Oh Yum! 09 K Z Snow Liberation (EC)(pdf)

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Liberation

ISBN 9781419916090
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Liberation Copyright © 2008 K.Z. Snow

Edited by Carole Genz.
Cover art by Syneca.

Electronic book Publication May 2008

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales
is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

IBERATION

K.Z. Snow

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the

following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Formica: Diller Corporation

Hummer: General Motors Corporation

Starbucks: Starbucks U. S. Brands Corporation

Styrofoam: Dow Chemical Company

Liberation

Chapter One

How does one put music in someone’s soul? Or release it from someone’s soul?

I ended up having to ask myself those questions when Edgar Olmstead, an

instructor at the local technical college, called the office of the Appletree Chamber

Orchestra. Mr. Olmstead, a one-time clarinetist with his college marching band, taught

an adult night-school class called “Playing with Passion”. His nine students were

amateur musicians and the purpose of the class was to help them perform with greater

interpretive flair. That’s how he explained it anyway. He hoped at least one member of

the chamber orchestra would agree to appear as a guest instructor—play a little

something, listen to the students play, give them some tips on how to inject their music

with the appropriate kind and level of feeling.

Just one session and that would be it.

For a variety of reasons, nobody in the small Appletree orchestra wanted to take on

the challenge. We all had soft spots to one degree or another for aspiring musicians but

we also had lives. And many of my fellows were simply not cut out to be teachers.

I ended up volunteering. The reason was simple. I would’ve felt terrible if Mr.

Olmstead and his students were let down by the only local group of professionals to

whom they could turn. I mean, come on, how much “passion” were the students

absorbing from a marching-band clarinetist?

So there I was, one fine September evening, facing four guitarists, a pianist, two

organists, one saxophone player and one harmonica player. Only three of the nine

performed outside their homes. One of the organists played in her church, one guitarist

did occasional gigs at various obscure places and events and the guy with the sax was

hoping to get into a rock band. Their ages seemed to range from late teens to early

seventies.

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Yes indeed, there I was…with my freakin’ cello and a piece of music by

Rachmaninoff.

I did manage to persuade my best friend, Roy Emerson, to join me. Roy was a

superb keyboardist and our go-to guy when a particular concert program called for

piano or harpsichord. He was also quite personable and entertaining, which I figured

would come in handy. I whined to Roy about needing a pianist to accompany me on the

Rachmaninoff sonata. Being my friend, he didn’t scoff at me. He gave in. Quite

agreeably, thank God.

When we walked into the classroom, everybody was standing around with their

Styrofoam cups of coffee chatting. Almost immediately, my gaze was drawn to one

student in particular. I suspected Roy had also noticed the student because it was

damned near impossible not to—impossible, that was, for anybody susceptible to male

sex appeal.

As I walked past him, the student’s gaze slid down to the cello case then back up to

my face. He smiled. It was the kind of smile you got from strangers, brief and modest,

but there was genuine warmth in it. And maybe something more.

My stomach fluttered.

“Do you need help with that?” he asked in a honeyed voice.

“No, thank you. It’s almost like a fifth appendage now.”

The man chuckled silently as Olmstead walked over to greet Roy and me. Taking a

cue from the interruption, the student turned and began talking with one of his

classmates.

I couldn’t stop darting glances at him out of the corner of my eye. The man was

simply beautiful—taller and far more striking than any guy I’d seen in a long time. The

dark peppering of stubble along his jaw and upper lip accented his handsome features

and fine bone structure. The full, slightly curly hair that tickled the base of his neck

reminded me of caramel brownies—lusciously rich and begging to be grabbed. I

seriously doubted he’d ever set foot in a salon but the subtle play of light on that wealth

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of walnut hair with its muted gold highlights looked better than anything a professional

colorist could have done. His grayish-green eyes seemed at once soft and sharply alert.

Maybe it was a result of the color being set off by black rings around the irises.

Each time he turned his back to me, my gaze was drawn to one spot and one alone.

His long, lean legs were topped by an absolutely perfect ass. I immediately knew my

hands could mold to it quite nicely…if given a chance.

I felt a little foolish for finding him so compelling. Gay, straight or in-between, he

was certainly taken. If not, he was certainly one handful of ho-dog. Not that it mattered

what he was. I’d never have the opportunity to find out. This dream man was obviously

in his twenties and therefore nowhere near my age.

As Olmstead set up a chair and music stand for me, I walked with Roy over to the

piano. We had to be clear on exactly which portion of the sonata we’d be playing. But

Roy had something else on his mind.

He spoke close to my ear in a virtually inaudible whisper. Like a ventriloquist, he

barely moved his lips. “Hot damn, is that an ungarnished slice of gorgeous or what?”

I had to smile. Roy had a way with words. “That’s an ungarnished slice of young

gorgeous.”

“The hell. Guaranteed he’s over eighteen. He looks mid-twenties. That makes him

fair game.” Roy arranged the sheets of music per my instructions. “I just don’t think

he’s my kind of fair game. I saw him give you the once-over.”

“He was giving my case the once-over.”

“Case, shell, temple. Call a body what you will. Yours got the eye slide, sweet

cheeks.”

Roy sat at the piano. I stationed myself in the nearby chair. As Olmstead introduced

us and gave a little prefatory spiel, I tried not to ogle the slice of gorgeous who wasn’t

too far away from me. Instead I forced my gaze to remain on the instructor. Edgar

Olmstead was a man of average height, probably in his late forties or early fifties, with a

thickened waist, thinning hair and bright blue eyes that shone behind rimless glasses.

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He seemed like a very decent, pleasant guy who truly loved what he was doing. I had

to admire him for that.

Then the instructor introduced his students one by one. I had to remind myself to

be politely, neutrally attentive. I also had to remind myself to breathe.

The slice’s name was Bronson McCullough. Or Bron. According to Edgar, he played

the harp. There was no harp in the room but there was certainly a harmonica tucked

into one of Bron McCullough’s pockets. Edgar, it appeared, was just trying to be hip.

