With or Without You (16 page)

She’d had so much fun teaching these risqué statements to me, because she’d known the whole time that I would never need them.

Now, I did. In this fantasy world, I needed to know every single word Anthony said.

‘Please,’ I told him, and in a heartbeat he had a pair of my nylons in one hand, and was binding my wrists with them. I could feel the silky stockings on my skin, knew somehow what it would be like to be tied up, even though I’d never played that way before. Anthony tied my wrists behind my back, and then pushed me forwards, sliding inside of me from behind.

I was so wet, crazy wet, so ready for him. He slid inside me, his voice low but his mouth pressed to my ear so I could hear him. ‘I’ve wanted you for years,’ he whispered, now speaking English. ‘You knew it, too. You made me wait.’

This was why he taking me like this, with my body forced up against the cold chill of the mirror. He was punishing me for delaying this inevitable encounter, and I loved every second of it. My eyes focused on the camera, knowing that there were people dancing in the other room, dancing while they watched us fuck.

The phone rang as I came. I had to shake out of the last whispers of my fantasy, try to find reality somewhere in the electric beeping of the black telephone.

‘Bad girl,’ Anthony whispered when I picked up the line.

Oh, Christ. Did he know? Could he guess how bad? I felt as if he could see through the phone line and into my office, see through my body and into my mind. My voice didn’t work at all.

‘Didn’t I tell you not to be late?’

No, he didn’t know, he was just playing. I mumbled a quick apology, making up some nonsense excuse about working so hard on the angel show that I’d totally lost track of the time. As I spoke, I was not sure what I was saying or what I
should
be saying. My hand was still trapped inside my damp panties. I felt dizzy, not like myself at all.

He laughed. ‘I’ll let you slide this time, Eleanor, because I’m in a good mood. A really good mood. You’re going to be, too, when you see what I have for you. You’re not going to fucking believe it.’

My mind continued to play its naughty tricks on me.

What did he have for me? A hungry mouth, a dominant attitude, a steel-like rod waiting to be discovered under his neatly pressed khaki pants? A knowledge of what I wanted and needed, desired, deserved?

‘I’ve got five pages done,’ Anthony said. ‘Meet you downstairs.’

‘You like the Stones?’

I nodded.

‘Old Stones or new Stones?’

‘Any Stones,’ I told him, honestly. This is the one true rock band that I’ve always liked, and I am a die-hard fan. I remember when ‘Start Me Up’ came out. My mom was horrified when the song played on the radio. ‘Are they
still
around?’ she demanded, aghast. ‘I listened to them back when I was in college!’ As if nobody her age should still be allowed to play. But I’m fairly sure that from the way they’re still going – playing Super Bowl half-time shows – my own future kids will be fans, as well.

Anthony chose ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ from his NanoPod, and I instantly thought of how pleased Nora would be. The man might drive an antique car, a 1964 candy-apple-red Galaxie convertible, and he might listen to antique music – the song was released more than thirty years ago – but at least he was modern in his technology.

As downtown LA disappeared in a blur of concrete overpasses and sunset sky, I wondered where we were heading. It didn’t actually matter to me. I knew that later in the evening, I’d have to hook up with Nora. She was beyond excited about the prospect of her new reality show. But I didn’t have to think about Nora’s show at the moment. Now, I could focus all of my attention – and all of my nervousness – on Anthony.

As we drove, I wondered if he could smell the scent of my arousal. I had rushed to the ladies’ room after his phone call and washed my hands in the pink liquid soap
before hurrying to meet him downstairs. My panties were still sopping wet, and it seemed obvious, at least to me, that my perfume was more of the deeply personal variety than the kind that normally comes in a pretty glass bottle.

If Anthony knew, if he could tell, he didn’t let on. He simply pulled up in front of Osborne’s Plastic World, parked the convertible Galaxie between two identical silver BMWs, and ushered me inside. I liked the way his car looked there, book-ended between those two boring status symbols. The blandness of the Beamers made his Galaxie stand out that much more. For a brief moment, I thought of Byron and his desire to own whatever model car every other lawyer in his firm owned, and that thought made me even more happy to be here with Anthony.

