Sarah

Sarah had been in Paris for some six months when, out of the blue, I received a call from her asking if she could come and stay with me at my apartment in Rome for a week or two. Of course I said yes. I had not seen Sarah since we left college in Chicago three years previously and went our separate ways. She, with the ultimate aim of becoming a writer, went to work for a small publishing company in New York. I, on the other hand, decided to spend, or some would say waste, a year traveling the world. She was hoping to find her sense of perspective while I was hoping to lose mine. Ironically, in no small measure we both achieved what the other was seeking. Having written a novel and two volumes of short stories, none of which had been favorably received by any of the publishers she had submitted them to, for whatever reason she decided to embark on a stuttering and largely unsatisfactory odyssey as something of a femme fatale. Physically she was perfect for the role, with a sleek torrent of tousled, untamed, shoulder-length ebony hair, moonless and whispering eyes bathed in seduction, vertiginous cheekbones, and full, luxurious lips which seemed to reflect a natural, dark and sun-kissed cherry hue. She had several brief ?affairs?, which lasted no more than a matter of days before she would make some excuse to end them. She would retreat discreetly into whatever solitary space she could find in a desperate attempt to reclaim her perspective. Having done so, she would exit her brittle, self-woven cocoon once more. A secret part of me had always loved Sarah. I had tried on more than one occasion during our college years to seduce her. However, I had soon realized that Sarah?s life was essentially lived within the velvet confines of her mind. Some would call her a fantasist, but that was unfair. I had formed the conclusion that she was simply afraid of relationships. It seemed to me that somehow every part of her, down to the warm, syrupy, insistent responses between her legs, was made for sensual pleasure. There was, however, a restraint within her which suddenly seemed to provoke the lowering of a dark veil over her ability to control the inevitable feelings and emotions that followed them. Eventually, partly in order to satisfy her all-consuming need to write, but more with the intention of building herself a soft, save haven in which to play out the desires of her alter ego to what she considered to be their natural conclusions, she began to write erotica, with increasing commercial success. She steadily began to build a reputation for herself within the genre. However at the same time she also found herself attracting the attention of some, primarily predator males, who simply wanted to slip inside her panties and enjoy the pleasure of her wild and vivid sexual imagination. They assumed that if she was creating a world of rampant sex and lust in her books that she would certainly be interested in enjoying them herself with just about anyone. In many ways she became a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more erotica she wrote, the more successful she became. The more successful she became, the more attention she attracted. The more attention she attracted, the more she felt kaçak iddaa compelled to lock herself away and write more erotica.* It was mainly for this reason that Sarah decided move to Europe for a while. She chose Paris for a variety of reasons. For her it held an allure of sensuality and more than a suggestion of sophisticated licentiousness. She spoke no French whatsoever and made the decision not to learn. Paris did not disappoint her, with its barely-hidden sexuality and casual infidelity constantly caressing and feeding her mind and senses. She did not understand it, but what she did not understand she embraced. As she did, she would write for hour after long hour. She was interrupted only by the ever-increasing need she felt to tease her fingers into her panties and relieve the mounting sexual frustration that built in her until the crescendo of desire could no longer go unfulfilled. As she pleasured herself, her mind would slip down new avenues of sexual fantasy and desire, and weave their way into her stories. Her fingers would fill her, fuck her and stimulate her body and mind to new heights of creativity. Eventually she finished what she believed to be her most powerful writing to date. It left her feeling spent, both emotionally and physically. For a time she did not wish to write another word. ?Emma, you are not, I repeat not, to let me write anything for the whole time I am here!? she said, hugging me on her arrival in Rome. I knew she had been writing voraciously. She looked full and voluptuous, as though deliciously swollen with the fruit of her wild, unfettered sexual imaginings. She told me that when she shut herself away to write she always ate a little more and exercised a little less. Her blouse opened a little, exposing the swell of her breasts as they curved down and disappeared within the confines of her white lace bra. She saw my eyes linger. She smiled. I felt the coquettish and irresistible nature of the femme fatale in her rising again for the briefest moment. For the following days I again became a tourist in the city which had become my home. We visited all those places ? places resonating with life, death, hope, disappointment, greed, beauty and every other shade of human emotion and experience - that most visitors to Rome consider a ?must see?. We laughed, drank coffee, hugged, reminisced, drank coffee, shopped, danced, drank coffee; and, of course, ate. ?Dolce far niente? as the Romans say. And at night we would take walks; sometimes alongside the River Tiber past Castel Sant?Angelo, to the Spanish Steps or Fontana di Trevi, or in whichever direction our feet took us. We would return to the apartment late in the evening. We would then sit and drink Sangiovese late into the night until our eyelids felt like little strips of lead. I found myself falling in love with Sarah all over again. It was as though the years had slipped into the slow flow of the Tiber and dispersed them. I began to flirt with her more openly, if subtly. One evening, as we sat on my sofa, my arm strayed over her shoulder and suddenly I felt her lean in to me. She turned her head. Our eyes met and I brought my lips to hers. The kiss was deep and gentle. It moved kaçak bahis easily into a depth that quickly began