When the teacher was finished, he made a flourish in my direction and announced,

“Now Ms. Kozak, an accomplished cellist, will give her interpretation of what this

course is all about.”

Yikes. I was on. I’d forgotten that my arrangements with Edgar had included a short

speech. Although I’d thought about what I was going to say, I hadn’t written anything

down. I would pretty much have to wing it.

Uncomfortably aware of all those eyes on me, I didn’t approach the lectern. I

remained seated. My face felt warm.

“There are obviously different approaches to music,” I began. “You can be a passive

recipient, a listener. That’s what most people are. Anybody can let himself be moved by

music. But if you want to be a musician, a much deeper and more active connection is

required.

“In short, you work at conquering the music so you can ultimately surrender to it.”

I didn’t know what made me glance at Bron just then, but I did. He was staring at

me, his face as unreadable as a mask. The force of his focus made me a bit lightheaded. I

rose from the chair, primarily to redirect my attention, and strolled around the front of

the room as I gathered my thoughts and resumed speaking.

“First and foremost, you must be driven by desire. Undeniable, consuming desire.

Then you acquire skill, you learn the mechanics of mastery. You become the aggressor

and dominate your instrument through your knowledge of it. But you must

simultaneously remain a listener, open and receptive. As the music begins to claim you,

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to move within you, you ‘deepen’ your listening and respond to the notes’ demands.

And you finesse your skill accordingly.”

I stood still and faced my small audience. “If you’re a true musician rather than a

mere player, the mechanics of your craft will begin to merge with and enhance the

beauty of the art…and vice versa. Your soul will be the conduit. This is the same

process that elevates poets above versifiers, sculptors above potters. Or Fred Astaire

above your Uncle Leo, the wedding polka king.”

The students chuckled. One, who laughed louder because he might have an Uncle

Leo, clapped in delight. Roy and Edgar clapped to be polite. I gave the class a shy smile

and walked back to my seat. Bron, I’d noticed, had returned my smile. But the tenor of

his had changed. It was as warm as before but somehow more expressive. He seemed to

approve of what I’d said.

Readying my cello, I let Olmstead introduce the piece we were about to play. My

hands felt less steady than they should have. This is ridiculous, I told myself. Pull yourself

together.

Rachmaninoff, bless him, made it easy. I loved his music. Precise, powerful, often

rhapsodic and technically demanding, his compositions were some of the most moving

in the twentieth-century repertoire.

Since the entire sonata was long and the classroom’s upright wasn’t suited to some

of the piano passages, Roy and I didn’t play much—just a portion of one movement. It

went fairly well, all things considered. I didn’t allow myself a moment’s distraction.

Roy concluded with a little honky-tonk since the piano wasn’t good for much more than

that. The class gave us as rousing an ovation as ten people could muster.

“Now,” Olmstead said, “let’s show Jessamyn and Roy what you’re capable of. We’ll

try to mix it up a bit so the keyboardists and guitarists don’t play back-to-back.”

Roy moved to one of the classroom chairs to free up the piano and I went with him.

The students, it appeared, were to play at the front of the room. We’d give them brief

critiques and suggestions afterward.

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I felt a nervous froth of anticipation. Again, I silently upbraided myself. It was

getting to the point where I wanted to be gone from here, away from Bron

McCullough’s discomfiting presence. Jesus, he made me feel as if some bubble-brained

high-school freshman were living inside my thirty-seven-year-old head. I was disgusted

with myself for being so easily thrown off-kilter by a good-looking man.

I concentrated on the first guitarist who played. Then Roy took on a sixty-

something woman who’d brought her own electric keyboard. Another guitarist and it

was my turn again.

Then Bron was up.

He didn’t come to the front of the room but stayed where he was. Roy and I turned

around to watch him. Bron pulled a harmonica from his jeans pocket. I vaguely realized

I didn’t know anything about harmonicas, except that they were free-reed instruments

and I liked their sound, so I hoped Roy could come up with something sensible to say.

At first I barely heard the twitter of the notes because the man himself was so

visually arresting. Before Bron began to play, he slid down in the chair. His slim legs

parted into a wide V that seemed to invite and direct my stare. Wrenching my gaze

from his crotch, I saw his eyes drift shut, the dark lashes lowering like delicate awnings

over the pink crests of his cheekbones.

And, Jesus, that mouth! As I watched his sumptuous lips form a blocking

embouchure and begin moving over the slots in the reed plates, my imagination went

wild. Roy slid me a sidelong glance. I suspected he was thinking the same thing I was.

A mouth like that—lips so full and supple, tongue so limber—could be put to so many

uses. Much, much better uses. Uncontrollably, I let out a wavering sigh. My pussy felt

damp. An image of Bron’s mouth on it flashed into my mind. I immediately got wetter

and felt a string of weak pulsations.

I hadn’t been laid in quite a while.

When Bron was finished, everybody applauded—which everybody did after

anybody played. Roy stood up, still clapping, and said, “Nice.” He turned to Edgar,

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who was seated at the back of the room. “Mind if we take five and then talk to Mr.

McCullough?”

Pulling down the corners of his mouth, Edgar checked his watch. “Sure, we could

do that. We’re just about at the halfway point.” He too rose from his chair. “Okay,

everyone, breaktime. Just a few minutes though. We don’t want to keep Bron waiting.”

Roy left the room and I followed. Since I no longer trusted my reactions, I made a

point of not looking at the current object of my wayward desire. My companion and I

made a beeline for the restrooms while several students trickled into the corridor and

headed for the vending machines.

“Shit!” Roy said after we’d rounded a corner. “Doesn’t it figure he’d be playing a

phallic symbol?”

Doubling over, we both started giggling. The laughter provided me with much-

needed relief. At that moment, I was inexpressibly grateful my friend had come with

me.

“Harmonicas aren’t phallic symbols, Roy.”

“Yeah, well, maybe not to you. He might just as well have brought a snare drum

and played it with his dick.”

