Lease Terms and Conditions
It's been some time since I last contributed, but I've been focusing on completing the next installment of my story "The Experiment." I hope to finish soon, but in the meantime, I've come up with a side project to keep my mind occupied.
In reality, it's not so common for a single person to live with a couple. However, those who don't understand living in Southern California or the excessive costs of rent would say it's strange. The idea initially belonged to Cassandra. We used to work together for hours, running on little sleep and caffeine, and then she left for a more prominent role as an associate editor. She felt guilty for ditching me to a less fulfilling job under someone else. To make it up to me, she started putting in a good word for me with her boss, and has been pushing for a new position.
Thinking about my rising rent, which had increased twice in less than a year, she suggested getting a roommate. "Co-habiting in a studio apartment?" I thought she was teasing me.
No, she said, offering to let me live with her and Lionel.
Me, with you and Lionel?
Yes, with us.
I debated the idea for a few days. Cassandra's place was a luxurious two-bedroom with two bathrooms. I'd have my own room and bathroom, they even had a washing machine within the unit. It was on the fourth floor of a secure building. The neighborhood was a safe and quiet community, just outside of L.A.'s downtown area. There was parking for our vehicles. I had met Lionel, her boyfriend, at a company holiday party. He was quiet, a bit shy, and quick-witted. I wondered if Cassandra even consulted him about this proposal. As always, she made a decision without involving anyone else.
I finally agreed to move in three months ago, only bringing along my clothes, a bed, and its matching dresser. I parted with my old, second-hand gear - a worn futon and a restaurants' discarded table.
Cassandra was bubbly, enthusiastic about the idea of us cooking, eating, and sharing groceries as roommates. She claimed we shared everything, no one needed to label their food. If I was hungry and wanted a snack, I was free to help myself. Maturity could be exhibited through weaving groceries into our lives. Things like that. But who you partook in sharing these items was subjective.
It's a collection of people with their own lives; occupying the same space but keeping to themselves for the most part. Cassandra frequents social gatherings with or without Lionel, impressing people of all kinds with her charming presence and lively stories of their journalistic misadventures. I've been accompanying her to a few of these events, making me an even more integral part in her tales. She's constantly seeking chances to improve my situations, and her motto is: one opportunity, one chance to impress.
Lionel keeps to himself most of the time, working a typical nine to five job at a company Cassandra calls "The Think Tank" that focuses on high-profile science ventures. He supposedly met Elon Musk once. As for me, my erratic hours sync easier with his routine. We come home around the same time of day, around six, and we spend time chatting and cooking, or reheating if necessary, while sitting down to eat just when Cassandra arrives home.
The first time I talked to Lionel, he was standing in the elegant living room of the publisher's house, bored with the noise and hustle. We'd already been introduced by Cassandra earlier in the evening. I went to him because he looked bored and alone.
I asked him if he had any food, noticing he hadn't sampled the many delicacies the party offered. He shook his head, holding up his glass of high-end whiskey. "Liquid nourishment will suffice," he said. I proposed that it might make my intolerable coworkers more bearable. "Barely," he replied, putting on a grin for the first time that night. Casually, I felt proud, thinking I'd made him laugh.
Lionel and Cassandra seem to be the perfect example of opposites attracting. She is an outgoing, social butterfly who craves to be part of the trendiest and most fashionable circle, while he is an introverted thinker who prefers to mull over his thoughts before speaking and only engages with people he deems worthy of his time. They first met when Cassandra was doing research for an article, and Cassandra insists he contacted her afterward. However, I have my suspicions that the opposite might be true.
I've just returned home early on a Friday, as my colleagues decided to leave for a mixer for young journalism professionals. Cassandra is also back home early, rushing as she packs for a weekend trip with some of her coworkers to a Malibu beach house. She asks to borrow my shoes and offers me her hairdryer in return, joking that she won't be "doing anything" with her curly locks. I wish her a good time before she leaves, and she tells me to look after Lionel, making sure he eats more than just cocktail olives, a nod to the fact that his female companions will likely indulge in drinks and spritzers, leaving him with the task of sorting through leftover bottles.
Cassandra's borrowed shoes dangle from her hands as she bids him farewell and kisses him on the cheek, before turning to me and instructing me to make sure he eats. I give her a warm hug before she disappears.
As soon as she leaves, the tone in the room subtly changes. Lionel becomes reserved and polite around me, never getting too close or too familiar. I find this charming and appropriate, as Cassandra behaves the opposite, scoffing at his constant courtesy. She reserves her requests for him, like turning to him and saying, "Honey, can you get this for me?" Or, "Do this for me, please." He never complains, instead just sighing deeply before approaching the task.
There was only one time when we unintentionally interacted. On a particularly frustrating morning, I was trying to unjam her enormous pink water bottle that was stuck in our dishwasher. The bottle was too tall for the tray, squeezing my hands as I fought to wrench the bottle free. Lionel had walked into the room, not realizing I was in the way. He reached out to help me, and I, unaware of his presence, elbowed him in the stomach. I gasped in horror but received a puzzled look in return. I stammered an apology, but he played it off with a witty response.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my eyes darting to his spectacle-clad eyes that were scrutinizing me.
"I'll survive," he answered.
His response was playful, but the look on his face told a different story. Standing so close, we were separated only by the width of a counter. I nervously took a step back, fearing for colliding with him, but instead, he glimpsed down at my t-shirt hidden beneath my unzipped cardigan. The simple cotton material hugged every curve it encountered. Without hesitation, I looked directly at him and switched gazes to my chest, silently challenging him to look. His eyes followed my cue, and he quipped, "Treat your tacos exactly how you treat my tortilla - wrapped in lettuce and loaded with steak!"
