Inner Fire - Part 2

Room with a View

Before leaving the gardens for The Professor’s rooms, I head hastily to the bathroom at the café, not wanting to keep him waiting and risk his further ire. In truth, I am utterly fascinated at glimpsing this darker side of my lover, but uncomfortable at the ease with which I can embrace and accept it. So while he has put my own pleasure on credit, for some later repayment I hope - and it is frustrating to be treated like this – I am still excited to think about the possibilities that might await. With both these emotions taking turns on the see-saw that currently comprises my inner playground, I contemplate our affair. With the Professor, there is no sentiment, only the immediate and obvious benefits of mutual whim and fancy. At least, to date, it has been mutual. And even when we have explored the darker side of sex, it has been on balanced, if not equal, terms. Now, I feel unsure about whether there are any terms anymore.

But for now I focus on what I can deal with immediately - the physical. Going into one of the stalls, I appraise the state of my clothes. No grass stains, not too many creases. But the lace pants are in no fit state to be worn. Stretched and stained, it seems I am always losing lingerie to the pleasure of The Professor! But that is immaterial. I should be more concerned about any injuries. I am indeed bruised, chafed, and quite sore, and fortunate to not be bleeding.  Exiting the stall I recklessly toss the pants in the waste paper bin, a crude advertisement to all of my wicked deeds. The movement makes me aware of how stiff my body feels; I have been impacted more than I thought, not just from the violence, for there is an added tension from the ensuing frustration.

I check my face in the mirror. This shouldn’t be too difficult to hide. The red marks from having his hand across my mouth could be just the sun and wind... Tracing the red pattern makes me remember again the weight of him on me; his hand and body pinning me down, the way he pulled my thigh around him. The pressure. The thrill. The pleasure. Oh, these were not the thoughts to linger on in my current state! I squeeze my thighs together as I splash some cold water onto my face to try and cool the heat. I run my fingers through my hair and reposition my Vixen hairpins. My hat! I realise that I have left it in the bushes. How annoying. It was my favourite straw boater too. With a sigh, I quickly powder my face - yes, that diminishes the redness. I apply some lipstick and a quick spray of perfume.

Ah, to be a decent woman again: impeccably coiffed, upstanding, responsible, respected. Panty-less!

I hasten out to meet The Professor at the gate, feeling shy all of a sudden, after all these months of such brazen boldness in our intimacy. As he turns more fully towards me and I wonder what to say, I am distracted by the fact he has my hat. My delight at his saving it is written in the smile on my face, and only eclipsed by my delighted cry as, in handing it to me, I see he has fixed a fresh rose to the brim. Such sweet romanticism beneath that implacable exterior is difficult to reconcile with the cruelty I am told he has, and may have glimpsed in his purposeful denial today.

He offers his elbow, eyes still twinkling, and we commence our walk back to his college rooms. I wonder if I walk differently. Whether the heightened awareness of my hidden nakedness makes me walk more sensually; the lurking need for release makes me wiggle my hips a little more. The Professor seems to be setting a slightly more brisk pace than usual, and I can only hope that this is a sign that his anticipation at his plans matches my own. I muse, not for the first time, that he is always planning while I am always improvising. I wonder if that makes me responsible for my own fate in what happened in the botanical gardens, or if when he does relent to impulse, it is only ever dark.

As my mind dwells on this topic, I am somewhat preoccupied when we enter his rooms, and I bump into his back, apologising. Obscured behind him, I only see a glimpse of the front of the room to notice it has been rearranged. Tables have been shifted to provide more bench space for one of his experiments, and are the reason for his cautious entry - and also the reason why dropping my handbag onto its customary table by the door is not a good idea! His cry of warning comes too late as the bag drops between two large beakers sliding them in opposite directions. As one rests against the wall to slosh within its glassy confines, merrily celebrating some chemical Oktoberfest, the other slides forward off the table, tilting and splashing a little of the contents across my blouse and skirt as it tumbles down to its final shattered end. I stand stupefied, looking at shards of glass and, for what seems like ages, at liquid that starts to react by smoking and bubbling through his carpet.

The panic hits in a thunderbolt – it is corrosive and I am wearing it! His reactions are slightly quicker than my own, and he grabs at my skirt. I should be thrilled having barely closed the door behind me to find The Professor ripping my clothes off, were I not in such fear of their possible damage. I follow his example and attack my blouse, buttons popping in every direction, as I am careful not to touch the smaller wet patch on the front. As I slide it off onto the floor where it too begins to smoulder, I hear the zip in my skirt rip. In a smooth single movement his forceful tug makes the skirt give way at the seams, as he goes down on one knee for added momentum. Casting the skirt to one side, head down and turned to watch its flight, he looks for all the world like a fiery matador.