My laughter freshening, I swatted his arm. “Will you stop it? You’re not making

things any easier. I’d like to get to sleep tonight.”

“I don’t think I’ll get to sleep until I get off.” Roy headed into the men’s room.

I didn’t really have to pee but I did so nonetheless just to swab myself dry. God,

how I wanted to get home and put this evening behind me! The men I’d been dating

since my divorce were everything like Edgar Olmstead and nothing like Bronson

McCullough…and I sure as hell didn’t need to be reminded of that unfortunate fact.

Composed again, Roy and I went back to the classroom.

K.Z. Snow

Most of the students milled about, new refreshments in hand. I noticed Bronson

hadn’t moved from his chair. When everybody saw Roy and me reenter the room, they

respectfully took their seats. Edgar resumed his place at the back of the room.

Before sitting down, he said, “Time for the verdict, Mr. McCullough,” then he

nodded toward Roy and me.

We glanced uncertainly at each other. We’d agreed in the corridor that I would give

a generalized appraisal and Roy would expound in more detail since he knew more

about harmonica playing than I did. Bron’s lovely eyes were fixed on both of us. He

didn’t seem in the least bit apprehensive. In fact, he seemed quite self-possessed.

At the sight of him, my ladies’ room swabbing was quickly undone as moisture

flooded my pussy again.

“Well,” I said, “you’re not yet on a par with Sonny Boy Williamson or Lee Oskar

but you have something of a feel for the instrument. It’s a little uncertain but it’s there.

You definitely have potential.”

Our eyes locked. I knew I wasn’t imagining it.

“Thank you, Ms. Kozak,” he said, his voice silky and unbearably seductive. “I think

all I need is a little guidance and encouragement. And more practice of course.”

I managed to nod. “I think so too. And please, call me Jessa.”

As Roy launched into his critique, which was considerably more explicit and less

generous than mine, I sank into my chair and stared at the nearest wall. That man, Bron,

was getting to me. I hated myself for it but he was getting to me. If I didn’t ignore him

for the remainder of the class, I’d make some kind of fool of myself. I just knew it.

The following hour proceeded smoothly enough. For the most part. The students

played, Roy and I critiqued, Olmstead tossed in comments now and then. Nothing out

of the ordinary.

Except…my skin felt too tight. The room felt too stuffy. I had trouble ignoring

Bronson McCullough’s presence, even though I made every effort not to look in his

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direction. I kept telling myself, Get over it. You won’t be here much longer. He was a stranger

before you walked into this room and he’ll still be a stranger after you leave. You’ll never see him
again. So chill.

It wasn’t easy. I kept feeling Bron’s eyes on me or thinking I did. The man had

obviously sent my imagination into overdrive.

Finally, mercifully, the class was over. My ordeal was over. After everybody

expressed their thanks to Roy and me and we all engaged in some parting pleasantries,

Olmstead approached me as I cased my cello.

“May I treat you to a nightcap at Starbucks?” he asked, trying to be at once

gentlemanly and playful.

Fuck. Just what I needed after being reminded by a twenty-something god that I

was too old for the truly hot guys—another invitation from a thoroughly boring middle-

aged man. I knew I couldn’t bear to sit around sipping some chichi, overpriced coffee

and being subjected to Edgar’s delicate blandness. I’d probably start screaming.

“I’m afraid I have to run,” I said as kindly as possible and thought, “Run” is right.

“But thank you for the offer.”

Before he could follow up with other offers, I found Roy and told him I had to flee,

uh, leave.

He smirked. “Eddie hitting on you?”

I answered with a quick eye roll.

“Shit, that’s an ego deflator,” Roy said.

“Thanks for your bluntness.” I couldn’t keep the acerbity out of my voice.

“Well, you have a good excuse for declining. After spending an hour making small

talk with him, you’d probably fall asleep at the wheel.”

Smiling wanly and shaking my head, I grabbed my cello, walked out of the

suffocating room and hurried down the corridor to the exit. Roy could wrap things up

with the passion seekers.

K.Z. Snow

The parking lot was laved with patches of light and shadow. Grateful that I wasn’t

alone out there—a few other people also headed for their vehicles—and that my small

station wagon wasn’t far from the building’s entrance, I walked up to its hatch. And

that’s when my life changed.

Bronson appeared behind me.

“Now I will help you with that,” he murmured, his voice a low purr, his warm

breath momentarily stirring my hair. I felt his hips bump against my ass, felt the

unmistakable, soft ridge of his cock. The contact was light, not aggressive, but it seemed

somehow purposeful. Reaching for the cello case, he simultaneously lifted the hatch.

Carefully, he laid the instrument in the cargo area. I noticed the subtle interplay of

muscles in his forearms, the soft glimmer of light on the fine dark hair.

Muzzy-headed, I merely stared at him.

He closed the hatch. “Now,” he said, “would you like to go have coffee?” His

mouth crept into a smile. “Or a malt?”

“A malt?” I repeated.

“Yeah. There’s a place about three blocks from here. Joey’s. An old-school diner.

You can’t get a deluxe cappuccino but you can get a great cup of java. Or a real malt. Or

homemade chili. Or—”

I laid three fingers against Bron’s lips but not to quiet him. I just wanted to feel his

lips. After I’d done it, I wanted to feel them on my mouth. They were just as warm and

soft and pliant as I’d imagined.

Enormous potential there. Without a doubt.

“Yes,” I said, “I’d love to go.”

He blinked as I removed my fingers. “Uh, great. Would you, um, like to ride with

me or follow in your car?”

“I’ll follow.” Oh, you bet I will.

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* * * * *

“Jessa, I’m curious about something. Why did you decline Olmstead’s offer but

accept mine?”

I immediately started tittering. How could I not? “Oh God, Bron, that’s one of the

stupidest questions I’ve ever heard.”

Shut up, idiot, before you lose all the headway you’ve made.

We’d just tucked ourselves into opposite sides of a booth at Joey’s, which was

indeed an “old-school diner”—long, narrow, brightly lit and redolent of cooking grease.

