Intimate by Jason Luke

the bedroom we didn’t have a lot in common and nor did either of us try to bridge the gap. We were happy with the simplicity of the arrangement. It was an ‘ask no questions’ understanding. For all I knew when she left my apartment, Christine went home to a husband and three kids. I never asked, and she never offered to tell me.
    Oh. Do you mind if I pace? I do that a lot while I’m thinking. Somehow it makes it easier to talk, to gather my thoughts into some kind of coherent order. I really want to tell this story properly because in a way, my encounter with Christine is one of the reasons you and I are having this private conversation right now. Inadvertently, Christine was responsible for me writing erotica.
    So… um, the pacing thing…? You don’t mind do you?
    I met Christine through my work at the time. I went to her home after hours to interview her for a kind of client satisfaction survey. It was a questionnaire that took about forty-five minutes to complete.
    When I rang her front doorbell, there was no answer. I waited for a few minutes on her front porch and then went around to the side of the home. There was a shoulder-high steel gate. I pulled it open and walked into the backyard of the house.
    Christine was in her swimming pool, just wading across to the steps. She saw me, and her face lit up into a particularly friendly smile. She waved and called out a greeting. I watched her climb out of the pool. She was wearing a lemon yellow bikini that looked good against the color of her tan. She padded across the tiled surround and shook my hand. Droplets of water clung to her lashes like sparkling jewels.
    “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. “I thought it would be someone else.”
    Hmmm...
    Now I’m not the smartest guy in the world, but I do know when a woman is lying, when she makes a mistake, and when she deliberately tells a blatant lie because she wants you to know she is lying but finds it easier to tell than a brazen truth. This was one of those.
    Christine knew it would be me visiting – my secretary had called and confirmed the appointment at lunchtime.
    I kept my expression neutral while Christine toweled her hair dry. Her eyes were slanted with sexuality, her lips pressed into a pout like she was anticipating a kiss. She excused herself for a minute and went back to the edge of the pool for her sunglasses, then stood, with the late afternoon sun directly behind her, and ran the towel slowly over her legs and across her breasts. Her nipples were hard, poking through the damp fabric of her tiny top and the bottoms of the bathers were so transparent I could clearly see the cleft of her sex through the material.
    Christine was a shaver… or maybe a waxer…
    She asked me if there was anything I would like, delivering the question from under hooded eyes, her words loaded with innuendo.
    I said nothing.
    We had met a week before at my office where I had spent a couple of hours talking to her about our product range. She was polite and curious – maybe just a little flirty – but she certainly was not provocative. She was attractive, educated, and well spoken.
    Suddenly now she was something else entirely.
    She rested her hand on my forearm and drew me through a set of glass doors, out of the sunlight and into the shade and gloom of a spacious kitchen. She smelled of chlorine and suntan lotion.
    She went to the refrigerator and bent from the waist to search the lower shelves. The material of her swimmers rucked tightly up around the cheeks of her bottom.
    Okay… so you get it, right? Christine, because of some unknown attraction, or maybe some unknown desperation, was coming onto me. I’ll skip the rest of the prequel and move the story along, okay?
    We tumbled into her big bed and Christine lay on her back. She was thirty-four when we met, with surgically enlarged breasts that pointed at the ceiling and natural blonde hair…
    I peeled the damp bottoms of her bikini off and asked her what