Tonight, Cassandra and Lionel join me in the kitchen, surrounded by counters on three sides and a small square of space that feels like a chaotic dance where collisions are imminent. We've come up with a system: I prepare the salad, and he prepares the main dish, switching roles depending on convenience. Tonight, I'm in charge of the salad, and Lionel is making the fajitas. He cooks the steak while I chop the vegetables, careful to keep clear of his domain above the stove.
Symmetrically preparing our meals, I can't help but drown in the familiarity of the chopping, the slicing, the dicing, and the eating. The atmosphere is casual and comfortable.
As I pass him the chopped tomatoes, I comment, "You like tacos, I like salad, Lionel. It's fine, it's all good."
He chuckles and begins assembling his two tacos as usual, while I focus on my fajita ingredients.
Lionel tosses me a plastic bag. It's filled with leftover steak from last night's fajita night. "I'll make you a salad using this for your lunch tomorrow, if you like," he offers.
His sweet gesture tickles me as I shake my head. "No, thanks. I'm good. I'm just in the mood for.... salad."
I toss it back at him. A playful exchange has ensued, and it warms my heart to be in the company of these two, who are so different but have affectionately found each other. Despite their contrasting personalities, they manage to blend seamlessly, leaving me to silently observe in admiration.
He responds, "You have a big appetite, eating with the ferocity of a tornado plowing through the ground."
"I enjoy sustenance. You tend to nibble on mini tacos with your tiny baby hands."
He glances at me, attempting to conceal his amusement at my quip. We dine in the living room, gazing at the sliver of beach outside through the sliding glass door that essentially serves as the condo's far wall. I mention how the beach isn't overly crowded tonight, particularly for a Friday in late spring. Perhaps I'll go for a walk after supper. Lionel shrugs. He detests people and loathes exercise despite being in exceptional condition.
We engage in some mundane conversation before I finish eating before him. As I take my dish into the kitchen, I mention that I've devoured my salad entirely. I load my plate into the dishwasher, then change into my version of sportswear. Compression shorts that meet the top of my thigh and a tank top. Fitted, but nothing spills out.
I emerge into the living room, and Lionel is returning his dish to the kitchen. Then I hear the sound of the freezer opening, the sharp clink of ice dropping into a highball glass. His first drink of the night.
We don't collide as I venture out onto the patio, carrying my yoga mat. It felt peculiar to exercise in my room, which is small, and I also felt like it wasn't fair to seclude myself away just because I was wearing lycra. The patio is ideal because it's noticeable, but isolated. I place my yoga mat perpendicular to the living room so my rear end isn't facing the windows. Most of my poses involve being on my back or side, with only the cat/camel requiring me to assume all fours. I can't see clearly through the glass due to the glare of the setting sun, but the movement of shadow indicates that Lionel has returned to the living room. I give him a restrained smile, acknowledging his presence whether or not he's watching me.
My routine lasts approximately 20 minutes. As I open the door again, I hear him speak.
"Are you feeling more limber?"
His tone has a sharp edge to it, something sly in his eyes that glide up and down.
"Slightly," I answer as I walk back in. "And you?"
"Me?" he inquires with feigned confusion. Then he lifts his glass. "This is my method of stretching. A loosening of the mind, loosening up the cerebral cortex."
"Are you planning to continue softening it?" I ask, letting him hear the edge in my voice. I don't intend to sit around and watch him become severely inebriated all weekend simply because Cassandra is gone.
His face changes expression, flitting through a range of emotions before serious Lionel reemerges.
"I believe it's about as soft as I'll make it."
It's suggestive and absurd at the same time, his lips curling up when he sees me attempting not to laugh. And then he adopts the expression of a mischievous boy caught in the act.
"You can make it as soft or as firm as you want it, but I'm heading to take a shower."
I move back down the hall when I hear him call me.
"That sounds like a daunting challenge!"
I chuckle as I retrieve my clothing and go into the bathroom. My shower is brief and cold, avoiding the desire to linger beneath comforting warm water that could stimulate further indulgence. However, the gentle drizzle of lukewarm water across my breasts invigorates nerve endings that yearn for more. I am mindful of the potential consequences not only on myself but also on my friend's life. Clad in linen shorts and a T-shirt over a supportive sports bra, I head into my room, leaving the door open while I clean up my belongings. I can hear music playing softly, classical music. Cassandra hates Lionel's musical tastes. She dismisses them as funeral dirges.
I go into the living room and find Lionel on the couch, but reclining back with his feet elevated on the cushions and his eyes closed. His gray dress shirt is unbuttoned a bit more, his belt discarded and lying on the floor near the couch. I notice the same empty glass, and wonder which number he's on depending on how the ice appears.
He sleeps on the couch. Drunk but harmless.
Hah, girl, ensure he behaves. You can place me on FaceTime with him if necessary.
Lol, I've got your favorite music playing.
He seems down. Remind him it's only for two days.
Bye, have fun tonight.
Cassandra relishes in the idea of Lionel's reliance on her. The feeble clever man in need of the affection of the sexy blonde. However, she doesn't feel genuine love for him. She likes his looks and social status. She likes how he gives her more depth. Intellect and class gained through association. But she treats him like a pet. Admiring, yet condescending. She laughs at his little antics. And I know it, and even worse, he knows it.
I set my phone on the side and shift on the sofa, placing my feet on the small leather stool. Lionel turns his head slightly, opening his eyes while maintaining his reclined position.
"The warden checking in on me?"
My phone was on silent, but he probably heard the clicking of my nails on the screen.
"I told her you were behaving."
"Sleeping is behaving. Good to know."