The sizzle and occasional clangor from the grill behind the counter was at once soothing

and revitalizing.

We both ordered coffee.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Please don’t be offended. It’s just so obvious to me that Edgar

isn’t my type I assumed it would be obvious to others.”

“I wasn’t sure.” Bron rested his forearms on the scarred Formica table, putting him

a few inches closer to where I sat. “When I heard him get the jump on me, I nearly

swore out loud.” I thought I saw shallow dimples when he smiled. God, how much

more appealing could he get?

None of this seemed quite real. As I gazed at the eye-friendly man sitting across the

table, I wondered what exactly was happening. I couldn’t imagine him coming on to me.

Bron likely just wanted to talk about music, get more advice from a “seasoned

professional”. Maybe he hadn’t asked Roy out for coffee because he sensed my friend

was gay. No matter how enlightened, straight guys usually had some shred of

homophobia. Or maybe he felt daunted by Roy’s no-nonsense appraisal of his playing.

“Why did you invite me here?” I asked.

“Gotta start somewhere.” Bron’s tone was insinuating.

Start? I felt another slick of moisture between my legs.

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“I assumed you weren’t married or engaged,” he went on, “since you’re not

wearing that kind of ring. And I sensed, or thought I sensed, that you were sort

of…interested in me.”

My heartbeat picked up speed, driving blood into my face. “Was it that obvious?”

“Obvious enough to get my attention. Obvious enough to encourage me.”

I expelled a breath and shook my head. “I still don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

I lapsed into thought without answering him. So maybe he was having a bit of a

dry spell and just wanted some quick relief from his drought. Maybe he saw me as a

convenient, temporary oasis. Well, okay. There were worse things in the world, I told

myself, than having a fling with a man who looked like that.

The waitress delivered our coffee. Bron dumped sugar into his. I poured cream into

mine and immediately took a drink. A lewd image drifted through my mind—Bron

coming, his cream pouring out, but onto my lips or breasts or into my welcoming

channel.

“How old are you?” I asked, my voice betraying my tension.

“Twenty-five. Why? Do you have a problem with that?”

“I’m thirty-seven.”

His expression didn’t change. “I repeat, do you have a problem with my age?”

I wondered only briefly how to answer. “Not at all.”

Bron stirred his coffee and set the spoon on the saucer. He lifted the mug and

sipped. “Good. Now that’s out of the way.” Putting his arms back on the table, he

leaned a little farther toward me. “I liked what you said in class. About the difference

between a musician and a player. Now I need to make the distinction real for

myself…obviously. Got any ideas how I can do that?”

I had ideas, all right, and before I could censor myself, they spilled out of my

mouth. “Think of it this way. It’s like the difference between going through the motions

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of sex and making passionate love. Most anybody can fuck. Not everybody can do it

with skill, sensitivity and imagination.”

As soon as I heard my own words, I expected Bron to blush. And he did, a little. But

right afterward he laughed. Heartily. It was a very masculine sound—deep, full-

throated and somewhat coarse. I was relieved. Maybe I hadn’t overstepped my bounds.

“Damn,” he said, still chuckling. “I never thought I’d hear a classy lady who loves

Beethoven talk like that.” He drank more coffee.

“Beethoven himself probably talked like that.” I sipped my coffee.

Since I’d shattered the ice of my self-consciousness, I too leaned forward on the

table. It felt nice to get close to a man I found attractive. Very nice. My thoughts strayed

quite lasciviously as I studied him. I wondered how good a lay he was. Being good-

looking didn’t mean a man could fuck with any degree of finesse. Not that it mattered

at this point. I just couldn’t help but be curious.

“Why are you in Olmstead’s class?” I asked. I knew Bron wasn’t in night school

because he couldn’t find a better way to spend his evenings. A man that fine could have

a different woman every night of the week.

“This might sound strange,” he said, “but I’m trying to be better at my job.”

It did sound strange. “What’s your job?”

“I paint cars. Well, it isn’t that simple. I do custom airbrushing. Every exterior is

from an original design, either my own or someone else’s. I was lucky to get in at the

shop where I work. It has a stellar reputation.”

I still didn’t get the connection. “So…what does that have to do with playing

music?”

“AutoMorph wants each artist’s work to be unique, immediately recognizable. My

boss came to me recently, just as I was finishing a project, and said, ‘Bronson, you gotta

mix more poetry in with the paint. You’re a decent technician, man, but that ain’t never

gonna get you a name for yourself. Spunk some of your soul into your work.’ So when I

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saw this class listed in a flyer I got in the mail, I thought, Why not? Playing music with

feeling might be a roundabout way to start painting with feeling, but at least, maybe, it

can help open the gate.”

His leg brushed against mine under the table. Every nerve in my body sparked at

the touch. My nipples immediately tightened.

“Do you think it’ll work?” I asked, almost whispering the words.

Bron’s enticing gaze never left my face. “I think it’s already working. Just not in the

way I expected.” He seemed to make a conscious effort to break eye contact. He

finished his coffee then he checked his watch. “Oh shit, I should get back to the shop.”

“You work this late?”

“Sometimes.” Bron dug in his pocket, slapped some bills on the table and slid

toward the edge of the bench. “I’m really sorry.”

“I understand.” Actually I didn’t. My first thought was that some woman was

waiting for him somewhere. It was a natural conclusion to draw.

I got out of the booth, debating with myself whether or not to mention phone

numbers, future meetings, any of that connection stuff. But Bron suddenly seemed

preoccupied. My doubts mounted. As we left the diner though, he further explained

why he had to hustle back to his shop. I could tell he wasn’t lying.

“I’m doing a job for a really demanding client right now. Rich and demanding. He

wants a whole safari mural painted on his Hummer but he wants it done in a specific

style. I’ll probably put in more time figuring out that style than I will doing the

painting.”

“Good luck,” I said, standing at my driver’s door. “And…thanks.”

