by Endlessly ©
Footnote: This story is brought to you because a friend of mine bet
me I could not work 'Nebraska' into an erotic story-- because, in her
words, "Nothing erotic has ever happened in Nebraska." Judge for yourself.
The saleswoman's head immediately turned when the man entered. He was
in his thirties, muscular; not the most attractive man in the world by
far, but he seemed to have an aura of charisma around him, something amazingly
magnetic. She smiled at him-something more than the saleswoman smile,
though she knew he was not who she would usually consider her type.
He smiled back, cool and sophisticated, and threw in a knowing wink. He
was used to it; had been ever since he was in his late teens. That's just
the way his life was; the perpetual bachelor. It wasn't his fault if women
kept falling in love with him; occasionally he gave them what they wanted,
and all of a sudden that made him a heartbreaker, some apathetic scourge
of the feminine population. He maintained that he had never used a woman.
It wasn't "using" if they begged.
Idly, he wondered how long it would take the saleswoman to beg. Not a
conceited wondering, not to his mind; it was a simple statement of fact,
and he was wondering how long it would take. He was wondering how long
it would take...
...When he saw her.
She was breathtaking, and oblivious to it. Tall, lean, lines where God
intended them and curves where Satan put them to entice men from the path
of righteousness. Pale, luminous skin with only a hint of freckles, as
if it were dappled by the sun, and thick black hair falling to the waist.
She was in her mid-twenties at oldest. And she had captured his attention..
And then she turned and accidentally looked him in the eyes. The delicate
bone structure, the high cheekbones of a ballet dancer, the perfect obsidian
eyebrows and well-defined lips of refreshing fullness were all lost on
him. He knew those eyes.
She had been shopping, oblivious; no attention was granted her from the
saleswoman, at least, not as he had received it. When he had entered the
store, she was holding an argyle sweater at arm's length and examining
it; she had thought the feeling of something suddenly familiar was the
sweater.. until she turned and accidentally looked into his eyes.
The attractive nose strangely large for his face, the muscle structure,
the dark hair-all forgotten in the wake of those cool, impassive eyes
that had tortured her a decade ago. Some things never change.
He knew her eyes were familiar; surely he would have remembered a body
like that. But the eyes.. He knew them. And so he walked toward her, and
she timidly stepped towards him, as if secret lovers about to dance.
He cleared his throat and began exuding charm in her general direction.
The saleswoman was crushed. The woman to which he spoke was bitterly,
painfully amused. "Excuse me, but you look so very familiar.. I think
perhaps we've met before. My name is Mike Chambers."
The woman knew who it was from the moment their eyes had met, but she
blinked a few times and timidly ventured speech. "Michael?"
Christ. Who else had called him by his full name? Who else had that voice?
"I don't think you'll remember me.. It's Ann. Ann Crable. Nebraska.."
That was the only word he needed. Nebraska; that place seemed eons and
inches away at the same time, looking at her. He remembered parting ways
with her; a chaste hug and kiss, and the words she murmured in her amazing
contralto. "You don't have to say anything, okay? I'm not expecting you
to. But I have to say it: I love you."
He had walked away. Wordlessly.
She had offered him everything in three simple sentences, in three mere
words; he had always envisioned himself a Greek hero, and it was so easy
to see himself as Odysseus leaving Calypso. But then, that was the problem
with being the eternal bachelor: he had no Penelope to go home to. No
reason not to stay.
"Of course I remember you! You look good. How are you?" He again flicked
his eyes across her body, which was in the wonderful state between thin
and voluptuous.
"Yes, I've lost weight." Her smile quirked wryly. "The same old diet.
I stick to the trite-but-true." He remembered her old joke: "I lost 20
pounds on the ultra manic-depression diet! I had a breakdown for breakfast,
a breakdown for lunch, and then a sensible dinner!" Some things never
changed. She brushed hair out of her face, revealing a long, thick scar
diagonally across her wrist-a souvenir that wasn't there before. Then
again, some things did change. "How have you been?"
He thought of the miles, of the years, of the women. He felt like some
middle-aged James Bond, drowning his memories in beauty and in one-night
stands. It wasn't his fault if they fell in love with him. "Pretty much
the same."
"I see," she remarked in a tone that really said, "I'm sorry."
He wanted to cry, or propose, or explain. In that moment he was closer
to loving another person than he had ever been.. And there was no effort
on her part to disguise the unabashed love for him that had existed during
this decade of no contact between the two of them. She looked at her watch.
"I have to go.. Perhaps we can get together for coffee sometime."
He had a feeling that if he asked for her number, it would be an incorrect
one. He knew it would never be arranged.. And was powerless to do anything
but watch as the beautiful, devoted woman walked gracefully to the door.
She had always been graceful; he had just never noticed.
She turned around to face him for a moment, her voice slightly tremoring
and higher in pitch. It reminded him of Nebraska, of their youth. "..Michael?"
Hearing her say his name did something peculiar to his chest; he thought
his heart would bruise against his sternum. "Yes, Ann?"
To say she gestured weakly around the store would be to do her inner fortitude
a disservice, but it was the only way her movement could be described,
no matter how inaccurate. "I hope you find what you're looking for." She
then turned her back to him for the last time, and left him quickly alone.
He stood there, dazedly, staring at the door, when the saleswoman approached
him. Now that the raven-tressed customer was gone, perhaps.. Just perhaps..
This saleswoman might have a chance. She turned on her charm, but it was
as invisible as a lightning-bug next to a bonfire. "Can I help you?"
He didn't answer, but continued to stare.
She opened her mouth to ask again, wondering if he had heard her.. When
he finally spoke. He shook his head as if dispelling a dream, and directed
every ounce of charisma he had ever possessed at the saleswoman. "Maybe
you can."
The night was amazing. When the saleswoman asked Mike if she could help
him, she didn't mean by wrapping her compliant, soft lips around the shaft
of his cock, swirling her tongue around it as it slid deep into her throat,
sucking his balls into her mouth. It just sort of.. happened. Like it
always did with Mike. His life was an experiment in eroticism; a line
of warm, wet pussies and soft, hot mouths and oddly innocent, worshipful
eyes that scared him to look in sometimes.
The smell of desire hung in the room like dense, gray fog; it clung to
the curtains and the sheets like an obsessive lover and refused to leave.
The low cacophony of fucking unbridled and unabashed began a slow climb,
an easy crescendo that Mike controlled with flare as the woman completely
abandoned herself, her inhibitions and her self-control in a way she never
had before. Her legs remained wrapped completely around his hips, pulling
him tighter and tighter into her, as if trying to somehow get her entire
body to pass through his and into the other side..
The promised land? The place of milk and honey, flowing..
Fortissimo. Climax. Shaking spasms and exploding neural synapses like
fireworks. Mingling bodies, mingling cum; the saleswoman fell asleep wearing
only Mike's sweat..
And she was still asleep when Mike left her bed, without the strength
to stay until morning. Driving home in the rain, the sound of his windshield-wipers
mocked him as he tried to remember if he had called out the wrong name.