I let out a deep sigh. "You could just be unconscious."
"Is there a difference?" he enquires with a sideways glance towards me.
I can't help but smile at him. "I don't know. Maybe you were just faking sleep."
He smiles back. "Maybe I was."
We laugh together, the real amusement apparent on his face. This is how I like him. Relaxed, silly. The one Cassandra prefers when he fawns over her while under the influence of mild intoxication. The one I'm not sure she deserves.
"I'll keep monitoring to see," I reply while turning my body to face him on the sofa.
He grins one last time, then closes his eyes.
I pick up my phone and scroll through the digital distraction until I hear his breathing slow, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm. A bit of time passes before I feel a chill on my bare arms; I cautiously get up, and go back into my room to grab a hoodie. He's still sleeping when I return to the living room, now softly snoring as his head tilts back in a deeper sleep. I snicker when he occasionally murmurs senseless words in his sleep. Then I notice he's moving his face into the cushion, which will bend his delicate wire-framed glasses.
Extremely carefully, I place a finger on each of the wire earpieces and gradually begin to lift them off his face. Sure enough, they slightly snag in his dark-colored hair. His eyes open momentarily as I attempt to untangle his glasses, then focus keenly on me. Then his face changes into a smirk when he notices me struggling.
"May I assist you with that?" he asks.
"You were bending them up," I say when I let go.
"Or... you were trying to blind me," he remarks with a chuckle.
"You're right," I answer with a sigh as I return to the sofa and sit down.
He sits up and looks around as I go back to my phone. I can see out of the corner of my eye that he's moving and examining his disheveled look, then back at me.
"You're not compelled to spend the evening in your room with my body," he remarks with a sympathetic nod towards my quarters.
"You don't have to spend the evening huddled in there," he says.
"Your prisoner's cell," he teases quietly.
I glance back, my lips slightly pressed before I respond. When Cassandra is present, I usually spend more time in my room during the evening so that they can have some privacy. I try to go out and do things to get a break from each other, but it can be lonely and costly to occupy my time elsewhere. I'm not surprised he's noticed this; I'm just not sure how to talk about it.
"You don't need to stay there with my corpse," he says.
"I know," I murmur into my phone, feeling my cheeks turn pink.
"Cassandra and I don't always talk for hours in the evening," he continues with a sympathetic nod.
"You're allowed to interact," he suggests with a humorous tone.
I don't look up, feeling foolish over this trivial matter.
"I think you'd find me more engaging when I'm wide awake," he proposes humorously.
Eventually, I glance back. He's staring at me with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, his brown hair sticking up in places. I unconsciously smile back, and we stare at each other for an awkwardly long moment. Lionel lets out a deep breath and finally gets up, heading back towards the master bedroom. I hear the sound of water running and the toilet flushing. Then he comes back out with his phone, typing a message. He's standing there with a slight frown, taking a deep breath and letting out an exaggerated sigh.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
He puts his phone on the table. "I let the warden know I'm still following the rules. But she's unavailable to talk right now."
"So you sent her a message?"
"Yes."
"And she hasn't replied back."
He slumps onto the sofa, ruffling his hair. "That's correct."
I check the time. It's nearly 11 PM, which means it's party time for Cassandra.
"Perhaps she's already asleep," I suggest.
He rolls his eyes at me. "Probably not."
We had a nasty fight before over some text messages that Lionel received from Cassandra, addressed to someone else. It wasn't explicit, but had some suggestive innuendos. The texts were later explained as being a barely noticed accident, where Cassandra meant to send a text to an editor for a different publication but sent them to Lionel instead. Lionel forgives her but isn't completely convinced. As long as she comes home, all is fine and dandy between them.
Lionel is acting agitated, getting up and shifting things around. I need to distract him before he heads to the liquor cabinet. So just as he's about to leave the couch, I come up with an idea.
"Why don't we play a game?" I suggest. "You're not tired and you've already had a nap."
His eyebrow shoots up in surprise. "A game?"
"Yes. How about I learn how to play chess from you?"
His eyebrows go into the stratosphere. "Chess?"
I nod emphatically.
He seems shocked by the suggestion. "You want to learn to play a game that you've said you'd rather watch paint dry than attempt to play again?"
"I've been bad at it, that's all," I retort, twirling my ponytail around afinger. "Show me how to get better."
"I'll show you how to play competently," he corrects me, cocking an eyebrow.
"As opposed to being an incompetent... um... idiot?" He sets up the board at a table in the dining area. We don't use it much because it's a bit weirdly placed next to our tiny kitchen and close to the front door. It's also uncomfortable to sit at. This table is more commonly used when Lionel has someone over to play chess. I've played a few times with him, and gotten spanked easily. As far as I know, Cassandra has never played chess with him.
He explains the types of chess pieces and their functions: the rook, the pawn, the knight, the bishop, the king, and finally the queen. It's all a blur, and I'm less interested in the details, as Lionel gets more energetic, getting into the competitive spirit. He offers me paper to keep score, but I tell him to hold onto it since he's the only one who could understand it.
Within a short while, I've lost most of my pieces. Lionel patiently explains why this or that move is better. I'm trying, but my attention is sinking fast, and the alcohol isn't helping. Lionel has drained half his glass, and is feeling sharper than I am, even with the booze.
After I mess up again, he goes to the kitchen to use the restroom while I warm up some popcorn. When he comes back, he pats me on the shoulder. "You're getting there, really. I shouldn't have laughed."
"You were being mean," I pout.
He bends over to look at me, his glasses perching on his nose comically. "Alright, I promise to be nicer."
His cheeks puff out in a cute, embarrassed smile.