“No, thank you. Your sex analogy really helped me understand what Olmstead’s

class is all about. Or should be. I think I finally know what my ultimate goal is.”

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“I’m glad it makes more sense now.” So maybe clarification was all he’d been after.

He still hadn’t expressed an interest in contacting me. Confused and disillusioned, I

turned toward my car.

Bron’s hands curled around my upper arms, coaxing me into facing him again. “A

lot of things are beginning to make sense,” he murmured.

His hands slid up the back of my neck into my pinned-up hair. His thumbs lightly

caressed my temples and the upper arcs of my ears. He lowered his eyelids and his face

moved closer.

And then I felt his lips. Their cushiony heat pressed against my welcoming mouth.

He moved them as if he were speaking to me, quietly yet insistently. I didn’t need

persuasion though. I craved him. The voltage of his kiss sent arousal shimmying

through my body, a sensation so pervasive I felt it in my toes. When I sought his

tongue, he immediately offered it. The kiss became more fervid. Did Bron want to

possess me and was I giving him what he was seeking? I didn’t know. I just wanted to

drown in the sensuality of this unexpected embrace. Bron’s mouth was exquisite.

His hands glided down my back as his lips glided across my face to my throat. I felt

the plank of his firm body settle against every soft mound of mine—breasts, belly,

thighs—rubbing them almost imperceptibly, persuading me further. I could feel his

cock hardening against my stomach. Ever-so slightly he moved his hips against mine.

My breath caught. My wet cunt already pulsed with the heralds of orgasm. It wouldn’t

take much more to make me come.

“May I see you again?” Bron whispered, still kissing my neck, my face. The tip of

his tongue made moist inscriptions on the whorls of my ear. His breath slid across my

skin.

“Another stupid question,” I managed to gasp.

I felt his subdued laughter through the wall of his chest. I wanted to rip off his shirt

and my blouse and feel the vibrations against my nipples, feel his laughter and his

heartbeat and the hills of muscle encased in smooth, smooth skin.

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We eased away from each other, our respiration quick and heavy.

“I have rehearsal tomorrow,” I said, reaching into my small shoulder bag, “but I’ll

be free afterward. Around four.” I handed him a business card.

He pulled one out of the breast pocket of his shirt, handed it to me and tucked mine

in the same place his had been. “I don’t know how my day is going to go. Depends on

how much progress I make at the shop this evening.”

Nodding, I slipped the card into my bag. My movements seemed fumbling. In fact,

I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that my feet weren’t planted on the

sidewalk. I felt all wrapped up as if I were floating in some gauzy, pastel mist.

God bless Edgar Olmstead, I thought, hoping it would be adequate compensation for

turning him down.

Liberation

Chapter Two

I almost didn’t hear my doorbell because I was in the middle of playing a solo piece

for cello by Bréval. It wasn’t that I needed to practice—hell, I’d just come from

rehearsal—but I did need to relax. Playing always took my mind off everything except

the music.

Getting up from the chair wasn’t a speedy process. I couldn’t just fling the ungainly

instrument aside or drop it to the floor. To make matters worse, my heart had begun an

allegro pattering and my hands quaked. I was suddenly aware of not having on a bra or

panties. Bron was coming over so, in wicked anticipation, I’d dispensed with the

underwear as soon as I got home and slipped into a short simple dress. I’d been told its

color, a rich hunter green, complemented my blonde hair and hazel eyes. I’d also

carelessly clipped up my hair, primarily to keep it off my neck while I played. Or

maybe to invite Bron’s mouth to play there.

It was all wanton, wishful thinking. I couldn’t deny that. I’d been almost shocked

when he’d called me early that morning—I’d pretty much convinced myself I would

never hear from him again. But his liquid-gold voice with its hint of humor had put all

my fears to rest. He really did want to see me again.

I quickly straightened and smoothed my dress before I opened the door.

He stood there holding one of the biggest sunflowers I’d ever seen. Smiling almost

apologetically, he offered it to me. “Think of it as a bouquet on one stem. For some

reason, it seemed to suit you.”

I was so delighted I beamed at him. “It’s wonderful,” I said through my grin. “But I

think the only container I have that’s big enough is the toilet bowl.”

Bron tilted his head back and laughed. I was beginning to love his laughter. His

masculinity was so purely natural, so devoid of any pretentious macho bullshit or

K.Z. Snow

cover-boy lacquer of vanity that I couldn’t have cared less if he’d arrived dirty and

disheveled. But he hadn’t. He’d recently showered and he’d shaved just enough to

leave those sexy charcoal swatches on his jaw and around his mouth. His hair wasn’t

even dry yet. I could tell because the loosely curling strands weren’t as full and soft as

they’d been yesterday. But they soon would be and I couldn’t wait to troll my hands

through them.

I invited Bron in and offered him a seat on the couch before I went searching for a

vessel large enough to hold the sunflower. I was lucky to have a potter friend who’d

given me a hand-thrown, Van Gogh-ish jardinière. It was perfect and I felt perfectly

honored to have gotten the flower that would grace it. Once the jardinière was full of

water and a sunburst of petals, I carried it into the living room and set it beside the

fireplace.

Bron had taken off his jacket but still hadn’t sat down. He squatted beside the cello

to study it. His clothing, obviously clean, was nevertheless casual. The short-sleeved,

ribbed blue pullover was immensely flattering to his pecs and biceps. My eyes further

took in the curve of his back, the easy bend of his legs, the fluid, interlocking glide of

muscles in his forearms. A current sizzled through my diaphragm and drew some of

the air from my lungs. Damn, but he was enticing…without even trying.

It almost frightened me.

“Such a beautiful instrument,” Bron murmured, running his hands over its

gleaming, flamed-maple body. Tentatively, he plucked the D string. Its sonorous

reverberation seemed to match the thrum between my legs. Turning his dreamy eyes

up to me, he said, “I heard you playing when I came to the door.” Two questioning

lines formed between his eyebrows. “Was it you? Or a recording?”

Blood heated my cheeks. “You wouldn’t be asking that if you’d ever heard Yo-Yo

Ma or Rostropovich.”

