By Margo Perry  (margo707 AT rogers DOT com)
Copyright 2003 by Margo Perry, all rights reserved.

John Smythe scrawled his famous signature across the architect’s rendering and waited for the heady rush of pride and satisfaction that would make his hard work worthwhile. It didn’t come. He put down his pen, stretched his tired back against his chair and took off his glasses. The drawing blurred; blue skies and trees seemed to move through the glass walls and into the house. He felt centuries older than his thirty-eight years and suddenly afraid, as loneliness swept like a gust of winter’s chill across the summer night. He shivered, reached for the snifter of Corvoisier that waited on his desk and sipped. When had his passion for architecture and beautiful women, his zest for every waking day shriveled into this anxious existence? He hadn’t noticed; he hadn’t mourned. Mindlessly, he drew a slowly moving finger lightly across the water-colored design in front of him. In the coming months, he’d supervise as steel, concrete, and glass transformed this perspective into an actual building and another design award would probably be added to the collection that lined his walls. Tonight, none of it mattered. Feeling as empty as his glass, he walked over to the bar and poured himself another drink.

He padded barefoot back to his desk. He wished Yanna were at home, not that she’d be much company. He’d seen to that! “I work at home and I need privacy,” he’d told the housekeeping agency, “ and I won’t tolerate any involvement in my personal or professional life.”

The first three women they sent were more interested in flirting with their handsome employer than in managing his split-leveled loft and he fired each of them within days. Yanna was the fourth. She had no references but came armed with the startling, delicate beauty of an Audrey Hepburn, the forthright intelligence of a Katharine Hepburn and, John was the first to admit his Achilles heel, outstandingly large breasts. He found her distractedly attractive and spent their interview trying to keep his eyes on her face and her eyes away from the obvious and growing bulge in his pants. If only she knew how to be quiet and mind her own business, he mused.

He needn’t have worried. He hired her and she not only welcomed his demand for privacy but she matched his conditions with provisions of her own. One, while agreeing to live-in, she demanded that he never enter her home uninvited. And two, on her days off and after 8:00 PM, unless agreed on beforehand, she was never to be disturbed. They were the perfect couple, at least until recently when he found himself living for the moment he saw her.

John swirled his tongue around the warm, smooth brandy. Yanna was his perfect housekeeper. She spoke only when spoken to, never crossing the line into familiarity. And it was driving him crazy! He caught himself wondering where she went on her days off, and with whom. He stole glimpses of her as she bustled about admiring the graceful length of her spine; the sweet curve of her slender hips and her shapely legs as she climbed the stairs; the fullness of her tantalizing breasts as she bent to put his lunch on the table. She insisted on wearing a uniform to work but John hated it, believing that she was born to wear silk, elegantly designed. In his fantasies he played Professor Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolitle, convincing her of her worth, providing her with a college education. Of course, she fell helplessly and gratefully in love with him. He’d imagine them, arm in arm, on the way to dinner and the theater; Yanna dressed in a simple black sheath, her huge breasts and cleavage rising out of its alluring scoop. He invited her into his dreams, but she was an elusive butterfly, ever the woman he craved but always out of reach. Only in his private pleasure did he have her to hold, please and fuck until he pumped thick cum over his fingers and onto his thighs. He masturbated often and for hours. He was obsessed.

“I should ask her out.”
“She’s my housekeeper. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“So what!”
“Can you imagine what everybody would say?”
“I don’t care!”

Voices holding circular conversations ran around his head like non-stop Musak. If Yanna was the fly, John was the spider caught in his own web of conventionality and self-doubt. He was perpetually frustrated and as hungry for her attention as a blind man was for sight. John drained his glass. He didn’t want another drink; he was edgy and restless and alcohol wasn’t helping. He glanced at his watch: 8:40 PM. It was still early. He picked up the phone, mentally sorting through his short list of favorite dates. He put down the phone. On her days off, Yanna rarely got home before midnight and even then he wouldn’t see her; she’d use her private entrance and go straight into her apartment.

“I wonder what it’s like? I furnished it, but still . . . You can learn a lot about a person from seeing where they live.”