I am thankful for the thickness and length of the corset. It provides a sturdy layer between the acid and my skin; although now stained and damaged, it is destined to join the growing graveyard of my clothes. As the panic and urgency subsides, but not the adrenaline, I am aware that he is still on one knee in front of me. I see by the general direction of his gaze and dropped jaw that he is taking in the rather unusual view of my present and missing under garments. Again I have the fleeting image of my brave bullfighter, cape cast aside, completely still and focused, awaiting the final charge, not knowing if it will be beast or man that survives. My mind absurdly flicks to a mental image of The Professor wearing a golden shimmering traje de luces, and not surprisingly with so much adrenaline in my system today, a fit of giggles ensues, heightened further by my imagining a black montera on his head! But my giggles are cut short as my matador, with a firm hand on each stockinged thigh, propels me forward, his mouth softly making contact with surprised flesh just below the centre of the corset.

My hands find his shoulders to steady myself, as anticipation and surprise war with each other, and my mirth is replaced with a surprised gasp. He murmurs into my flesh “My wicked, wicked, Vixen.” When I look at his upturned face, I see by his twinkling eyes that I will again enjoy his punishment – that he was never truly finished with me in the gardens; merely pausing. So, was he just being cruel earlier, or being cruel to be kind? For the added suspense of the prolonged hiatus, I find, has stimulated my desire beyond even my own recognition. That one touch of his lips to my skin reignites buried embers that I hadn’t realised were slowly smouldering all the while.

There is no hand to cover my mouth now. Instead, they caress my leg and gently lift my foot on to his bent knee, so that his lips can follow the roll of silk stocking down the outside of my leg, a tantalising striptease that he controls with slow deliberation. Each languid kiss elicits a shiver of delight, hastily melted by the growing fire he stokes so well. Drawing two fingers in an imaginary seam slowly up the back of my naked leg, his lips keep pace along the inside of the calf and thigh, a crescendo of suppressed expectation, suddenly broken off at its peak as the ritual is repeated along the other leg; this time all the more anticipated for knowing his lips’ impending journey.

I toss my hat and hair pins on the discarded stockings, shaking out my hair so I am left in only my dark blue corset, his gift to me following the knife incident with the cream one. He kisses my hip just under the corset’s hem while his thumb rubs distractedly along its frill, a circumnavigation that ruffles both corset and wearer. His hands glide around my hips, over soft curves, caressing and spreading warmth down the back of my legs. They tickle over knees and upwards along my inner thighs, looking to meet his softly descending kisses. I have the fleeting thought that his conciliatory gift of midnight blue is very much to the Vixen’s liking; his impeccable taste compensating many times over for any prior hurt.

The feel of his lips and tongue recalls the flush of spring from the gardens. Like an opening bloom, I respond to his tantalising touch. The depths of such tenderness, like the soft awakening of a tightly curled rose bud, yield a delicate fragrant heart, soft and velvety, and very much ready to be plucked. My hands grip his shoulders harder, my breathing shallow and rapid. His mouth provides an adoration that Venus herself would crown in triumphant sweet white myrtle. And maybe it should be her name that is invoked, rather than a nameless male counterpart; but my throat nevertheless makes of it a softly rising chant, with trembling voice, emotional and hoarse, as can only come of extended worship at the highest of altars.

And as I die a small death, it is as if the Sirocco itself has welled up in me, rippling and roiling previously calm lagoons into turbulent storms of frenzied consequence. Too late, I realise my corset is too tight and I am now struggling to breathe. It must come off. At least this one has hooks and eyes at the front, but my head is suddenly light and dizzy and my hands start to tremble as I struggle breathlessly with the top hook. Then I find his hands over mine, taking over as they pop undone in rapid succession each hook, like a sprinter eagerly clearing a line of hurdles. I am aware at first of an overwhelming freedom, and then dimly, as my legs start to buckle, of his arms slipping behind my back and knees. As the room completes a near black pirouette, he scoops me up against his chest, and carries me towards his bed. My breath and vision begin to normalise with the sudden rush of air to my lungs. Kneeling on the bed, he sits me on its edge. I wince – I had no idea I was so sore. I see his slight frown, gone as soon as it appears. I smile – “I’m okay, darling – just a little …breathless… “ Quite an understatement – the Vixen never even remotely finding either man or deed to make her faint before! “...and tender.”

