Erotic Stories by Alicia Night Orchid

Faces

by

Alicia Night Orchid

(Copyright Alicia Night Orchid. 2005 and 2008. All Rights Reserved.)

Michael glimpsed her as he entered the elevator, before the crowd spun him around and forced him to stare at the closing doors. She was dressed demurely in a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, white blouse and low heels. He stood next to her, separated only by the width of the slender brief case she held in her hand. Her dark hair cascaded onto her shoulders and hid her profile, despite his best efforts to view her with his peripheral vision. When she exited on the 21^st floor, he strained for another peek at her features—the wide-set eyes, the high cheek bones, the full lips, the strong jaw line.

He was still puzzling over her when he reached his cubicle on the 32^nd floor. Did he know her from The Strand, where he ran every other morning? Maybe she lived on his street in Manhattan Beach or hung out at that bar he frequented, Hennessey’s? Could they have attended school together?

Throughout the day, he traded derivatives and took positions worth millions of dollars. Most of the time he liked his work. He was good at it, well paid. But some days it felt like any other job. Repetitive, boring.

Today, the minutes passed like eons, and into the long afternoon the woman’s face continued to haunt him.

When the market closed that afternoon, Marty and Ben wanted him to join them for a drink. But, by then, he had a plan. He declined their invitation and, instead, posted himself on the plaza outside his building. He had a good view of both the employee entrance and the Santa Monica Pier.

A large law firm—Wilkins and Sloan—occupied the entire 21^st floor where she worked. He guessed her to be a lawyer and not merely an administrative assistant because she carried a brief case. He suspected that he was out ahead of her—the law firms were notorious for working their young associates long hours. If he was patient enough, she would eventually come through those doors. If he could only see her again, surely it would be enough to jog his memory.

An hour passed, maybe more. He loosened his tie and pretended to read the Wall Street Journal. Five o’clock rolled around and the office buildings along Santa Monica Boulevard and Wilshire emptied into the streets. The women in their smart-looking business attire and heels clicked past. He was late twenties, tall and slender, good-looking in a dark, brooding way. Now and then, he drew a glance or a smile. Now and then, he allowed his eyes to follow the roll and shift of a tight derrière. Behind him, the sun sunk lower, bathing the city in sepia tones as it reflected off the sea.

It was nearly 6:30 when his patience was rewarded. She strode through the doors, looking as crisp and together as she had nearly twelve hours earlier. He held his ground, thinking that he needed only a good, long look at her face. Then, just as she approached, she reached into the purse slung over a shoulder and withdrew her sunglasses. She was wearing them as she strode in front of him, no more than an arm’s length away. It was enough to throw him off, enough to make her seem only vaguely familiar.

Yet, he was more certain than ever that he’d seen this woman before, and seen her in an intimate way. But how could that be? He’d made love to nine women in his life, starting with Jodie Miller in high school and ending most recently with Samantha Howard. He remembered each of them distinctly. The acts he’d performed with them were etched into his brain like photographs and video clips. There was no way he could have been with this woman and not remember the circumstances.

He watched until she was out of sight—the narrow waist, the firm bottom, the muscular calves. But it wasn’t her body that called to him. It was her face. Where had he seen that face?

* * *

Marissa lived in a restored mansion in Beverly Hills with a man named Umberto who was a screenwriter for one of the major studios. She’d met him at a cocktail party where associates and partners of the law firm she worked for mingled with clients. She’d been attracted to his dark skin, black Latin eyes and macho style from the outset. He wore a pencil-thin mustache above his lip, a large diamond earring in his left ear and listed several film credits to his name.

He was known as Umberto, only Umberto.

The sun was nearly setting by the time she pulled the sleek gray Jaguar into the circular drive and entered the foyer through the large double doors. She placed her heavy briefcase on the floor and thumbed through the pile of mail left by the postman earlier in the day. Bills, invitations to parties and charitable events, correspondence from Umberto’s many friends, rarely anything for her. She had a sister in Atlanta, but they’d lost touch. She had friends from college and law school, but she’d drifted away.

She left the mail on the large, mahogany table Umberto had purchased from a man in Spain and sauntered down the hall to their bedroom. The large four-poster bed, the cathedral ceiling, the sliding glass doors that opened onto their garden greeted her.

She slipped out of her dress, her bra and panties. She paused for a moment to consider her reflection in the mirror over their dresser. She was slender as a reed, her legs long and lean, her belly flat. Her breasts were small, the size and shape of mangoes, the nipples brown and proud. Umberto preferred his women natural, so she was trimmed, but unshaven. The patch of hair that began below her navel and covered her sex was black and shiny as onyx. She grasped a bed post and swayed back and forth. Over her shoulder she could see her ass, hard and inviting as an autumn apple.

Umberto liked to take her like this—standing up, hanging onto the bedpost, legs spread wide, ass thrust out.

She slipped into a bathrobe and went into the kitchen. She made herself a Martini and carried it onto the deck. From here, they had a clear view of the city as it stretched to the ocean. She sipped her drink and watched the sun set into the haze and the sea. She placed her cell phone on the table and waited for Umberto’s call.

Umberto, Umberto. Just the sound of his name excited her.

* * *

The house was small. No more than 1,500 square feet, it had been a bargain at only $1.5 million. Michael was close enough to the ocean that he could hear the waves crashing on the beach at night, smell the surf when he awakened, see the dark backs of the dolphins feeding in the waters between the Manhattan Beach pier and the Hermosa pier while he prepared dinner.

For openers, he made a tuna tartar, flavored with soy, ginger and cilantro, served on a delicate round of seedless watermelon and topped with micro-greens purchased at the Santa Monica Boulevard Farmer’s Market. Next, he reduced tomato water with a clove of garlic, bits of onion and Habanera pepper. He intended to serve it chilled, gazpacho style, with fresh corn and cucumber. Next, he filleted a wild-caught salmon, seasoned it with salt and pepper, then poached it in white wine, clam juice and shallots. While the salmon cooled, he combined a bunch of fresh tarragon and virgin olive oil in the blender, then strained the oil through cheesecloth. He placed the salmon atop a bed of quinoa and drizzled it with the tarragon oil.

Pleased with his efforts, he opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio, poured himself a glass and carried it onto his patio. He swirled the wine in the glass, sniffed and tasted, while waiting for Samantha to arrive. The last of the sun dropped into the sea and the lights of the city began to come up.

Samantha was a beautiful woman. A California blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a beachfront figure. In fact, he’d met her on the beach, both of them making small talk while breathy and pouring sweat following a hard fought volleyball match. A few days later, they had their first date—dinner at a French Bistro in Hermosa.

Afterwards, as he drove them home, she busied herself, kissing his neck and ears, searching deep inside her jeans. She brought forth fingers, redolent with her scent, sticky with her syrup, and titillated him with tastes of herself. When they reached his house, she pushed him against a wall, pressed her denimed pelvis against his thigh and humped him until she came, her breath like an explosion in his ear. His turn came when he bent over the arm of his sofa, her ass thrust in the air, and fucked her until they both screamed.

Nearly six months spanned the distance between then and now. Yet not much had changed. They played volleyball on the weekends and a couple of times a week he made dinner for her at his place. Afterwards, they had sex. Good sex. Neither of them asked the other for nor expected exclusivity. Both of them avoided talk about where this, whatever this was, might be headed. He’d never met her friends, nor her his. He had no idea what she did when she wasn’t with him. She never asked him about his time away from her.

He supposed it was strange, but it was the routine they’d fallen into.

The doorbell rang. Michael stood, crossed the lushly carpeted floor and opened the door. Another evening with Sam was about to begin.

(Read Part 2 of this story here)