He sets up the board quickly and starts explaining the game's rules again. This time, I try to pay closer attention, but it's a losing battle. As he pours himself another drink, I feel my eyelids getting heavy. It's a battle of will against him, as I don't want to disappoint him, but also don't want to ruin his night. But as another move he doesn't understand comes up, I have to give in.
"Let's stop for tonight," I give in. "Maybe I'll have better luck another time."
"That's okay," he agrees. "Maybe it's a good idea. I say we call it a day. What say you?"
I give him the thumbs-up and we pack up the board. "Good idea."
I'm not really that annoyed. But I like his groveling and the way he concentrates, leaning over the table with his head down at the chessboard. So focused that even my popcorn chewing is distracting him.
He looks up as I pop some kernels into my mouth, my teeth crunching down as he raises an eyebrow at me.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Do you need to chew that loudly?"
I try to hide my grin. "Do you need to think that hard?"
He shakes his head at me, taking a swig of his drink and leaning back in his chair. He's got his hands hidden under the table, most likely in his lap, when suddenly I feel something freezing cold against my leg.
I jump with a yelp, looking under the table to see what I accidentally touched. Lionel's hands were dangling down, clasped in front of his knees, when it seems my crossed legs brushed up against his cold fingers that had been holding his glass.
"Hey!" I snap at him, uncrossing my legs and tucking my feet against the legs of the chair.
"That wasn't on purpose," he says skeptically, raising his hands up.
I stare suspiciously at him, wondering if he's lying. With only my Queen left, and him finishing his move, I gaze at the board, trying to focus. I keep staring, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He's taking another drink, a slow sip, still holding it, then another sip. Finally, he sets the glass down. His right hand is now very cold. He pretends to push his glasses back in place, then slides his right hand under the table. I'm holding my lonely Queen, seeing the predicament I've put myself in. I take a deep breath, prepare for the shock of cold, and wait.
Just as his fingers barely make contact with my shin, the cold is dulled by the moisture from the condensation of his glass. The fingers glide up my shin, and I stifle my gasp, biting my lip as his fingers reach my knee. But then it's the way they widen, and glide up my thigh. The cold becomes a warm caress that tingles across my skin.
Now, my mouth is gaping, my lips unable to hide my surprise. When our eyes meet, his are an evil mix of playful torment until he sees my reaction. My breath is quick, my legs locked in place while his hand is inches from the hem of my shorts. Then, we're at a standstill.
Lionel is trying to figure out if he's gone too far, if he's upset me. I'm shocked but not upset. I'm not angry at the wet fingers caressing my skin, curious and ready to explore. But I have no idea how to communicate this. Just as I put my hand on top of his, he pulls his hands away. When his hand reappears, he rubs his wet fingers together, a glance down at the wicked hands.
"This is a draw," he says quietly.
"A draw?" I repeat, finding my voice shaky and breathless.
"Neither of us wins or loses. A tie."
I nod stupidly and silently watch as he picks up all the pieces and puts them in the box with the chessboard. I surprisingly stand up and go back into the kitchen. I throw away the bag of popcorn and wash my hands, staying in the darkened room until I get my bearings. Too quickly, I hear him enter the kitchen, feeling the room's atmosphere change when he walks in. He steps towards the sink, reaching out to place our glasses on the counter. I've turned to the side, his arm barricading me. He's watching me, waiting.
"You played well. Really," he says as he appraises me.
"If you say so," I chuckle, avoiding eye contact.
He straightens his arm, leaning against the counter now. I pick up my empty glass, the one he finished by drinking the last remaining sips. I hold it, intending to put it in the dishwasher, but don't. Instead, I take it to the fridge, opening the freezer.
"Practicing more will help," he says as he looks at me.
I place two ice cubes in my glass, then turn around to face him.
"That's what I need?" I ask, stepping towards him.
He nods, his face turning into a semi-smile as I get close.
"Play, with you," I state, pressing my hands on his waistband, the slightly loose one missing its belt. Unsure of my intentions, his mouth hangs open as I shove my other hand into his pants. My fingers brush against his underwear, then let go of the ice cubes that I had clenched in my fist.
His snide grin vanishes, his mouth open as if he's been set on fire. I snatch my hand away and sprint out of the kitchen, leaving him jumping about, shaking his legs like there's a live cockroach in his pants. I barely get to the entrance of the spare bathroom, the only room with a lock, when he grabs my arm. He tugs me back into the hallway, turning me round to face the wall.
I'm sniggering and shrieking as he holds me in place, glaring at me. He's amused and grinning, but the grin fades as we stare at each other. I've instinctively licked my lips, waiting. His sky-blue eyes continue to search mine, deciding. I try to make my body move, but he realizes he has hold of me. I'm in his grasp.
As if it was a switch, he leans in. He tastes like whisky, the subtle burn of alcohol as his lips smother mine. A hectic kiss where he holds his breath. It ends when he resurfaces to breathe, gasping to recuperate. He's shocked at himself, taking a step back before I can utter a syllable. Only when my astonishment fades, I sneak past him and into the bathroom, locking the door.
I have a lousy night's rest. Too wired, everything inside me taut. I mull over the creamy fingers, delicate, precise. The kiss was intermittent, spontaneous. I wish I could blame it on liquor, but I was just barely buzzed. We both realize it. The same way I'm aware of how the past few months have become tougher to evade the sensation of being close to him. That's the reason I stay in my bedroom. In my captivity of solitude.
When I awaken from my shallow sleep, I make my way out of my room, listening for any activity. I hear nothing but stillness. I rapidly switch into black leggings and a long-sleeved tunic shirt that covers my backside, then I scuttle into the bathroom. When I return to the living area with combed hair and makeup, I still hear nothing. A quick sweep through the flat indicates Lionel has gone out. I'm not surprised since that was my plan from the beginning.