Liberation

“I think I have heard Yo-Yo Ma. My parents have a CD of his. Some suites or

something. Maybe by…” Pausing, Bron scratched his head and let out an embarrassed

chuckle. “I’m sorry but I’m really bad with classical music.”

“Bach?”

“Yeah, I think that’s it.”

“The Suites for Unaccompanied Cello.”

“Can you play them?” Bron asked, still watching me.

“Uh…yes. But not nearly as well as—”

“Will you play one? Now?” he broke in. The sound of his voice was cajoling,

irresistible.

“All right.” How could I deny any request made in a voice like that, underscored by

eyes like that?

I walked over to an antique camelback trunk where I kept sheet music, resin, extra

bows and strings and various other cello-related necessities. Still feeling a bit demure, I

knelt in front of the trunk rather than bending over it. Had I bent at the waist, Bron

would’ve gotten an eyeful of glistening, swollen pussy worthy of a professional

stripper. I wanted to be alluring, sure, but I didn’t want to come across as cheap.

After rummaging through the music, I found the Bach piece I thought would be

appropriate—the courante in D minor from Suite Number Two. I could hear the music

in my head. It suddenly seemed to have a certain sexual tension and energy, something

I’d never heard in it before. Not consciously anyway.

Bron rose and stood behind my playing chair. I put the courante music on my stand

then lifted the cello between its ornamental scroll and long neck. Seating myself, I

hitched up my skirt, spread my legs and planted the instrument on its spike. Once I’d

made sure it was resting properly—top of the body lightly nuzzled against my chest, C-

string peg near my left ear—I lifted the bow by its frog, or gripping end, from the ledge

of the music stand.

K.Z. Snow

For one paralyzing moment, I was so tensely aware of the man behind me that I

didn’t think I could play. Beautiful instrument indeed. To overcome the feeling, I focused

on the note-studded page in front of me. The music swelled in my head and demanded

an outlet. I did what came naturally. The fingers of my left hand began dancing over the

four tough strings while the bow in my right hand glided over them.

Music again filled my living room.

And then, like magic, I was being played. As the sensual strains of the courante

wound around me, deft hands undid the clips in my hair. I felt it tumble between my

shoulder blades, felt those liberating hands tenderly pull through it from scalp to ends.

Soft lips whispered against the right side of my neck, accompanied by an occasional,

sandpapery rasp of whiskers. The skin on my arms rose into gooseflesh. Gliding fingers

traced the outer swell of my right breast, crept toward the taut nipple and oh-so lightly

circled its perimeter.

Strength drained out of my limbs. There was a hiccup in the music as my arms and

hands succumbed to Bron’s seduction. I also began to feel self-conscious. What if he

noticed my tummy bulge? It became more exaggerated when I was seated. What if my

thighs felt flabby and dimpled?

“Keep playing,” he whispered against my ear. “Keep playing as if you were making

love to me.”

Driven by his words, I mustered my willpower. It wasn’t easy. My breasts ached to

feel the crush of his chest, my mouth to feel the crush of his lips. I felt my dress, light as

a moth, slide higher up my thighs.

Another stab of self-consciousness.

Keep playing as if you were making love to me. If that’s what Bron wanted, that’s what

he would get. I drove on through the courante, nearly slashing the horsehair of the bow

across the strings.

Bron’s hands slid beneath the rumpled skirt of my dress and caressed my lower

abdomen. My skin quivered at his touch like a skittish creature. His fingers tangled

Liberation

briefly in the curls of my pubic hair, gently tugging at them, and then inched down the

narrow gullies between my hips and thighs. He murmured something I couldn’t hear.

I knew I’d have to abandon Bach very soon. My pussy was drenched, awaiting the

gliding probe of his fingers, craving the fiercer thrust of his cock. He parted my labia

and skimmed his fingertips over the slick lining. As if grasping for him, my cunt pulsed

greedily. I could feel my clit swell and sensitize—an almost stinging sensation. His

fingers slid deeper into my slippery folds and teased each soft ridge.

Then, as if kissing me with his fingertips, he began a languorous, featherlight caress

of my clit.

My eyelids fluttered. The music faltered in mid-bar as my left hand fell limp against

the cello’s fingerboard and my right, barely able to hold the bow, dropped to my side.

This time, Bron didn’t urge me to keep playing. He must have known better. Just as my

hips jerked and my clit began to pulse, he slid two or three fingers into my vagina. My

body gripped them as it arched into a shuddering orgasm, the pleasure warping

through every last, thin thread of nerve and muscle. I let my mind go blank until the

feeling finally began to diminish.

“That wasn’t fair,” I gasped, my head drooping onto the cello’s body.

Bron came around to the front of the chair, raised my chin and delivered a solacing

kiss. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone on the receiving end of an orgasm call it

unfair.”

“But you’re fully dressed. I didn’t get to see you, feel you, taste you.”

He smiled. I definitely saw dimples. “That’s a situation easily corrected. In fact, for

the sake of my own comfort, I think it needs to be.”

His implication was clear. My gaze slid down to his crotch. It looked like he was

hiding a weapon there.

“Then it’s time I played you,” I said. “Why don’t you go relax in front of the

fireplace? I’ll join you as soon as I put Papa Bear to bed.” As I rose from the chair, I

realized I hadn’t been a very good hostess thus far…aside from the fact I’d let my guest

K.Z. Snow

diddle my pussy. But that was more for my benefit than his. “By the way, would you

like something to drink? I’m sorry I didn’t have time to offer one before now.”

Already halfway to the gas fireplace, Bron turned. “That was my fault. Guess I got a

little carried away. Um…” He ran a hand over his now dry hair, creating a charming

jumble of gleaming, soft-hued waves. “Scotch on the rocks would be nice if you have

some.”

“I happen to have both.”