Morbid curiosity was taking over and the door to her apartment was becoming the lid to his Pandora’s Box. His pulse quickened and his mind was busy mutating trust and mutual respect into something less absolute, something negotiable.

“It’s my house. I have a right to know what’s in it!”

He fumbled in his desk drawer for the spare Key Fob to Yanna’s apartment and his traitorous thoughts guided him through the loft and along the passageway to her private quarters. His hand shook as he reached out and stroked the entrance light to ‘green’. He smelled fresh flowers as he walked through the door.

In the foyer, a colorful arrangement of fragrant wildflowers blossomed out of a tall ebony vase. His eggshell walls had been covered by a rose-textured paint that perfectly complemented her simply framed Rembrandt, Vermeer and El Greco prints. John wandered around fascinated. The two-bedroom suite - an afterthought that had taken him all of ten minutes to draw - had been transformed into a beautiful gallery of a space that he no longer recognized. Authentic Oriental carpets were strewn occasionally across the hardwood floors and lights from the city bled softly through diaphanous window hangings. Her kitchen was spotless and minimal; and she’d replaced the chrome bathroom fixtures with antique brass. John thought of the care he’d taken in every detail of his space and felt ashamed, as if he’d insulted her with his rushed and careless handling of hers. Her bedroom was soft and feminine with its white duvet, Monet prints and floral Tiffany lamp. He felt guilty and brutish standing in the middle of it, his bulky six-foot frame adding insult to the injury of his invasion. But he couldn’t leave. He was more curious and intrigued than ever.

“These are no housekeeper’s quarters! Who is this woman and why is she here? More importantly, why am I here? This is really sick; I really should leave!”

But the voices in his head were now trembling from afar and his conscience had lapsed into an uneasy silence. He opened the closed door of her second bedroom.

It was an office, not unlike his own. The drawing table was cluttered with designs for the interior of a stately mansion and the details suggested that her client had unlimited finances. John studied the drawings. They were some of the best he’d ever seen; certainly more boldly creative than the work of any of the designers he used. Why would someone of her stature be working as a housekeeper? The plans were too professional, too schooled and creative to be the work of a hobbyist. Stunned, John walked over to the window and looked out. Who was she designing for? The building was obviously being renovated. She was out there somewhere, maybe meeting with the architect involved in the project. Maybe someone he knew. That thought was unbearable. He felt something adolescent, disturbing and unkind. It was jealousy and an overwhelming sense of possessiveness. What he was finding out tonight disturbed him. There was another more accomplished, more authentic, and even more desirable Yanna that others knew and he didn’t. Somebody he wanted to know very, very badly. And he didn’t know what to do.

“Leave. Get out of here while you can!”

The voices were screaming now. John moved quickly but not down the hall. Back in her bedroom, his knees shook as he opened the door to her closet and a palette of warm rich colors and textures excited his senses. He could smell her perfume. He reached out and touched something soft: satin, he thought. He rubbed the material over his bare arm and then across his cheek and under his nose. He could still smell her perfume. He grabbed a handful of something hard: beads, he thought, a short beaded dress. He traced the deep-V of its bodice and imagined her soft huge pillows of breasts pushing out of it, imagined caressing them, feeling the moving spongy soft under the hard knobs and he felt his cock grow hard and long. He spread his palm, felt textures of blouses and dresses and pants pass beneath his hand. He spread his other and felt the length and girth of his pulsing hardness. It felt so good. He curved his fingers around his heavy sensitive balls and squeezed lovingly. He gasped as a torrent of pleasure squeezed pre-cum out of his cock’s head and then stifled a gasp as he heard a door open and close and footsteps light and quick travelling along the hall. A riot of emotions exploded in his head. He couldn’t think. He didn’t breathe until he had closed the closet door behind him, the crush of fabric at his back and the smell of her perfume still teasing his nostrils.

He could see her moving across his meager slit of an opening like a shadow, threatening him and tantalizing him at the same time. Prickling heat peppered his brow and clammy drops of anxiety dribbled from his armpits. Something soft flew across his vision and fell onto the bed: Was she undressing? He could smell his own excitement, his own fear.