I smile up at him, feeling the rush of oxygen add to my already heady levels of joy. Only now does it occur to me that I am completely naked while he is completely clothed. It is an unbalance I dislike. I tug at his shirt, whispering his name as a plea. He understands and shares the same desire, soon standing before me naked; a glorious pillar of flesh awaiting my own lusty touch. But a greater tenderness is called for than I anticipate, and at first he squirms just a little. Ah! I am not the only casualty of our earlier adventures. Daring to broach the topic, I suggest that maybe neither of us are up for too much further exertion? He gives a rare chuckle of obvious disbelief; equally confirmed by my own grin. Yes, we both like the challenge of being creative.

More wary this time, I delicately offer soft kisses against hardened anticipation. The tickling of my hands as they trace paths along his legs and around his hips is constantly met by muscles involuntarily twitching to so light a feather touch. My mouth, wet and warm, softly promises priapic rapture. The ironic image of a child rewarded a lollipop after an outing to the park comes to my mind, and my smirk I am sure adds pressure in all the right places. His hands caress my hair, tickling my scalp with the slightest of guidance to provide cues for maximum pleasure as he stands firmly, a lion in his pride. I wonder if I would have had the courage for this safari in the gardens?

I close my eyes all the better to hear the subtle changes to his breathing that always delight me, seeking that pressure point that makes his breath hitch. Ah, there it is. I can feel his body tensing more, so am surprised by his sudden decision to step back. As my eyes meet his, I realise by his smouldering look that he has further plans. Moving to the bed, he gathers me into his arms to lie with him, curling himself around me, his body’s warmth along the length of my back. The sensation of so much skin is so opposite to our earlier encounter, and so sensual, I delight in sinking further back into him. And thus we are suspended, on the edge of desire, all breath and skin. He gently nuzzles my neck, his lips finding their way to my ear, which he tugs slightly with his teeth, alarming me for a second that he might bite it like once before, instead running his moist tongue along its edge, before gently sucking the lobe, tantalising me further. I had no idea such an innocuous part of a body could feel so much glorious sensation. I lift my leg over his to run my foot along the back of his lower leg, toes pointed in sheer delight, slowly feeling the muscle of his calf roll across my big toe each time my foot ascends.

He props himself up on one elbow, wrapping his hand under my neck and jaw, all entwined in my hair, so he can turn my face towards him, all the better to softly kiss my lips. As he drapes his other arm over me, his hand caresses and cups each breast, teasing nipples contrarily hardened to such soft touches. As he holds me in this tender circle, I reach my lower arm over his to caress the back of his head, his ear, his cheek, as our lips barely touch and brush against each other, breath tickling. Everything is so close but not yielding - not yet. My top arm reaches back behind me to trail lazy fingers the length of his hip.

Squeezing my breast in fond farewell, his hand glides down along my stomach, fingers carefully seeking valleys of dew, drowning in bucolic anticipation. His exploration is delicate and light, and I find the tingling delight and rush of blood far outweighs any remaining discomfort from earlier. My hand has likewise sought to gently tease, provocatively manoeuvring him to the promise of the well in an oasis; bucket poised and ready to dip down into satiating depths. Slow and smooth is the descent; the well, seemingly never-ending, leaves us both with the anticipation and wonder of whether we will find its end. The torment is exquisite, the antithesis of our earlier encounter; nothing but promises and yearning.

And with a gentleness that could only be reached by having expunged all violence earlier in the afternoon, he fills my every sense in slow waves, gently rolling up and pulling back from sandy shores. Subsequent waves follow the same but different path, as they ever lap up and up, climbing a little higher each time; never fully retreating, always leaving a little of themselves to glisten on the shiny wet sand. I should not be surprised that such softly creeping seas have the power to form continents in their delicate persistence. As he pulls me in closer to him, our lips still teasing just outside of a kiss, we are mesmerised by this music - like sailors of old in the clutch of a siren song, taken ever deeper into an unknown realm. And any muse would envy our song, could it be heard by any other than us, felt by any other than us; both willing to seek in each other a treasure somewhere secret, deep, and hidden. But it is impossible to remain forever submerged in such bliss and we finally bubble to the surface to a kiss, as our lips press at last against each other, tongues lazily tickling gums as they explore warm breath, expelled in all its finality as only understood by those willing to drown in such seas.