I can fritter away most of the afternoon with errands and shopping. I ring a friend to see if they want to meet for dinner but she's already occupied. This is my fault; my subconscious determining that I should leave my calendar clear these few days Cassandra was away. I've been aware of it for weeks and nothing plans, and yet I did so. A weekend of nothing but opportunities.
Finally, I'm drained from lack of sleep and long to return home. When I pull into the guest parking, his staid Saab is parked in his assigned spot. I psych myself up for awkwardness as I ride up the elevator, telling myself to just keep to my side of the hallway. Retreat to the cell if necessary.
Open the door, I don't immediately see him. I deposit the heap of purchases I bought to pass the time and wash my hands. Going back to the living room, I see him on the couch, gazing at the sea. It'd be simple to sneak off to my room; he's facing away from me. Just as I turn to slip into my room and lock the door, the sliding glass door is opening back up.
My heart races when I recognize his form. I hastily grab my lightweight hoodie. Steeling myself, I return to the hallway and stride toward the closet by the front door. He's in the living room, sitting on the sofa, looking up at me, his eyes ringed red, a face guilty as mine.
He thereafter refutes my proposition. "No, but thank you."
I cannot help but maintain my grin, as my throat tightens. Just as I go to leave, he speaks.
"I'm sorry... for yesterday."
I stand still, facing away from him. The weight in my stomach feels heavier than ten pounds.
"It's okay," I softly murmur, my lips not yet daring to look back. "I didn't say anything to Cass."
A miserable laugh escapes his lips. "The wardress is oblivious."
"Nope, she didn't do it." This time, I manage to look at him, and he returns a weak smile. I want to say something that'll help, something to undo his betraying feelings that I feel accountable for. However, I'm clueless about what that would be.
"I'll see you later."
I save my crying for the powerful wind sweeping across the beach, without any spectator except a handful of dedicated dog owners taking their pet for an evening stroll. I take off my sandals and walk into the chilly Pacific Ocean, allowing the cold water to caress my feet. The coldness soothes and numbs me while the crashing waves almost drown out the voices reproaching me in my mind. I gaze at the orange-pink horizon, observing the setting sun make its inevitable descent toward the night I don't want to embrace. When my aching sniffles begin to hurt from the wind blasting against my already sensitive skin, I go back to the condo.
There's a slight incline where the sand dunes collide with a deteriorating concrete wall. The wall has some steps leading from the ground floor of the condo down to the beach. I'm climbing the steep incline when I see a figure sitting on the top step. Lionel is there, resting his elbows on his knees and gazing at the beach, his long dark hair whirling in the wind. He still appears dapper in a button-down shirt and cargo pants in the fading light, a sorrowful portrait of a heartbroken tragedy I'm now entangled in.
I carefully approach, and his eyes only avert from the sunset when I'm a few steps away. I notice he's got an empty glass next to his bare feet. His face is a stoic mask, his eyes slightly obscured by the glare on his glasses. I offer him a friendly smile, but my lips quiver. He keeps looking away, then eventually speaks.
"I have something to show you."
I don't see anything else in his hands, but I acquiesce to viewing this thing. He grabs his empty glass and gets up, maintaining his balance as far as I can see. I follow him up the remaining steps and we tread the sandy covered sidewalk back to the condo.
Not until we're cornered in the elevator does he produce his cell phone, swipe down, and then offer it to me. It's a PDF of tiny script that I must enlarge before I decipher what it is. An agreement created by Cassandra. She set up a basic document and had me sign it when I moved in. Lionel mocked her and referred to her as The Landlord for being so formal, but I understood why she did it. Tenants can turn into single-white-female psychos, or thieves. I'm still unsure what he's demonstrating this for, giving him a curious glance.
"Scroll to paragraph 8," he instructs.
I scroll down and read the fine print. Lionel and Cassandra are co-owners and jointly possess the right to expel a tenant. I'm wondering if this is his tactic to tell me to leave tonight when he clarifies.
"We must both agree to expel the tenant."
"So you and Cassandra can both kick me out," I ask, wondering why he's revealing this.
He leans back against the railing in the elevator and speaks deliberately. "Cassandra cannot kick you out."
My heart rate increases. "Then why would Cassandra evict me if I didn't tell her anything?"
He says nothing, a mischievous glint in his eyes that hints at more alcohol.
The elevator stops and the door opens, but I don't let him exit yet. And I don't let him leave either, facing him with my back toward the door.
"Did you tell her?" I whisper, imagining the disastrous repercussions.
He saunters up to me, examining me through his glasses. "No."
I'm not sure I trust him as he sidesteps me and leaves the elevator, with me following the door angrily. He unlocks the front door and steps aside for me to enter.
"Have you eaten dinner yet?" I inquire, attempting to change the subject.
He joins me in the kitchen and closes the door behind him, ignoring the commonly used rolled-up towel we leave by the door for people to wipe their sandy feet.
"No, I haven't," he answers indifferently.
"What's your preference when it comes to dinner?" he inquires with a somewhat reserved smirk on his face.
Clearly, the discovery made in the legal context, coupled with the influence of alcohol, has lifted his spirits to a point that's different from his earlier state of dejection. The repercussions of the rental agreement are merely an overtone to the actual issue involving Cassandra's hold over my professional journey. But I find joy in witnessing his temperament shift from despair to something else.
Without thinking twice, I relay my preference. "Salad."
We proceed to cut up the customary variety of veggies as Lionel plays jazz music. He's opened a bottle of white wine, pouring us each a glass. White wine is significant to him - it's his drink of choice on special occasions. The alcoholic beverage he reveres, holding numerous facts about it for his go-to conversation topic at parties as a bustling ice-breaker, always at the ready.
