Go: A Surrender (8 page)

Unfortunately, my efforts seemed to effectively suspend his
own, and I heard him attempting to speak to his compatriots. Suddenly my
breasts were being stroked again, I gathered by someone else, and a third
person seemed to be swirling a morsel in the juices of my pussy.

Then, suddenly, he cried out and came in my mouth, thrusting
as I continued to suck at him, swallowing and swallowing. I was glad when he
pulled out and backed away laughing nervously, as it gave me a chance to
recover a little, breathe better.

Now another man approached the table, his pants already
down, and poked his erection up toward my face to take him in. This was someone
rather more demanding than the others, I gathered. He barked orders to the men
around him as he palmed and tugged at my breasts. More warm drops of liquid
landed on me, this time on my ass, and someone rubbed it in gently, dipping a
tentative fingertip into my asshole. I tightened up at the sensation and the
fingertip was removed, but then there was something much larger in its place,
broad and smooth and cool, and before I knew it, it was sliding deeper into my
ass.

I moaned loudly now, not that anyone could hear it, as I was
under the table, my mouth full of insistent cock.

It had become, I quickly realized, a team effort. How very
Japanese. The thing in my ass—some kind of vegetable, I was guessing, was
slowly and methodically plunged in and out. My tits were kneaded steadily. To
my relief, the chunks of fish seemed now to have been dispensed with, and eager
fingers rubbed more quickly across my clit.

Someone was querying Jack now. “It’s okay?”

“Help yourself,” he said, and I became aware of a man
leaning over the table from the side, and then there was again something warm
swirling around my clit, but it was not anything edible—it was a man’s tongue.
He lapped at me, then used a hand to stretch the skin taut so my clit popped
free of its fleshy hood, and then with the very tip of his tongue he proceeded to
dot it, flick it, encircle it.

I was screaming now but nobody could hear. Now an entire hot
mouth was lowered over my clit and began to suck, his tongue still playing
across that sensitive button of flesh, and my mouth was full of my own spit,
and of this man’s pulsing cock as his own climax approached, and the whatever
it was they were working in and out of my ass, and screaming desperately I
began to come, my nipples hardening as the enormous shiver rippled through my
entire body, and then the man whose cock was in my mouth also came, filling my
throat with semen, and because they could not hear me the others did not stop,
they kept licking and sucking my clit, and ramming that thing into my asshole,
and so my orgasm kept coming, and coming, and I was far, far past the point
where I’d ever stopped anyone before, and I felt a strange new sort of climax building
and then I had a sensation like I was starting to urinate and felt warm liquid squirting
out into the air and splashing onto my thighs and trickling down over my
inverted stomach, and the men I could not see began to whoop, and clap, and
laugh.

Not twenty-four hours later I was on another plane, this
time bound for Paris, alone—though Jack was soon to join me.

Following the meal at the sushi restaurant he’d wrapped me
in my coat and spirited me—the whole starving, limp, sticky mess of me—to a
calm, lovely suite at a hotel just steps away. To my astonishment and
gratitude, there was a hot bath already waiting.

I lowered myself into it and he sat beside me and gently
stroked my hair. I was so peaked I couldn’t even keep my eyes open to look at
him.

“You’re okay?” he said, and I appreciated the genuine worry
in his voice.

“Mmm,” I said.

“What happened in there,” he said, “that was okay?”

What happened in there. Was surreal, but: “Yes.”

Gently he took a sponge and began to wash my body. He lifted
my arms and soaped them up. Rubbed gentle circles over my collarbone and my
breasts. I was vaguely aroused, but my fatigue kept that sensation from
progressing past just the faintest inkling. He had me lean forward so he could
soap my back. The warm water, the massage, his careful attentions—this, too,
was ecstasy.

“Can you stand?”

