline brought the man perilously close to coming over and over again, stopping just before he did each time. She had a look of satisfaction on her face as she worked him, like the cat who got the cream. When he begged her to let him come, her eyes glowed with triumph. Taking her mouth off of his cock, she gave the head one last long, slow lick then rose up and pushed him back on the bed. She crawled up him, took his cock in her hands and guided it slowly into herself. French watched incredulously as the man's thick cock slid into her mother. Marcheline was very petite and French couldn't imagine that the whole thing would fit. It did. Her mother sighed and murmured something when the whole thing was inside her. The man gripped Marcheline's hips tightly, his long white fingers in stark contrast with her mother's dark chocolate flesh. His fingers dug into her as he raised her up and brought her down hard again. Her mother braced her hands against his chest and swiveled her hips. From her position above him, she slowed the pace of their fucking. The man began to pant raggedly and, with sharp upward thrusts of his hips, attempted to force Marcheline into a faster rhythm. Marcheline kept the pace slow, rising up until only the tip of his cock was still inside her, then ever so slowly taking the entire length of him. Now, then, and again, she would twist her hips and grind against him.

They went on this way, with Marcheline controlling the ebb and flow of pleasure. The lovers' bodies had grown sweaty and shone slick in the flickering candlelight. Marcheline rode him, gradually increasing the pace and force of her gyrations, spurring both of them toward climax. She arched her back suddenly as she came, crying out in sweet agony and ecstasy. The man seemed to lose control then and flipped her mother over and pounded into her with fast, deep thrusts. French thought he looked ridiculous with his pants in a bunch around his shod feet. He humped into her mother, grunting, and French thought his pale buttocks looked somehow pitiful or forlorn. Her mother spurred him on, saying breathily,

"Yeah, baby, fuck me, fuck me hard. You know I'm the best, don't you? I love feeling your cock inside me..."

He roared suddenly and French flinched at the suddenness of the sound. He pounded into her mother a few times more, then collapsed on top of her. Marcheline stroked his back, once again saying soft, soothing things French couldn't hear. The man got up abruptly. Still breathing hard, he yanked his clothes into place, fastening buttons and zippers.

Marcheline looked shocked. She sat bolt upright in bed, naked and wild looking.

"What are you doing? Where are you going?" she asked, disbelief plain in her voice.

"I told you, Marcheline. It's over. You're a great lay; I can't deny that. For all the other womanly attributes you lack, you are talented in the sack," he'd said with a rueful laugh, "but I'm still going and I won't be back."

"Mon amour, please don't go," her mother cajoled sweetly, "I love you in ways no one else has... You told me so yourself! You'll never find another woman like me!" As she spoke, her voice gathered in volume and desperation.

He was fully dressed by then. He flipped open his wallet, selected a wad of bills, crumpled them in his fist and tossed them between her mother's legs where they were splayed on the bed. Her mother stared down at them, stunned.

"What the hell is this for?"

"Payment for services rendered. Thanks for the farewell fuck, Marcheline, it was good, as always. Don't try to contact me," he said dismissively and walked toward the door.

French knew she didn't have time to make it back to her room, so she ducked into the bathroom and hid behind the shower curtain to avoid being seen.

Marcheline had gotten angry then. She hurled accusations and invective at him as she chased him down the hall. She screamed and cursed at him in a mix of French, Creole and English. When they reached the front door, he turned and said in a well-modulated tone,

"This is exactly why I won't stay, Marcheline. You're out of control -- much too unpredictable... You knew I was married when we started this affair, but you couldn't be discreet, could you?" he asked, then went on without giving her mother a chance to respond. His face twisted with sarcasm as he said, "Nooo, you just

had

to call my house, didn't you? It was of the utmost importance that you speak with me in the middle of the night, wasn't it?"

Marcheline cowered in front of him, visibly recoiling from the words as though she were being physically assaulted.

He continued his diatribe, his voice still low. He spoke in an intense growl that, coupled with the harsh twist of his mouth and the hardness of the expression in his eyes, made him a greatly menacing presence.

"And when my wife answered the phone, you didn't just hang up like a normal person would have. You had to talk to her, didn't you? You had the

gall

to ask her if you could speak to me! What woman calls a man in the middle of the night and asks his wife if she can speak to him?! Are you out of your mind to do something like that? You almost cost me my marriage and that I won't have! I'd never lose my wife for someone like

you

!" he said through clenched teeth.

Marcheline was sobbing now, tears streaking her face. French came out of the shower and stood in the shadow of the bathroom door, watching wide-eyed as her mother dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around the man's legs, begging him.

"Please... Don't! How can you say these things after all we've been to each other?"

"Marcheline, you've never been anything to me but a hot, wet pussy! A ready and willing piece of ass who'd do things in bed that my wife wouldn't! Women like you are a dime a dozen." he sneered.

"Please, don't say those things -- I know you can't mean them! I love you, chér... Don't leave me! I'll never call you at home again, I swear. I won't call your office, either. I promise! Please give me another chance!" she begged brokenly. "I can't live without you!"

"No, Marcheline. It won't happen. And stop groveling, it's excessive and it disgusts me," he said tonelessly. He kicked his legs free of her grasp, knocking her to the floor in the process and was gone.

Marcheline lay curled naked on the floor of the foyer for a long time, her grief coming in bursts that alternated between pitiable whimpers and gut wrenching sobs. Eventually, she got up and stumbled naked and unseeing into the kitchen and came out with a bottle of earthy Martinican rum. She sat on the big red velvet couch in the living room, taking long gulps of the rum directly from the bottle and crying. She smoked cigarettes one after the other as she talked to herself and drank, gradually working her way up to a state of fury. She began pacing back and forth in the living room, uncaring about her nakedness. Blind rage was upon her and she began throwing and breaking things. Ashtrays, vases and the small tokens of affection she'd received from her lovers over the years smashed into a thousand tiny pieces on the varnished wood floors and plaster walls.

Looking wild and untamed, she castigated her departed lover for his numerous faults. French watched her mother from the hallway, flinching every time something else was broken. Eventually, Marcheline wore herself down and passed out, sprawled naked on the couch in a drunken stupor. French had covered her with a blanket, then crept carefully around the mess on the floor to the refuge of her own bed.

The next day, Marcheline subsided into silence. She lingered in a despondent, nearly catatonic, state that lasted for a couple of days. She didn't say a word and wouldn't have dressed or eaten had French not coaxed her into doing both. Marcheline simply sat and stared into space. And at night, she prowled the house. French had woken during the night and found her roaming, ghostlike, tracing and retracing her steps. She had guided Marcheline back to bed and stayed with her the rest of the night. Though she felt frightened and confused, French had kept up appearances. She cared for herself and Marcheline for the three days of her mother's depression, going to school each day, but rushing directly home afterwards.