As soon as we walked down the few steps and into the bar, I sensed a difference come over him. The museum fell away and he was at ease, in his element. Not that he isn’t relaxed at work. But in the museum, he’s always so focused. The hostess, a sultry brunette with eyes so violet they had to be fake, gave him a warm smile, and I watched the interaction between the two of them. My own eyes narrowed, and I felt myself growing suspicious. What was this? Jealousy already? I forced myself to look away, taking in the rest of the environment.

Osborne’s is a long cavernous restaurant off Vine that seems even longer due to a well-placed wall of mirrors. I’d been inside once before, for a poetry reading, and had marvelled at the multitude of mobiles hanging from the ceiling, odd plasticine creations that shine even in the dimmest of light. These are what make Osborne’s a ‘Plastic World’. The mobiles move and flutter above the heads of the diners, rustling gently, creating their own music by softly brushing against each other. I appreciated the creativity that went into the installation and wondered whether the owner, Jack Osborne, had ever
been displayed at any other location. The mobiles, reminiscent of Alexander Calder – a visionary who felt that art need not be static – were delicate, ethereal creations. Just watching them calmed my mood. Isn’t that what art is for?

Once our mink-haired hostess had us comfortably seated in a corner booth and we had ordered our drinks, Anthony handed me a slim Manila folder. He seemed prepared for my reaction. As soon as the folder touched my hand, a strange feeling came over me. I was desperate to read what he had translated. In fact, I was filled with the same urgency, the same yearning I’d had when I first saw the manuscript in the rubble of the pottery. Thoughts of how I’d spent the afternoon disappeared from my head. The guilt left me. Longing made me ache.

‘I love this place,’ Anthony said conversationally. ‘I bought a few of the mobiles and hung them outside on my deck. Well, not deck, exactly. My fire escape.’

I smiled at him, only half-listening, wanting so badly to read.

‘Go ahead,’ he said magnanimously. ‘I’ll order us dinner and you can read.’

The place was so dark that I had to steal several candles from other vacant tables in order to make out the typewritten words. The votives were each housed in multicoloured, shot-glass-sized holders. Within moments, I had created a semicircle of tiny candles that beamed a rainbow of light on our table. I pulled out my reading glasses and put them on, but I still had to squint. Moving closer to the papers, I refocused my eyes, squinted harder, and read:

She bent over, offering me herself from behind, lifting her loose garments so that I could more clearly see the secret pleasures, those wondrous pleasures, hidden therein. It was as if she were made of cream, so pale, so sweet that my mouth began to water. I took a step closer, bending to taste her and, as soon as my lips met
her swollen sex, she seemed nearly to swoon, falling forwards onto the floor, her hands bracing her body, her hips still arched. This was not a real fainting episode. The move was ingenious, intending on giving me yet better access to the dulcet sweetness that I so truly craved.

I pressed my mouth to her font and drank, licking, lapping, until she cried out. Over and over, she cried out, her body shaking uncontrollably. It was as if she were possessed by a spirit, one that desperately wanted freedom. But I knew this was not the case. If she were possessed, it was by passion. If she were filled with another being, it was the Goddess Aphrodite herself.

What the hell was this? I stared up at Anthony, shocked

‘Is it too dark to read?’ he asked me kindly.

That wasn’t the problem, and he must have known that. I searched for the words to explain what I was feeling, finally managing to whisper, ‘You’re messing with me.’ He was, wasn’t he? He
had
to be. There was no way that this was the real manuscript. Undoubtedly, he had given me these pages just to tease me. The real pages must still be in his car, or at work. But why would he do something like that? I didn’t have the answer to that, but I repeated, dumbly, ‘You’re playing with me, aren’t you, Anthony?’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, eyes wide with false innocence.

‘You’re –’ what? What was he? ‘You’re
fucking
with me.’ I sounded a lot like Nora when I said that.

Now he laughed and, when I gazed into his eyes, I saw a wicked gleam there. He’d definitely expected my reaction, and he was obviously enjoying every moment of our interaction.

