After a couple of hours back at home, the smell and taste of Amy's fingers lingered now only in my imagination. But the thoughts of the day filled my head, I really wanted to masturbate again, but I told myself, my always-optimistic self, to save it for tomorrow, just in case.
I spent a long time writing her a very short email:
"Hi Amy, thank you for everything. Are you sure about tomorrow? Do you trust me?"
I pretended to work but I was just trying to distract myself and very little got done. Just after five I got her reply:
"Thank you Thomas. I'm sure. I trust you completely. I did what you told me at the table and I'll do anything you tell me tomorrow. xxx, Crazy Amy"
I don't remember what else I did that evening. I know I spent all my brain power on a plan. My crazy, Post Traumatic Let's See You Naked Again Re-Enactment plan. Some time after midnight I sent her another email:
"Amy, I'll come over at 10:30, back door. Wear only a bathrobe. Do what I tell you. xxx Crazier Thomas."
After struggling for sleep I finally woke to find her reply:
"Okay. Craziest Amy."
I washed and dressed in a trance. I had decided the night before that I would wear the same lounge pants and T-shirt that I'd thrown on before rushing to her house that crazy day. I rolled a slim joint, put it in my cigarette packet, and put them in my pocket with a lighter. I rushed through the morning emails and told the team I had an appointment and would be back online later.
At ten thirty exactly I came to her door and she was there to let me in. She was barefoot and was wearing a regular pink bathrobe. She looked quizzically at my pants and T-shirt. I don't think she even remembered or cared what I'd worn that day but perhaps subconsciously she'd relate them to the incident. I was amazed this was going to plan so far.
"Come out here," I said, stepping back. She hesitated. Her yard was secluded but not hidden. She knew she was naked under the robe. "Denise isn't home." I reassured her as she stepped slowly through the doorway.
I sat at her patio table and indicated the tall mesh chair opposite me. She sat, seemingly determined to do whatever I said - she trusted me completely. With exaggerated actions I took the cigarettes and lighter from my pocket and laid them on the glass table top. I shook out a Marlboro and lit it. I knew she had never been a smoker and I knew she didn't have that ex-smoker fear and hatred. For some unknown reason people tell me that I make cigarettes look good. The ex-smokers can't stand me. I never try to smoke in any particular way to justify or enhance this claim but today, I confess, I laid it on thick. As I exhaled my second or third drag into the air downwind from her, I reached for the packet again. I shook out the joint and handed it to her. Her eyes widened but she took it from me. I held out my lighter and she put it between her lips and awaited her fate.
She took a tentative drag and managed not to splutter or cough. Although she'd never smoked tobacco, I knew from experience that she could handle an occasional joint. I reached for it, took a small tote, and handed it back. This time I left her with it, sat back, and dragged slowly on my cigarette. She took another hit, deeper this time, and looked in my eyes with determination if not a little defiance. Hah! I thought, let's see if your as determined as you think! Then I said in a steady voice:
"Do it now Amy."
"Do what?"
"Do. It. Here."
The recognition of what I meant flashed through her eyes (lovely light blue eyes by the way). She paused for a second and then managed to turn the tables on me a little: she shifted the joint to her left hand, brought it to her lips, and dropped her right hand under the table. The patterned glass tabletop acted like a pixelated porno movie but in real life it was ten times more erotic than a crystal clear view of her shame. In the blurred image I saw her her hand drop to her robe, ease it open, and dip inside. Neither of us breathed for a long moment. The joint and the cigarette had burned through their useful material so I flipped mine casually on her spotless patio. She tossed the roach in the same direction. I turned to her again:
"Give me the belt." and, God bless her, she reached below the table with both hands, pulled the matching pink belt from her robe, and handed it to me. "Let's go upstairs."