The shower was running. He slid open the closet door a crack. In the mirror opposite, he could see the open bathroom door. He’d have to pass right by it to get out. He’d have to wait. His pulse was pounding in his temples and his heartbeat sounded like a tom-tom. He’d wait forever. Give anything. Do anything, as long as she didn’t come to this door, as long as she didn’t find him here in her closet.

The water had stopped. He could see the skin of the shadow moving; hear the soft thud of a drawer closing and then another. He could see the flowing fabric of the shadow moving and the sound of heels on hardwood, back and forth. Finally, a door slammed shut. Yanna had gone out again.

Relief soundlessly giggled its inane way down his throat and back up into his head. He felt dizzy. He waited for long minutes, numbers marching relentlessly through his head: one thousand, two thousand, three thousand . . . He listened intently . . . one hundred and eighty thousand . . . and still no sound. He slipped out of the closet, out of Yanna’s apartment, scurried down the hall and into his loft.

“That was close,” he said.

“Closer than you think,” she said.

Yanna was seated at his desk, looking over his drawings.

Her key dropped from John’s hand and he felt nausea rise as the ground moved under him. He tried to speak but a monstrous wave of guilt, embarrassment, and shock had closed off his windpipes, leaving him mute.

“Climbing out of a woman’s closet is about as personal and awkward as it gets. I figured you needed some privacy.” She stared long and hard at John as if he were some curious beast she was observing for the first time. She returned her attention to his plans. “These are very good,” she said, “I can see Frank Lloyd Wright’s influence here but yours, too. Beautiful work.”

John believed that if he moved or spoke, he’d shatter into a million pieces. Her voice had been quiet, her attitude non-committal. John had no idea where he stood, except knee-deep in ‘stupid’. Was Yanna angry? Disillusioned? Disgusted? Was she about to quit? Please, anything but that!

“Obviously, you’re having trouble living up to your own rules. Shall we renegotiate or do I quit?”

“We renegotiate,” John said much too loudly.

“Let’s talk over a glass of wine. Merlot okay?” Her tone was business casual.

“Great! I’ll get it.” John’s was childishly-eager-to-please.

“No, I’ll do the honors. Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable? My closet wasn’t available so I’m decidedly under-dressed and I don’t like to be at a disadvantage.”

Yanna slipped off the stool and moved toward him. His apprehensiveness didn’t keep his cock from stirring or his skin from tingling as he watched the deliberate sway of her hips, each shapely leg as it peeped and teased with every step. The heels of her mules clicked a light rhythm and her huge waves of breasts bounced and swayed, getting larger and larger as she approached.

“Are you going to just stand there?” she asked.

Her voice was smiling and so his cock flirted coyly with his pants; but it turned into a lurching, hungry thing when she brushed deliberately against his arm before turning into the kitchen, her triumphant breasts leading the way.

“Hurry,” she tossed over her shoulder.

John took the stairs, three at a time. He had been invited to slip into something more comfortable and while he felt ridiculous, it didn’t matter. Whatever happened tonight was his own fault and he was more than willing to face the music. As long as that music wasn’t his and Yanna’s swan song. He pulled off his shirt and jeans, grabbed his terrycloth robe from a chair, put it on over his jockeys and headed downstairs.

Yanna was seated on the couch, patting the place beside her. John couldn’t take his eyes off her cleavage, almost falling into it as he sat. He forced himself to look at her face, into her dark eyes but it was hard. His hand shook as he took the glass she offered him. Hope, fear and desire flowed in and out of him at random and he couldn’t tell where one emotion began or another left off.

“Let’s drink to new beginnings,” she said, raising her glass.

They clinked and sipped.

“How did you know…”

“That you were in my closet? I knew as soon as I walked in. I’ve been smelling that woodsy mix of you and ‘Rendition’ for almost a year now. It’s quite distinct, you know. I figured there must have been an emergency; that you’d come and gone. Until I passed by my closet.”

Yanna leaned back against the couch and crossed her legs. She circled the rim of her wineglass with a long manicured finger. “I wondered how long it would take before curiosity got the better of you. But I envisioned maybe being asked out. Or even the more direct, ‘when are you going to invite me in’, approach. I never imagined you resorting to measures so desperate that they’d land you in my closet!”