My muscles ache. My heart aches. It was not supposed to be this way. He was an assignment, only an assignment. And I know as I think it, that he has become far more. I regret feeling him slip out of me, but I want to roll over and face him. See the face that can both violate and placate in the course of one afternoon, and make me enjoy both equally. His eyes are so dark in this light. Not that they are ever easy to read. From where did this tender man appear? What sustains him when he’s gone? With a sigh I abandon any attempt to find answers and instead am content to let him hold me comfortably against his chest, while I nuzzle into his neck, still luxuriating in the feel of skin on skin. As I shift to get more comfortable, I inadvertently groan. He chuckles and suggests that a warm bath may be the best option at this point. I think he may be right. Looking back up at him I accept the offer – but only on the condition that he join me. After all I am far too exhausted to scrub my own back at this point!

The bath is indeed relaxing. With a little scented bubble bath I am surprised - and a little suspicious - to find in his bathroom, we both enjoy the foamy soak. I can feel my muscles loosening and relaxing, helped along by his firm touch as he massages my shoulders and back before I lean back against him, my hands massaging his thighs as his legs surround me. I find in him a rather delightful and far superior bath pillow, that can occasionally kiss and fondle, compared to the plainly inflated ones I’ve always used in the past. Refreshed, I help myself to a couple of his towels, the ends of my hair having turned into tendrils of finely spun thread. Noticing his dark silk robe behind the door I slip it on, delighting in the faint scent of him that I wear with it, and while he dresses, I head into the kitchenette to make us some tea.

When he emerges from his bedroom I am surprised to not see him in a suit. When I think about it, I have seen him either clothed in one of many dark, well-tailored two and three piece suits, or simply not clothed at all! He is now wearing a light linen shirt open at the neck, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and hanging loose and untucked. His trousers are a light, loose-fit linen. His feet are bare. Seeing him like this makes me think of Tuscan sun, gin and tonics, and even panama hats. I am most intrigued at what he has planned.

Handing him a cup of steaming tea I go to sit at the kitchen table, when he stops me, suggesting instead the divan in the parlour. It faces towards the windows, which with their light lace curtains let in the sunshine while maintaining privacy from prying eyes. While I sit and sip my tea, enjoying the masked view of spring lawns, he pours himself a glass of water, then rummages around his desk, finally emerging with pens, paints, brushes and one of his journals. So they do exist. The very books I have been tasked to steal by my Government bosses for the wealth of information supposedly contained within them. Just as I wonder why he has this one out, he places the water and implements on the table and flips open to an empty page explaining that he would very much like to paint me.

I feel so flattered. I wonder if I should put on some make-up, as I fuss a little with my hair, complaining that it has become so frizzy from the steam of the bath. As he tilts his head and looks at me, I see again that twinkle in his eye, the same look from the gardens earlier today. So this is what he had planned all along? Seduce my body, then seduce my soul? I sit forward on the divan, regally assuming a pose with chin up.

“My robe, Vixen?”

Oh. That sort of drawing? The first thought to cross my mind is that if I do steal the journal now, it will have nude drawings of me in it for my bosses to see. But to be his muse is such a charming thought and appeals greatly to my self-conceit. And a body is just a body. Yet even though he has seen me naked so many times, I feel daring and not a little excited as I remove the robe and deliver it into his outstretched hand. Prepared to embrace my wickedness for posterity, I lean back this time, stretching my arm along the divan’s back. My hair tickles and hides my left breast, but the right is quite exposed, and as I gaze out through an eye also half obscured by hair, I feel he has finally staked his claim on the Vixen. Both nervous and enthralled to have his naked eye so fixed on me, I take a deep breath and boldly gaze back at him with just a hint of a smirk.

After five minutes, I realise that the appeal of sitting for an artist is more in the concept than the practice; as much as I enjoy watching this fascinating new side of The Professor, I am soon feeling bored. Sensing my unrest, he breaks the silence and starts to recall for me amusing stories of his life in college. The bizarre excuses his students give for handing in work late, the antics of the unique little band of professors during their holidays, the embarrassing discoveries when fire alarms force evacuations in the dead of night. He is indeed a raconteur of great skill and I soon find myself laughing enough to require some gentle admonishment for breaking my pose.

We continue our chatter pleasantly, the sun dimming the room slightly as the afternoon draws to a close, while he applies ink and brush to paper, and I realise how much I crave to see the work. I am mid-sentence commenting on my surprise and delight at discovering this skill within him, when there is a frantic knocking on the door. As we both look across the room, startled by the sudden loudness, the door bursts open - of all the days we forgot to lock it, distracted as we were by my earlier clothing mishap!

I am horrified to see standing there among my cast-off clothes, hair wild, eyes widening at the scene before him, my husband - Mr Siger Holmes.

“Good God, woman! How could you? You wanton trollop!”

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(To Be Continued)