He's monopolizing the conversation more than I am, however, I'm fine with it. I enjoy watching him explore a multitude of subjects that keep us from delving into the tricky subject (read: us). By the time we sit down to dine at the dining table, things feel slightly normal once more. I share with him a story from my childhood, remembering the incident where my mother lost her wedding ring in a pan of pork roast. This tale eases into food-related anecdotes, but I'm aware of the unfortunate analogy with marriage. A subject of veritable contention for both Lionel and Cassandra, the issue of whether or not they should tie the knot. At present, she desires marriage, while he is adamantly against it.
As we dine quietly while consuming our salads, dressed lightly in balsamic vinegar and olive oil, we pay particular attention to the greens, carefully choosing our preferred vegetables from the mix. I lack a preference for cucumbers, and Lionel, aware of this, often ends up with the leftover pieces in my bowl. However, I feel hesitant to share food tonight - it seems too intimate.
Lionel notices the lone piece of cucumber left in my salad bowl, much as he has done before. I promptly take a forkful of cucumber and shove it into my mouth.
"Finishing all your veggies?"
I shrug and take another piece, this time with additional gusto.
"Or perhaps you don't want to share it with me?"
His voice sounds husky, and the mention sends tingles down my spine.
I push my plate forward, leaving the last piece of crunchy cucumber on it. Lionel methodically places a piece of cucumber on his fork, his eyes locked onto mine. He moves the cucumber to his lips, placing the entire slice in his mouth in one swoop. He then slowly withdraws the implement, leaving a trail of cucumber juice sliding off his lips. The whole show is clearly for my benefit.
Our flirtatious antics have a history. Flirtation, done with comical intent, is a means to dispel our self-consciousness when we're in the company of the opposite gender. However, over time, these flirtatious exchanges have graduated from amusing takeoffs to something deeper and more intimate.
Ever since I've been living with him, I've drifted into a few romantic liaisons and casual dates off Tinder. But nothing serious materialized. Boys my age are not interested in commitment, or if they are, they're driven by political ambition and hurriedly check the 'settled down' box on their to-do list.
One morning, post one of these "dates," Lionel witnessed me arrive home. He relayed a comment on my "travel time" with his typical smirk. Surging with the effects of alcohol, he'd bring up these kinds of remarks.
How long was your commute, Lionel? I asked, prodding.
A laugh was his reply. Sober Lionel is a gentleman. Drunk Lionel, on the other hand, is the miserable fellow who's not pleased with himself.
I tossed my tresses. Oh, it was long enough, I quipped.
Was it long enough to be worthwhile? He inquired, arched eyebrow visibly raised.
I maintained a composed expression as I tossed my tresses. I licked my lips and replied.
Long enough to make it worth the trip, I responded.
He chuckled, shaking his head. Then, in a rueful manner, he smiled at me with a tinge of melancholy. Then, just as silently, he turned around and retired to bed.
Tonight, I make an effort to remain composed despite his fork performance. I don't blush or stutter, but I feel it in my core. How badly I yearn for more. Picture in my mind his hand sneaking under the table, his long fingers making their way beneath my clothes. I'd reach across the table, taking his face in my hands for a kiss, an exploration of our lips, all while picturing the sensual trail of oil left behind. Instead, I capitulate, sipping on the contents of my wine glass. I subsequently gather my plate, heading back to the kitchen.
In the midst of rinsing a bowl, Lionel strolls back into the small kitchen. He hands the bowl over to me and I put both our dishes into the dishwasher. We both recognize how cramped and convenient the space is. I block his path by holding the dishwasher's lid open. Leaning against the counter, Lionel downs a mouthful of wine while observing me. I sense he's waiting for me to acknowledge him. As soon as I shut the dishwasher's lid, I know exactly what I'm going to say.
"I'm going to take a shower to rinse off the sand from my feet."
With a sly laugh, he nods his head, knowing this is really my way of sneaking away. When I pass him in the hall, he remarks,
"Enjoy your shower."
His deep voice causes an involuntary shiver inside me as he utters this ordinary sentence.
After having a shower to clean my body and face, I long for someone else's touch on the sensitive areas of my body which I avoid due to the risk of further desired vulnerability. Masturbation could bring some relief, yet it only causes an increase in my cravings. There's a craving for something more significant, something warm with a supple touch and responsive nature complimenting mine. It's someone who isn't electronic, offering the excitement of an actual response, a connection that's solely in the present. Something that can create its own sounds as I provide what he yearns for. Something we both yearn for.
Oh how much I want him.
Satisfied but not clean, I turn off the shower. I smoothen out my long damp hair but opt for a safe attire that won't incite post-shower scrutiny from him. Green cotton pajamas - a vintage style with a short-sleeved button-up top and matching shorts.
From the hallway I can spot the light on in the living room, so I can hear the opera music clearly, loud, dramatic, almost like a tantrum.
In my room, I prepare my bedtime routine by plugging my phone into the charger, usually doze off with a tablet in case I'm awake for long. Get a glass of water. Oh no, I forgot to get the water pitcher.
In the kitchen, I can't just tiptoe about, as the opera has been reduced in volume. The thud of an empty refrigerator door and the noise of the water pitcher being filled are signs that someone's around.
I'm unmoving in the dark kitchen, confused about my decision. I previously engaged with Cassandra in a typical chat about how Lionel was doing. All that followed about her innocent photo of a Mimosa in a massive glass. I'm seen as an ally, a reliable assistant who won't be a temptation. I'm a safe choice.