What started as a chuckle grew into a hysterical fit of laughter with Yanna doubled up, her pendulous breasts falling over her knees. John felt too utterly foolish to be anything but hopelessly overwhelmed by such a glorious sight, so utterly stupid that soon he was laughing, too. Humor united them, held them aloft and captive; and they roared, expelling months of tension, withheld thoughts and feelings, until they were done.

“This is nice,” Yanna said finally.

“More than nice,” John said.

“Why didn’t you make a move?” Yanna asked. “I wanted to but it wasn’t my place. I’ve seen you watching me . . . ”

“I don’t know. It all crept up on me, my feelings for you. When I faced them … I’d made so much of my privacy. I didn’t know what to do.”

“That’s for sure!” She started to laugh again. “So . . . I know you’re full of questions. What do you want to know about me?”

“Everything,” he said. “Everything.”

They talked the bottle dry and John opened another after ordering a pizza.

John knew of Yanna’s father, one of Europe’s wealthiest and most renowned Interior Designers. With her father’s blessing, she’d moved to North America to study and to succeed on her own terms. And the designs on her desk were part of her final school exam.

She’d seen John’s ad in the newspaper and it had seemed like a miracle: a place to stay and a chance to get to know him.

“I’ve followed your career. I took this job because I wanted to be close to you. I hoped that you’d notice me, ask about me. My dream in life is to decorate a house that you’ve designed,” she told him. “I think your work is brilliant.”

“So is what I saw of yours. I’d like to see more.”

While John accepted their food, Yanna got her portfolio from her apartment. They ate pizza and pored over it together.

“Your work is good. It would be fun to collaborate,” John said, when they were done. “Do you like the plans I just finished? The client is looking for an Interior Designer and I’d love it to be you.”

“I love everything about them: the design of the house, the layout. Everything! And is that the actual location?”

“Yes, Cedar Forest. Beautiful isn’t it. There’s a waterfall nearby and sometimes it’s all you can hear except for the birds singing. It’s only about three miles from here. I’ll show it to you if you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much,” Yanna’s said softly. “And what about us? Where do we go from here?”

“Anywhere and everywhere,” John said, “and I can’t wait.”

He took both her hands in his own and pulled her to her feet. He trapped her arms behind her back, pulling her tightly into him. He felt her breasts first, fuller and more rubbery than he’d expected. “So this is heaven,” he whispered into her ear. He could feel heat rising out of her and into him and knew she was too far away. He pulled her tighter, feeling her entire length melting into him.

“It’s been a long time for me, John,” she said, letting go of his hands and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Kiss me.”

He opened his mouth invitingly, leaned back slightly and moved both his hands in slow circles over her pert firm ass. He showed her his tongue, snaking it in and out between his strong white teeth. He licked his lips slowly, seductively. It was a promise. She ground her pussy into his hard and reaching cock; showed him just how hungry she was.

“Please, John.”

She was begging. She was ready. He leaned down to her, his lips a whisper against hers. She opened her mouth slowly. She licked his lips, tasting him. And then some inner restraint broke and her tongue and teeth were everywhere, devouring him. He wanted her just as much and he fucked her mouth with his tongue. He separated the cheeks of her ass, almost roughly, and pushed his stiff cock against her cunt, wanting her to want it in her pussy and in her ass.

“Johnny,” she said, mewling like a kitty needing a tom. “Fuck me Johnny.”

“Not yet,” he said. “You don’t want me enough”

Yanna pulled away and looked up at him. She took his hand, chose his long thick middle finger and guided it past her panties and into her dripping pussy. John loved her warm, slickness, loved the feel of her muscles contracting against him, begging for more.

“I do want you, Johnny. I do,” she said.

She slid slowly down his body, pressing her tits against his chest, groaning as his fingers slid out of her. She moved across his belly and leaking cock. Her tits wrapped around his thigh, making it disappear. The sensations that were coursing through him were too big to be contained. He could feel the pressure building in his balls and his legs were beginning to shake. He shut his eyes tight. Yanna was tugging his jockeys down over his hips. He looked down to see a cock so big that he could hardly recognize it as he stepped out of his shorts.

“Please,” John begged, without knowing what he was begging for. Not release. He felt too good.