A little wobbly, but I managed. He lathered my knees and
thighs, my stomach. Passed the sponge gently over my still-sensitive pubis,
making me jump a little, and across my hips, to my ass. Then he set the sponge
aside and turned on the shower wand and carefully rinsed me from head to toe.
He ran his fingers through the little thatch of my pubic hair, to loosen the
stubborn suds of soap. A little moan escaped my lips, and then his hand moved,
palm flat against my inner thigh as he ran the shower stream over my ass.
Despite my fatigue, I was starting to feel more powerfully turned on.

He turned off the water and helped me to step out of the
tub. Efficiently he toweled me off—the towel, too, had been thoughtfully
pre-heated. As he bent to dry my feet he suddenly paused, and looked up at me.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

I looked down at him, my gaze snapped back into focus. There
was water all over his beautiful suit pants. He’d rolled up the sleeves but
still his shirt and tie were soaked.  Wisps of bubbles on his shoulders. I
laughed. “And
you’re
soaking,” I said… because the compliment, I wanted
to believe it, but I was afraid to.

He looked down at himself and laughed, too, and then I was
mad at myself for not letting myself linger a little longer in the sweetness of
his appreciation.

There was a casual kimono-style robe to put on, and he
changed into the men’s version of the same, and then one of the chefs from the
restaurant arrived with a big cart and served us sushi in the room. It was
buttery and silken and the sake was warm and when he left I was contented and full.

Then there was the glorious bed. I slipped out of my kimono
and nestled down into the cool, clean sheets. Jack came and sat beside me, and
I loved feeling his weight on the bed so close.

“I could get used to this,” I said, smiling with my eyes
closed.

“Having strangers give you screaming orgasms and then
getting to sleep in nice beds?” he teased.

If I were less exhausted maybe I’d have felt defensive—the
game, after all, being his idea—but instead I simply told the truth.

“No,” I said, “I would get bored of the strangers,” and
then, the fatigue continuing to fail to block my honest thoughts, I said, “You.
I could get used to you.” And I took his hand in both of mine and brought it to
my mouth and kissed it. And he squeezed it, and leaned down, and kissed me all
over my face. And on my ear, and my neck, and a last sweet kiss on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, “but I have to go.”

This seemed terrible. “No,” I begged him, “please don’t.
Please stay.”

“I want to,” he said, “but I can’t. I can’t sleep beside
you. I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

“So don’t!” I exclaimed, scooting up to a sitting position,
and again grabbing his hand. “You’re not a vampire. We’re not applying for
sainthood. Stay here, touch me. I want you to.”

“But the game,” he said.

“Fuck the game,” I said, “you made the game up! There’s no
reason it has to be this way.”

“You’re not ready,” he said.

“Ready, what the fuck, are you some kind of
sensei
now?”

I knew what he meant—I didn’t love him, we didn’t know each
other—but I hated him putting it on me. Because what was in his heart, I’d
guessed: he didn’t love me yet, either.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to sound accusing.
You’re right; I don’t know what I’m doing. But here’s what I saw tonight: you’re
far from ready to stop this.”

He was right. I’d been excited. I wanted to see what came
next—more exotic, more abject. The game had become like that old flame that
leaves you wondering forever,
what if
? We had to play it to its natural
ending, whatever that was.

“Do you think we’ll know?” I asked. “When it’s time to
stop?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Jack. “But I hope so.”

And so he left me, and in the morning, beside my tray of tea
and rice and sweet egg, was another plane ticket and a small envelope of Euros.

It was a nonstop flight, 13 hours, and I arrived in Paris in the early evening. As my taxi drove through the city to my hotel I saw people
everywhere dining or stepping out in pretty clothes, off to enjoy the exciting
Parisian nightlife. I checked in to my hotel and there was a message at the
front desk: Jack would be arriving late, probably not until midnight. I was on
my own until then. I went up to my room and flopped down on the bed, unsure
whether I was hungry or sleepy or restless or none of these.

After a few minutes, realizing I wasn’t ready for sleep, I
got up and opened the balcony doors, then leaned out over the railing. I didn’t
even know what part of the city I was in. I’d been to Paris once before, in
college, and recalled exactly nothing about how it was arranged. But the
neighborhood below seemed bustling and happily loud, and I thought I had better
be brave, at least venture out for a walk.