Determination prevails over worry. Filled with impatience and my burning desire, I slip an ice pop from the freezer and stride towards the living room. Lionel shows himself from his slouch on the couch by sitting up a bit more, glass of scotch or bourbon in hand. I snap open the packaging, crunch loudly when I see the frown on his face.
"Having fun with that?" he asks.
Ignoring him, I sit on the chair across from the couch. The syrupy smile on his face, the spark in his eyes, and the disapproving look in his raised eyebrow reveal his genuine curiosity towards the sticky-messy noise I'm making. This prompts him to sit up straighter, breathing calmly through his nostrils. [Paraphrased]
In the midst of cleaning a dish, Lionel enters the petite kitchen. He gives me his bowl to wash and as we load the dishwasher, we both acknowledge the small and convenient kitchen. I close the dishwasher just as I have my statement ready.
"I'm going to shower and get the sand off my feet."
As I walk past him to leave the kitchen, he wishes me a pleasant shower. I feel my skin shiver even more as his soft voice delivers this ordinary line.
Following my cleansing shower to remove dirt from my skin, I envisage his touch in areas I'm insecure about unless it inflames my own conscious greed. Masturbation can give temporary relief, yet my craving persists. I crave something more, something human, with real contact and answering to every stroke, complementing my moves. It's someone without wires or man-made machinery, delivering a personal audio. That's what we both yearn for.
How much I want him.
After closing the shower, I smooth my long wet hair and select comfy cotton PJs - a retro vibe with a short-sleeved button-up top and matching shorts.
From the hallway, I spot the lit living room. The music from the opera is loud and dramatic, as if throwing a temper tantrum. Being in my room, I charge my phone then complete my bedtime ritual. I also grab a frozen desert.
The lights on in the living room disturb my quiet stroll. I can’t be stealthy as the volume of the opera is reduced.
In the dark kitchen, I hesitate, doubting my choice. I recently corresponded with Cassandra. She asked after Lionel while he enjoyed Mimosas from an oversized glass. I'm thought of as trustworthy, a loyal friend despite being seen as an unappealing option.
My eagerness overtakes my doubts. My inner unrest can't be contained. I saw a creamsicle from the freezer and carry it to the living room. Lionel sits up from his couch, glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Having fun?" he questions.
Uninterested, I remain seated, munching on my ice pop.
The upturned corner of his lips says is all. His eyes glimmer with curiosity, awaiting a performance. As he sits up more, breathing slowly through his nose, I pick up my rhythm. The loud crumpling of the plastic wrap gets to him. [End of Paraphrased Text]
We're sitting in quiet contemplation, Lionel fiddling with the ice in his nearly empty highball glass, while I nibble on my popsicle, trying to make it look as suggestive as I feel.
"How's the liquid sustenance?" I inquire, knowing he's probably already had several drinks this evening.
"Quite nourishing," he replies dryly. After a pause, he adds, "And how's the frozen stick?"
I pull the popsicle from my lips. "Outright freezing."
A prick of his lips, and he stares at me as I continue to eat the popsicle provocatively. I know it's wrong, but it's just too tempting not to tease him. I lick the tip of the popsicle, licking up from the middle to the tip, all the while keeping my gaze on his. Lionel takes in a deep breath, his jaw muscle twitching. His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn't look annoyed.
"And how does coldness taste?" he asks in a low voice.
The words reverberate in my chest, their sarcastic meaning twisting into something else that makes a warmth bloom in my stomach. He's leaning forward, daring me to give him a similarly loaded response.
"You decide," I answer, reaching out my arm.
Hesitating for a moment, Lionel leans in and places his glass on the coffee table in front of him. Then, he swivels towards me and leans his neck out, closing the distance. He opens his mouth. I lean in to close the gap, offering my arm for him to take.
Lionel waits patiently, his mouth still open. I slowly ease the smooth tip of the popsicle, now blunted, onto his tongue. He closes his lips around it and briefly sucks on it, holding my gaze. When he lets go, there's a quick swipe of his tongue across his lower lip. A faint glint of amusement in his eyes.
A flutter of butterflies in my stomach, reminding me of the adrenaline rush you get after surviving a rollercoaster. But I don't want this feeling to end.
I take another lick, this time with less pretense. I run my tongue up and down the length of the popsicle. I leave it in my mouth and with exaggerated effort, pretend to eat the popsicle down to the end, gasping for breath as I pull it out of my mouth. When I meet his gaze again, he looks like he's debating something. He's breathing faster, his colorful lips half-smiled. Some mix of amusement, anger, and desire in his eyes.
I place the popsicle back in my mouth, and this time I suck on it more innocently. When I meet his eyes again, he's still waiting. His eyes glitter with an spark of encouragement. He's stretching his arm towards my crossed leg, which rests on his left knee. With a degree of precision, he moves the glass along my shin, leaving a wet trail. I shift in my seat a bit, trying to suppress my gasp. He does the same on my other leg, going up my ankle. This time I can't contain my gasp, but I can't help but smile as I barely bite my lip. I wait for my turn, and when he doesn't move, he makes the decision for me.
He places his glass on the coffee table and puts the mostly melted popsicle in his empty glass. His gaze turns back to me. He holds onto my wrist firmly. He pulls me towards him, bringing his other hand to my face. We're both leaning in, our moist lips meet.
The flavors of bourbon and popsicle blend deliciously as our warm lips touch. The sensation is gentle, soft, yet so strong. He closes our lips briefly and then pulls back with a pointed look. I respond with a smile, feeling the warmth in my cheeks, which intensifies when he grins back. We've both decided to taste more after sampling. A lot more.