He could feel her tongue on his legs, hot and wet, moving up his thighs. His cock lurched and oozed cum in anticipation. He felt tits again, along his thighs, over his cock and across his belly and chest. And then . . . nothing.

He opened his eyes, his body screaming for contact. She was as close as a whisper and her hands were feather-light as she lifted his robe off his shoulders, smiling as it fell to the floor.

“I want you back in that closet.”

“You want me to . . . ”

“Use your key and leave the door open.”

John crossed his arms in front of him and moved quickly, feeling naked and exposed. There were no rules here and control seemed to be moving back and forth between them without warning. He picked up the key from the floor and was out of the loft and in Yanna’s apartment in record time.

In the darkness, everything was the same and everything was different. Excitement pressed him back against fabric that soothed or itched or tickled his bare back and he was afraid, not that she would open the door but that she wouldn’t. Suppose this was his punishment and she left him there all night, without her all night? If she did come, what would she say? What would she do to him? He heard a door open and close and footsteps light and quick travelling along the hall; coming nearer. Click and a rosy hue flooded the room outside. And then . . . nothing. He began to count slowly: one thousand, two thousand, three thousand . . . he listened intently . . . ten thousand . . . and still no sound. He slipped out of the closet.

Yanna stood just outside the door.

“You’re out, congratulations,” she drawled in one low husky breath.

She rolled one lazy shoulder and then the other and her robe fell away. Her black lacy bra was too small for her bountiful breasts and a long nipple had escaped up and over the top. “Bad girl,” she cooed, twirling it in her fingers. Her other hand disappeared underneath as she lifted the giant balloon toward her waiting lips. “Nice titty,” she said as she tongued it, before sucking it, before placing it back in her bra, a baby placed in its cradle.

She moved in, locking John’s cock between her legs and squeezing it like the stallion it was. John could feel lace, escaped pussy hair and wetness, warm, warm wetness. She started moving her hips forward and back, using him. Her eyes were flinty bright and crazed. The demure, gentle Yanna was gone.

“Wanna ride, baby? Wanna ride?”

She went over to the bed, pulled the duvet onto the floor and lay on the satin sheets. She bent her knees and lifted her pelvis, fucking the air, drawing circles dropping back onto the mattress, only to rise again.

John was pulling on his cock, watching her mesmerized.

Yanna moved her panties aside with one hand and began to finger her clit with the other.

“Help me, Johnny,” she groaned, her head flung back against the pillows, her face distorted with passion.

John climbed onto the bed and pulled her panties over her raised hips. He stretched out beside her. His tongue found her tongue; his finger found her pleasure dome. And the ritual began.

It was like a tiny penis, that long aching knob of hers, and he played it softly, watching her squirm with pleasure. Their mouths were fluid and open, one river flowing. John felt her fingers spreading his own pre-cum over his cock head, around his sweet spot and then her hand pumping his shaft.

“Come get some, Johnny.”

She spread her legs in the air, opened wide and John took hold of them. She guided him over her clit and then in. She was hot and wet and as tight as a virgin. “Sweet fuck,” John said. Her cunt swallowed his cock and held on tight when he withdrew, loosening up to welcome him back in. Every stroke he’d ever stroked seemed to be a part of the way he felt in her pussy. He was no longer alone. They were one, fucking slowly and sweetly and then he was plunging into her, punishing her for making a fool of him, owning him. Making her his in return.

“Come. Johnny, come!”

And then there was no sound except for the slapping of hips and growling. The smell of their sex hung in the air. Their mouths hung open in a silent scream and then they were sailing over the cliff, from ecstasy into oblivion and one spent and sweaty heap.

When John woke, the morning light was streaming through the window and Yanna was staring down at him. He could smell coffee and her kiss was so tender that he wanted to cry.

“Let’s take the day off. Pack a picnic and drive to Cedar Falls. Would you like that?” he asked.

“I’d love to get a sense of the place. Pretend that I already have the job.”

“You do have the job. I’m the client; it’s my house.”

“Your house?” she whispered, staring down at him in disbelief. “And you’re going to let me decorate?”

“I am,” he said. “We’ll do it together.”

All the excitement he’d been hoping for flooded through him. Yanna kissed him again.

“I love you,” she said, snuggling into his chest.

She hadn’t noticed his tears.