Again I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes from him. Again the dreamlike unreality of

the scene washed over me. A gorgeous younger man, whom I’d met through

happenstance in a classroom, had just brought me to climax while I played Bach. Soon

I’d be returning the favor. I realized if I never saw him again after today, the experience

would have been well worth its short life.

“I like the way you look at me,” Bron said, something like wonder muting his voice.

“It makes me feel…unique. Maybe uniquely interesting. It isn’t the way women look at

me when they’re trying to pick me up.”

I almost said, It’s probably a factor of maturity. And gratitude. But I sure as hell didn’t

want to open that can of worms. So instead I answered, “You are uniquely interesting.

And if you weren’t already here, I wouldn’t presume to try picking you up.”

“Why?” He sounded genuinely curious.

Same can of worms, different approach. “It isn’t important. Make yourself at home

while I get our drinks.”

After tucking my cello into its hard-shell case, I hurried into the kitchen to pour

some scotch for my unique guest and some wine for myself. I felt like a mess—barefoot,

hair spilling down my back, dress wrinkled, pussy still tacky with moisture—but I got

the impression Bron either didn’t notice or didn’t care. I couldn’t help but wonder what

in the world he wanted with me. I was attractive but not a knockout, bright but not

brilliant. My musicianship ranged from consistently good to sporadically excellent but

never shot into the rarified air of incomparable.

Liberation

As I padded back into the living room, I told myself that maybe the answers would

be revealed as afternoon unrolled into evening.

Or maybe answers shouldn’t even matter.

Stretched out on his side on the rug, Bron took his drink from my hand. I sank

down onto my right hip, half tucking my legs beneath me, and watched the firelight

waver across the fine planes, dips and rises of his face. It took me a while to realize he’d

unbuttoned his jeans. I caught a glimpse of the sweet pucker of his navel within the

tight bands of his stomach.

I swallowed some wine. “Take off your shirt,” I murmured.

Without a word, he crossed his arms, grabbed the hem and pulled the sweater over

his head. Laying it aside, he resumed his position and took a sip of scotch. The color of

his eyes seemed to darken as he gazed at me.

Jesus, he looked as good below the neck as above. There was a fine plume of dark

hair between his pectoral muscles, which were sculpted and firm but not

overdeveloped. The slope of his torso didn’t have an ounce of extra fat. His arms too

were lean and tough, the muscles prominent but not titanic.

I loved the way he looked—lithe and smooth and dusky, capable of both power and

agility. Sliding toward him, I tipped forward and glided a hand down the silky spill of

his hair to the contours of his perfect face. My fingers traced his dark eyebrows, more

straight than arched. Then the low, smooth knolls of his cheekbones and the downy

drift of golden-brown hair at his temples. As I touched him, my cunt responded with a

drizzle of fresh fluid. My fingertips continued to follow the lines of this beautiful map.

The narrow wedge of his nose, strong, not the least bit feminine. Beneath it, the shallow

notch that divided his upper lip.

I lingered on his mouth. My fingers trembled slightly as they savored the swell of

his lips, their outline soft and symmetrical. I relished the contrast in textures here—the

gritty coarseness of stubble surrounding the soft resilience of his lips.

Sandpaper and satin.

K.Z. Snow

I lowered my head and let my mouth replace my exploring fingers.

Bron was ready for the kiss. Anticipating it, he breathed more harshly as soon as

our lips touched and then opened. His hand fisted in my hair, holding my head in

place, as he intensified the kiss. Our mouths opened wider, tongues thrusting and

lapping, lips heatedly pressing and sliding. My hands moved down from his face to

clutch at the muscles of his shoulders, his back, his chest. Uncontrollably, I reached

below his waist, my hand curling over the rigid column that strained against the faded

denim of his jeans.

I broke the delicious wild kiss only because I wanted to see this man naked. I

wanted to see all of his body…especially his stiff cock, angling toward his stomach.

Sliding his zipper down, I was suddenly seized by a strange urge to do something I’d

never done before. I didn’t care if it seemed bizarre.

“Wait a minute,” I gasped, getting to my feet. “I’ll be right back.”

As Bron rolled onto his back and dropped an arm over his face, I saw him reach

into his pocket and pull out a condom packet. He put it on the rug beside him. I jogged

over to my trunk of supplies and reached for a bow that needed to be rehaired. It was a

shorter bow and the kind I often used for “hard” or more aggressive playing. Its darker,

coarser hair was better suited to energetic passages.

By the time I returned to the fireplace, Bron had pulled off his jeans and briefs. I

paused for a moment, taking in the sight of that magnificent, long body arrayed before

me. I almost abandoned my plan when I saw the dark pink pole of his cock, its head

tautly plump. My cunt was suddenly awash in fluid, craving to be entered. My nipples

pushed against my dress as if trying to poke through the fabric. I felt like a piece of

metal being drawn to a magnet.

Bron watched me from beneath heavy eyelids as I dropped to my knees beside him.

“Lose the dress,” he said in a harsh whisper. His hand rose and stroked my knee.

Liberation

I pulled the dress over my head and tossed it aside. My nipples tightened further as

his gaze swept over my breasts, as I saw his excited breathing repeatedly expand his

chest.

I lifted the bow and slowly drew it diagonally between his pectoral muscles, first

down from his right shoulder then down from his left. The bow hairs daintily

rearranged the path of his chest hair. Submitting, Bron closed his eyes. I drew the bow

across the hard nubs of his nipples. His breath caught…then accelerated. I bounced it

on his nipples and his breath caught again. Once, twice.

Imagining the resilient bands of muscle in his abdomen, I sawed the bow over

them, back and forth, playing between hard and soft. A low chuckle sounded in Bron’s

throat.

“Am I tickling you?” I asked, smiling.

“A little. But don’t stop.”

“Bend your legs,” I said.

Bron did so. I slid the bow across the trail of dark hair that swirled from his navel to

his pubic bone. Angling the bow, I slowly pulled it along either side of his groin and

through the froth of hair that adorned his crotch, sliding it carefully beneath his

upthrust cock. It twitched, jumping a little higher off his belly.

“Damn,” he breathed.

