She knows that he is watching, but she pretends not to. it is a fiction that they both share, a shared lie that is in so many ways a symbol of their relationship. so many things that they say but not mean, and mean but do not say.

She comes into the room, seemingly alone, and shoos away the eager pets that follow. They know something fun is going to happen, can sense the energy, but they accept exile without fuss. this has happened before.

She is already undoing her blouse with distracted fingers as she crosses to her night table and opens the bottom drawer. She bends over to rummage through, seeking treasures that he both can and cannot imagine. Her skirt is cherry red and moulds to her ass as she bends over. He notices that there are no panty lines.

A moment later she straightens. Her blouse, sleeveless, low cut, and made of black silk, is gaping open, and her lacy bra, also black, is plainly visible.

Her free hand, the one not clutching her treasures, pushes roughly at lace and then pinches. She is at the foot of the bed then, her placement seemingly coincident, but they both know that it is not. She sits and lays her objects next to her on the bed, and then both hands are rubbing and kneading. Her eyes are closed, her head lolling backward, and she gives a whimper. Both hands are pinching at hidden nipples and then she is grasping all of it, moaning quietly in frustration, before both cups are pulled downward and he can finally see her breasts.

Her head is still canted to one side, but the angle is too perfect, too posed and he knows that she is doing it for him. She runs her hands down her front, slowly and sensually and both of them, he thinks, are imagining that they are his. He sees her breasts clearly, and that, he is sure, is why she is doing this. They are small, and perfect. They jut proudly from her chest, barely sagging and there, clearly in the centre, are her beautiful nipples. They are a pale shade of pink, small and firmly erect, and it is all he can do not to stand up and take them in his mouth.

That would break the fiction, though, so it cannot be. The fiction is paramount, so it remains, and so too does he now.

Her hands slide across her stomach as her body writhes sinuously. She used to dance, but did her dancing help her unleash her sexuality, or was it her sexuality that made her a great dancer? What next created the other is meaningless, because it is the finished product, the perfect union of both, that exists now and that is what matters. She is Venus, Aphrodite, Lilith and Delilah combined: the embodiment of female sexuality, both treasure and trap, and if she would accept it he would worship her.

She does not want his devotion, though. he does not know what she wants, nor does he think does she. Thus the fiction, this gift she gives to him, this ephemeral, impulsive thing that he will accept and treasure because he never knows when it will happen again.

Her hands slide up her sides, fingers spread widely like she wants to catch the sensation before it can escape. He follows their path with his eyes, eagerly devouring her in the only way he is allowed. As if by his mental command, her hands drift along black lace and then above it. She is cupping herself, squeezing and releasing while her hard nipples trail between her fingers. She hisses and moans as she pinches and twists, inflicting more pain on herself than he would have dared, once upon a time, before he knew her.

Her head is hanging back, her long neck and supple throat exposed as she abuses herself with exquisite pain, and then her hands are moving, falling, sliding down her torso and along the line of her stomach to between her legs.

Her skirt is there, almost short enough for him to see beneath, but not quite. Her hands don't stop but continue down to where red cotton stops. There is no stopping, no hesitation and in one smooth motion, as if stripping were a form of yoga, she has pulled the pencil skirt up to her waist. She has to stand briefly for this, but that, too, is smooth and well-practiced, and then she is exposed to him.

He is looking for black lace to match that above, but to his surprise there is nothing, only naked lips and, between them, glistening pink flesh.

He cannot help but hiss when he sees her naked and wet before him, and he sees, from the corner of his eye, the small, quick smile that tells him that he had been heard.

She didn't react, not really. The fiction is bent, not broken, and so it can continue.

Her hands have never stopped moving and now they slide once again between her legs, as smooth and as fluid as the lapping of the tide. They slide down the top of her legs--it registers to him now that she is not wearing stockings, that the beautiful legs he saw earlier need no enhancement--and then up her thighs. She moans as they slow, each one sliding up the juncture between leg and hip, spreading even as they caress, and then she is laying back, anything beyond her hips visible only as the flattened mounds of her breasts and a distant cloud of walnut hair.

That doesn't really matter now, because anything further away than her hips may as well not exist. She is allowing him to see her spread before him and glistening with desire. The house could explode around them and he wouldn't care.

Her one hand slides slowly up the length of her wet slit, while the other rises higher to its top, to her hood and its magical, sensitive spot hidden beneath. She groans, a low, drawn out, happy sound as two of her fingers begin to slowly orbit her clit. her other hand is resting above it, where her pubic hair would be is she wasn't shaved, sliding absently back and forth.

That hand moves now, sliding down and one finger gently extends, briefly touching that little spot of skin between her slit and her anus and then, slowly, slides inside her. She moans as it slides inside and arches her back when its sinks in up to the knuckle.

Her fingers are orbiting a little faster now, the loose skin over her clit hood moving in sympathetic circles as the finger in her vagina eases out. She gives a little moaning gasp that rises as she does it, until it ends like the popping of a bubble and then she is sliding that one finger back inside.

She wiggles it this time, once it is fully inserted, and must like what she touches because she arches her back again before drawing it out. This time it is two fingers that go in, and again she is gasping and moaning when she reaches that part inside her that feels so good.

Both fingers are glistening wet, and he can hear gentle liquid sucking sounds as they slowly plunge in and out. The fingers orbiting her clit speed up again, and he can hear the sound that they make, too. Another liquid sound, higher and more rhythmic.

Her body is starting to writhe, her hips gently undulating to her own inner rhythm, but just when he thinks she's going to speed up again, or maybe add another finger, she stops, removes both hands, and sighs contentedly.

Is that it? Is that all of the gift she has chosen to give him today? He hopes not, but even if it is, it is more than she has to. it is a gift, after all, free for her to give or not as she sees fit. She didn't have to cryptically invite him over today, and, if she hadn't, he would never have known the difference.

Still, he had hoped that there was more, even as he prepares himself for the alternative.

She sighs, reaches beside her and brings something down between her legs. It is a small rubber ball the size and shape of an egg and has a rubber cord attached to a box in her other hand. Her being her, it is, of course, pink.

An egg vibrator. Of course. The show, it seems, is going to go on.

The egg begins to vibrate slowly with an audible hum. It speeds up once and then once again before she spreads her legs widely and lowers it to her clit. She gives a gasping cry as it touches and then jerks it away. She waits a moment, takes a deep breath and then applies it again, slowly, and not quite on her clit. This time, when it touches, she keeps it there and the cry she gives out is lower, almost like she'd been struck.

She swirls the egg around her clit, gasping with her every breath while her hips start to rock up and down.

This continues for a few lingering, wonderful minutes and he uses them to memorise her every sight and sound. he can smell her faintly and he wants to taste her, but knows that he cannot. Their fiction would shatter, and this would never happen again.

He is content to wait, and watch, and listen.

The egg starts vibrating faster and she gives out a long, drawn out moan, then runs it up and down her slit, Again, just when he thinks that she will increase the intensity, she pulls it away and shuts it off.

The silence after the egg's loud vibration is almost a physical thing. She is panting now, her breasts rising and falling in a way that would be incredibly distracting in any other circumstance.