to submerge my senses. Her mouth, soft and warm, yielded, and then yielded again. Her fingers slipped into my hair, brushing it back over my ear as her tongue plunged into my mouth in search of my own. Then suddenly she drew back. She made a fuzzy, intoxicated apology and went to bed. The room was, for a few moments, thick with the reality that Sarah was living in fear of something, namely herself. That night I awoke to the sound of light scrabbling coming from Sarah?s room. I could hear drawers being opened and shut and similar sounds. After a little while, I went to her door, knocked lightly and waited. ?Come in,? she said. When I did, I saw her*sitting on the end of her bed, every curve of her body exposed except for a wisp of black satin which was barely covering her sex. ?What?s wrong?? I asked. ?Are you looking for something?? ?I need something to write with,? she said, a hint of frustration in her voice. ?A pen, pencil, paper... anything.? I sighed and smiled softly. ?It was you who told me there was to be no writing while you were here, Sarah. Give your mind a rest. There will be plenty of time to write when you get back to Paris.? Sarah flung herself back on the bed, her full breasts heaving above her as she grabbed a pillow, held it lightly over her face and let out a small grunt of exasperation into it. ?Goodnight, Sarah,? I said, closing the door. I woke up the following morning to both brilliant sunshine pouring like warm liquid gold through my open window, and once more to the sound of Sarah in her room next door. This time I was left in no doubt what she was doing. The long, languid moans told me that she was in the throes of pleasuring herself and that her climax was building. I sat up in bed a little and listened. Her moans were becoming louder, more like little screams. Each one was becoming a little faster and more breathless. I could hear her through the thin dividing wall, yielding to her pleasure; ?Oh god, oh god... fuck,? she would moan, over and over. I closed my eyes and pictured her on her bed, as she had been when I left her during the night, her hand delving in her panties, her thighs parted, her fingers sliding in and out of herself and using her moisture to lubricate her protruding, sensitive bud. As I did so I could feel my own arousal build quickly between my legs. I squeezed my fingers into the palms of my hands as they lay stretched out beside me, and clenched my thighs together tightly. My own need was becoming urgent. I hadn?t pleasured myself for several days. As I uncurled my fingers from within my palms, the telephone on my bedside table rang, and suddenly I was jolted back to reality. I had already decided to take Sarah for a walk that morning. I wanted to show her some of the lesser-known, more ?intimate? Rome, and to buy her coffee at a bar I had discovered when I first arrived, Bar Rambollini. I put on a wafer-thin white cotton-silk summer dress with delicate noodle straps, with a flirty mid-thigh length hemline that teased my thighs. We linked arms as we walked through the narrow streets, but I could tell that illegal bahis Sarah was not her usual self. She seemed more reticent, as though deep thoughts were congregating in her mind and affecting her mood. Bar Rambollini was quiet. I knew it would be. We ordered two capuccini scuri and found ourselves a quiet booth to sit and talk. ?Sarah,? I said, taking a deep breath and hoping to penetrate the shell I sensed she was beginning to surround herself with. ?There?s something the matter. What is it?? Sarah took a long, slow sip of her coffee. ?Can I be honest with you?? she asked. I nodded. ?For almost six months, I have written almost all day, every day. I have shut myself away in my apartment, pouring myself out and into every word I have written. When you are alone with yourself, with your thoughts, feelings, emotions and, yes, desires, things can become very clear to you.? I nodded again. ?And what, if anything, has become clear to you, Sarah?? She paused again for a short time. ?As time passed, I began to realize some things about myself that I can no longer ignore. For whatever reason, I cannot ?do? relationships, Emma. Whenever anyone gets close to me, I retreat into my carapace and allow my deepest needs to be fulfilled through what I write. All my desires find form within my mind, and then are transformed into word after word, page after page of expression and emotion.? I remained silent, nodding as if to signal my concerned understanding at what she was trying to convey. ?Last night, when we kissed,? she whispered, ?I felt all those feelings of insecurity and fear surge through me like wild, crackling electricity. You know that my body was responding to you, don?t you. But my mind was also suddenly beginning to become paralyzed with fear. All I could think of was to detach myself, to be alone, shut myself away and write again. It?s almost as though my reality only now exists on sheets of vellum and expressed through ink on a page. It is as though I need to somehow express my feelings in a story, rather than experience it myself. It?s where I feel... safe.? Sarah took a deep breath and another mouthful of coffee. ?You are a storyteller, Sarah,? I said, smiling at her and placing the palm of my hand on top of hers. ?Storytellers have existed as long as anyone can ever remember. Before stories were written down, they were imagined and told. However, whether they are written down and find their expression between the covers of a book, or whether they are shared around a camp fire, all stories, Sarah, need to find an audience. They need a reader, a listener, whatever. It doesn?t matter, but they find life in being read or heard.? It was Sarah?s turn to nod in agreement. I stroked the back of her hand with my fingertips. Her skin felt warm and smooth against them, like olive porcelain. ?Why don?t you tell me a story, Sarah?? I whispered. ?I want to hear one.? After a moment or two, Sarah turned to me. She rattled her cup lightly against her saucer as she replaced it. ?Is that a challenge?? she said, smiling. ?No, Sarah,? I replied, my voice lowering a little, ?It?s an invitation.? ?Then I will accept,? she replied. She slid herself a little closer to me in the booth, turned her head. Suddenly I felt the warmth of her breath playing lightly against my ear, sending a tingling wave of little electric shocks cascading from the back of my head down my spine.