The moment I stepped out onto the street, I felt profoundly
out of place. Everyone around me moved with such confidence and purpose—they
literally knew where they were going, while I did not. Taxis and cars careened
down the narrow street; pedestrians strode efficiently along while chattering
into their phones. I suddenly was gripped with a terrible fear of getting lost.
And so I ducked timidly into the very next café I encountered, and managed to convey
that I needed a table for one.

They sat me on a banquette against the wall, from which
position I could survey all the other patrons coming and going. I ordered
soupe
à l’oignon
and a glass of wine and commenced to feeling sorry for myself,
all alone for my first meal in this famous lovers’ town.

Loneliness makes for quick eating and quicker drinking, so
before long I’d paid my bill and set off back for the hotel. It was completely
dark now, and to me it seemed there was nobody left on the streets except couples
in love. I was glad Jack would be rejoining me soon.

At my hotel, though, the desk clerk waved me down. Another
message. This time saying he couldn’t make it till late the next morning.

I was terribly disappointed. I checked the clock. It wasn’t
quite 9. But tomorrow wasn’t so far away, was it? After all, I could sleep a
good chunk of that. I went back upstairs to my room and readied myself for bed,
though I still didn’t really feel tired. I showered and turned down the covers
and then laid down in the bed and listened to the happy voices out on the
street below—I could hear them, even with the balcony doors closed—and in that
fashion I failed to sleep, for hours.

At early light I was wide awake again and feeling sheepish.
I resolved to go out for a walk again, a braver one. This time I went in the
opposite direction, not wishing to be reminded of my silly fearfulness the
night before. I zigged and zagged my way from block to block, memorizing the route
back. Then I turned a corner and poking out behind the next row of buildings
was the leg of an enormous spaceship.

It was so strange and so startling that for a moment I just
looked at it, unable to move. And then I was unable not to go toward it.

Of course, as you’ve probably guessed, it was no spaceship.
It was the spectacular foot of a flying buttress, and when I got clear of the
buildings that blocked the view I could see the whole thing: Notre Dame
cathedral, perched weightlessly on the surface of the city like a water-strider,
soaring and otherworldly.

As I gaped at it, drops of water hit my cheeks and I
realized it was beginning to rain. I took a last longing look at the ancient building,
then made haste back to my hotel, miraculously managing not to get lost on the
way.

You’ll have divined what was waiting there when I arrived,
particularly if I tell you it wasn’t Jack.

A third note:

Won’t be able to make it to Paris—work emergency in Iceland. Tix to Reykjavik @ airport; fly today; I’ll meet you.

Eager to not cry in front of the desk clerk, I hurried up to
my room, note in hand, and shut myself away inside it. Though the communication
had been there, the arrangements made, Jack’s failure to arrive had set off the
panic I’d been keeping at bay since what had been my last day of work. He was
right, I thought, I
had
been rash—people didn’t just throw away good
jobs in this economy, and it was, despite its annoyances, a “good job.” Or had
been. What the hell did I think I was doing? And the
way
I’d left,
barring any chance for a positive recommendation. For all I knew, back in Houston, the story was front-page news. Of course I knew, rationally, that it couldn’t
possibly be… but since I hadn’t been home and hadn’t been in touch with a soul,
my imagination was free to concoct every catastrophe.

I felt like I’d blown up the little boat that was my life to
climb onto a bigger and more glamorous boat, and only now was I realizing I had
no idea where this other boat was headed. Didn’t know if it was haunted, if it
had engine problems. If the crew were all ex-cons. Everything in my life was
suddenly unknown, and with his failure to arrive Jack seemed to become just an
idea, some crazy, reckless notion. Where was I? What was I doing? I felt like I
didn’t know anything. I sat on the bed, crumpled the note in my lap and began
to sob terribly.