We consider who should move to whose seat. Although there's more space on the couch, he slips off and remains in front of me. It makes sense for him to stay kneeling, and it's easy for me to open my legs and allow him to get closer. My knees are set on either side of his hips, and my hands rise to his face. He graciously allows me to remove his glasses, sharing a chuckle as I accidentally snag one of the temples in his soft hair. The soft brown hair I'm now running my fingers through as he kisses me. Kisses that become longer and deeper, and as I start to moan into his lips, he uses his right hand to move between my legs.
The hand stays on top of the cotton fabric of my shorts, but the fingers explore my mound, identifying my clit with a firm swirl. His long fingers continue playing gently as our tongues keep tasting each other, a pleasant flavor of sweetened alcohol mixing in our mouths. He enjoys hearing my breathing shorten, a rumbling chuckle as I whimper and jump at his skilful manipulation. Only when the cotton fabric is saturated with my juices does he stop.
There's a small gap where we both glance at each other, seeing that we're still fully dressed. We've only gone this far with some light touching. Not even close to dry humping. But we both want more. His desire is visible in his eyes, and I can feel it in his fingers when they touch me.
Bravely, and without hesitation, I go for his belt. To my surprise, he feigns disbelief, and I give him that eye-roll reaction. I undo and unzip, his grin disappearing when I grip his cock. A single palm stroke gets me choking up on the tip, pinching him playfully. A lot of ideas race through my mind about the positions and feelings. Ways I want to use him and be used as well.
Since we're at the point of being partially undressed, he accommodates by slipping his right hand down my stomach and forcing his way under my shorts. Beneath his wrist, it curls inside my panties, grazing my bare skin. Finger penetrates me, going slowly at first to gradually match the speed of our kissing, then each of us fully engaged in the intimacy.
While he teases my clit with his middle finger, I stroke his erection, attempting to satisfy his sexual desire. Eventually, he withdraws his hand without warning, but only to lick it and resume the teasing.
"You like that, don't you?" he whispers.
I can only whimper and nod instea,d unable to express my acceptance audibly.
"You'd like more than my finger, wouldn't you?" he doesn't tease, but rather seriously requests an answer.
As we've reached this point of undressing, I feel it's time to express my desires openly. I have no remaining steps to hide.
"I want you to fuck me," I whine demandingly.
"Here?" He inquires, kissing my ear.
"Now," I reply, addressing the situation straightforwardly.
We each stand up and take off our undergarments. The bras and panties are discarded. He doesn't ask for a condom, he doesn't seem to want to slow down. I turn around and sit on the chair, my knees spread wide and my ass facing him. I don't need to request anything, he understands what I want.
Unable to wait any longer, he drives into me. The chair isn't fixed enough to provide stability, but this enhances the thrill of the passion. The erotic frenzy of his rough fucking amplifies as he yanks up the hem of my pajama top to reveal my breasts, holding them tightly against my back with a leash-like grip, tugging on it as he forces himself deep into me. He supports my chest with one hand to maximize the effect of his thrusts.
Now, relaxed and fulfilled, his fantasy is being realized. He's finally able to thrust into my ass, gripping my breasts with his other hand. He thrusts deeper, our bodies shaking explosively, culminating in a hectic orgasm.
### Through My Moans, I Tell Him What I Want
I cry out to him about how much I've craved this experience. I confess that I required this. He affirms this by twisting my arms back, which holds a limb behind my elbows. Then, he lifts my upper-body upward, showing off my chest as he buckles upwards ferociously.
This version of Lionel has shed manners and formality. This Lionel growls into my ear, not inquiring but rather threatening that we crave it harder. And I do.
My cries for more grow louder and complaint-like, his wheezing brusk and animal-like. He cautions me he's going to come, so I'll realize he'll fill me up with his cum unless I object.
"It's okay," I yelp out. Give it to me. Give me whatever that ungrateful hussy cannot endure. And so he does.
He slows down as the warm fluid escapes from me, as my vagina regrets witnessing him withdraw. He leans against the wall in front of me, panting and swearing. I stroke his hair as he kisses my ears, his hot breath flirting with my skin.
"Holy fuck..."
I chuckle at his out-of-character profanity. He's kneeling down, quivering a bit, maybe exhausted. But I'm not. And he knows this. Gradually, he swivels me around, removing me from my knees. Grasping me in his arms, he moves to the couch and takes a seat, inviting me to sit on his lap.
"I want to see your face," he murmurs. "I want to witness the instant you cum."
Upon hearing this, my body buzzes with ecstasy as he starts stroking my clit again. He spends time to keep my orgasm satisfied, while receiving a light pawing from me. The satisfaction from kissing him and looking into his eyes isn't decreased by his chatty narration. The way he describes my body and my reactions, the compliment that he can't stop touching me. And I don't want him to. Cassandra could stroll through that door at this very moment and I'd stay right where I am - naked and imprisoned on his lap, one hand kneading my anus while his other hand navigates in my wet vagina. His naked body is filled with a gleam of sweat, his grin stretching a mile wide on his loving and very content face. Waves of delight were sent to my core, facilitated by his business-like fingers.
We continue touching each other, fingering and caressing, elevating myself to present my breasts for his mouth. Kissing my nipples makes him erect enough for us to fuck again, a gentle and steady pace with laughter and affection. Laughter because we knocked over his coffee table and tipped his drink over, spilling the melted popsicle onto the carpet, leaving a small beige mark. A belief-evoking reminder of how he fucked my soul away while his unfaithful girlfriend pretended to be communicating with her friends.
I can inform her tomorrow when she messages back about how everything is simply fine. Just a minor stain on the carpet. A small worry we'll be able to notice.
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- Coping with Father: Part 1
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