‘I’m not,’ he said softly. ‘I’m not fucking with you at all.’ Unsaid were words that I heard in my head: I’m not fucking with you, but I’d like to be.

He looked at the page in my hand. ‘Oh, wait a second,
I think you started from the middle.’ Like
that
was the problem. The middle of smut was still smut. With a flourish, he took the crisp white pages from me and reshuffled, then handed them back to me.

I stared hard at him for a moment, wanting him to explain.

‘Go on, Eleanor. It’s fascinating.’

‘It’s …’ I wished for the right words. ‘It’s pornography.’

‘Just read.’

Right then, the waitress sidled up to our table with our wine and Anthony looked over at me. ‘I come here all the time. May I choose for us? I promise you’ll love every bite.’ He sounded totally different than he had moments before, solicitous, caring about what I wanted. Feeling absolutely confused, I nodded and, without consulting me any further, Anthony began to order.

I returned to reading. The piece was
more
sexual, not less. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever read anything quite so dirty in my life. Yes, I’ve devoured the classic erotica, mostly at Nora’s suggestion. Colette. Anaïs Nin. Anonymous. But this went beyond those vintage stories. Oh, well,
The Pearl
was pretty filthy – you know those Victorians and all their hidden deep-seated desires. And
The Story of O
did leave me speechless. So maybe this tale wasn’t precisely dirtier than those – maybe I found this tale so scandalous because it was the last thing I’d expected to read this evening.

‘Go on,’ Anthony encouraged.

I started to stammer, wanting to ask him more questions, but he silenced me with a headshake, pushing a glass of white wine towards me and then nodding enthusiastically. ‘I can’t wait until you finish reading so we can talk about it.’

I took a sip of the wine and then looked back at the pages. I wished I were alone, some place where I could have curled up under a blanket and lost myself in the story. I felt incredibly naked with Anthony there, even though he wasn’t staring at me. He seemed to be checking
something on his cellphone now. An email? A text message? I didn’t know.

‘Read, Eleanor,’ he said without looking up. ‘Then we’ll talk.’

‘All right,’ I told him, taking yet another sip. The wine relaxed me. The mobiles, slipping softly against one another overhead, soothed me. Still, I had an intensely difficult time focusing on the words on the page, because all I could think of was that Anthony was playing a trick on me.

But why would he do that?

I thought I knew the sort of man Anthony was. From our few times working together, I’d discovered his unbelievable focus, his biting sense of humour. I also knew, if I cared to believe the gossip, that he possessed a fairly large ego, that he’d blown up several times at our administrators over different policies he didn’t agree with. I tried to think of all the information I had ever read on Anthony. But I drew a blank.

Helplessly, I went back to the papers in my hand, a world-class blush colouring my cheeks. This entire experience was new to me. I’ve never read erotica with someone watching me. It’s always been something I’ve done alone, in the bed or in the tub. Byron and I never shared in this sort of activity together. The thought of confessing that I sometimes ‘used’ printed matter to get off was inconceivable to me. I wondered how Byron and I had ever gotten to that point of total inability to communicate. Weren’t couples supposed to share everything – did he share everything with Gwen?

More importantly to this particular situation, I’ve never read erotica that has been translated for me by someone else, someone dark eyed and dreamy like Anthony. I’m sure very few people have had such an opportunity.

‘Is it too dim to read here? We could go into the bar. Or I could steal you a few more candles.’

I looked down the long room. The bar was through a
door at the far end from where we’d entered, and it was even darker than the room we were in. Besides, I didn’t want him to see how deeply I was blushing. More light was not necessarily a good thing at this point.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, shuffling the papers again, trying to find what I’d read before.

I spread her out on the rug, wanting to take her this way. I wanted to take her many ways, but this would be the first. She was wet and ready, and I was as hard as a sapling, my member twitching expectantly as if that rod of flesh knew the myriad of pleasures that were in store for it.

I looked down at the girl.

She was a beautiful sprite, so lively, so willing. I had been assured that this was her first time, that those secret pleasures between her supple thighs had been given to no man before. No man before now. But I found this difficult to believe once I was inside of her, for she moved with a knowledge, moved with an assurance that belied her innocence.