I moved between Bron’s bent legs. Very delicately, I began to play his rod’s

underside, occasionally detouring to the dense balls that hugged his body. I gradually

increased the speed and pressure of the strokes, working back up toward his cock head.

Grasping the base of the shaft, I lifted it away from his stomach and lightly, languidly

drew the bow around the cap’s brim. Bron groaned and shifted on the rug.

As I continued to play his cock, I dipped down, slipped its head into my mouth and

drew deeply. My bowing arm moved in time with my rhythmic sucking and the

movements of my tongue. I fancied I could feel more blood pulsing into Bron’s cock,

engorging the vessels that snaked beneath the fine, tightly stretched skin.

K.Z. Snow

I let his hot flesh fill my mouth and move toward my throat.

“Hurry,” he said, “put the condom on me.” He handed over the packet that had

been lying beside him.

I ripped it open and carefully unrolled the ribbed sheath onto his pillar. And it was

a pillar now, so hard it seemed unbreakable. Without hesitation I straddled Bron’s hips,

held his cock in place and lowered my body.

I gasped as it slid into me, inch by ravaging inch, until it completely filled my canal.

Bron reached for my breasts. I leaned over him, bracing my forearms on the floor and

curling my hands over the hills of his shoulders. He fondled my breasts as his

sumptuous mouth moved from one swollen nipple to the other, pulling and plucking.

Our hips swayed in time, Bron thrusting, me receiving his thrusts.

But my body did more than receive him. I couldn’t have been a passive recipient if

I’d tried. My cunt possessively gripped his cock as I tensed my muscles, taking

advantage of all those Kegel exercises to bring my lover and me as much pleasure as we

could experience. His thrusts became more forceful. My muscles squeezed him tighter.

I wanted to sing. My body was already singing its excitement in a hundred different

ways, so why shouldn’t my voice join in? But it was all I could do just to get enough air

in my lungs to breathe. As I shifted a bit, trying to provide my clit with more friction,

electricity shivered through my nerves.

Wilting away from me, Bron dropped onto his back. His hips abruptly jerked

upward. The movement coaxed my body toward climax. The persuasive pulsing in my

cunt became sharper, more insistent. When I heard Bron cry out and felt the spasmodic

pumping that signaled his release, I gripped his throbbing cock one last time with my

pussy. My singing body broke into a climactic aria, the brilliant notes of pleasure

soaring through my organs, trilling through my limbs. As it faded, I let myself fall

forward onto my lover’s sweat-glazed chest.

I couldn’t suppress a quiet chuckle. Aria. My God. I’d never before gone operatic

diva during sex.

Liberation

A sweet, soft kiss concluded our encounter. Hands cradling each other’s face, we

kissed once more, lingering in the sensuality of the contact.

“I have to see you again,” Bron murmured against my mouth. After a pause he

added, “To reimburse you for that bow.”

Laughing, I got off his hips and stretched out next to him. Carefully removing the

laden condom, I placed it for the moment on the hearth. Bron rolled onto his side. We

couldn’t seem to stop touching each other although our touches now were tender, even

affectionate.

“That bow needs to be rehaired anyway,” I said.

Looking down at his body, Bron touched his chest, his crotch. “I think you just did

rehair it.” As I snickered, he grew more serious. He trailed two fingers down my cheek

and said, “Honestly, Jessa, I’ve never had a lover like you. What a blessing when you

showed up in that classroom.”

“That reminds me…” Reaching for the bow, I leaned over him. I still hadn’t had a

chance to explore one enticing bit of landscape. I swept my hand over the tight,

smoothly rounded cheeks of his ass. Not a trace of hair there. I teasingly slid the bow up

his cleft.

“God damn,” he said, arching his hips forward. “Got any more toys in that trunk?”

I mentally ran through its contents. Resin, but it didn’t taste good. A metronome—

its regular tock-tock-tock might be fun to fuck by. “I think your body would inspire me

no matter what I had in my hand.”

He blushed faintly. “Goshdernit, ma’am, now I’m gonna have to go write ya a

pome.”

“You are the poem.” As his blush deepened, I said, “I can’t believe you don’t have a

girlfriend.”

“Yeah, well, having a girlfriend is easier said than done.”

K.Z. Snow

Bron sat up and reached for his glass, which he’d put on the hearth. He swallowed

some scotch then grabbed for his clothes. He hesitated, set the clothes on the floor again.

It was as if he didn’t know whether to get dressed or stay undressed. Maybe he was

waiting for a cue from me so he wouldn’t seem either eager to leave or presumptuous

enough to expect more sex. I found this awkward indecision rather touching…and a

surprising contrast to the way he’d behaved thus far.

What a multifaceted man, I thought and caught a glimpse of that absurdly large

sunflower beaming above its vase. I was more entranced by Bronson McCullough with

each passing second.

Settling in, at least for the moment, Bron elaborated on his cryptic statement. “I

don’t have the time or inclination to hang out in bars or clubs or go through that whole

Internet love-search crap. Besides, you have no idea how boring or annoying women

my age or younger can be.” He drank more scotch. “No idea.”

“Oh, I have some idea,” I murmured. “I used to be that age myself, you know.”

“Yeah, but I’ll bet you weren’t anything like the ones I’ve dated.”

“So tell me about them.” This man had depths I hadn’t given him credit for. And I

couldn’t wait to plumb them.

“Well, they fall into three basic groups.” Bron ticked them off on his fingers. “First

there are the professional types, the Über-women trying to power their way up some

career ladder. Then there are the single moms who are looking for surrogate daddies

and support. Oh, and the exaggerators. You know, the ones who turn every problem

into a crisis and every story into a saga and like to play games.”

I did know. I remembered them from high school and college. All the resolute

achievers, the fatuous little princesses and drama queens, the wannabe seductresses

who ended up burdened with premature and single motherhood. “I guess that’s part of

growing up. For some people.”

“Fine. They can do their growing up without me. I just don’t have the patience for

any of that shit.”

Liberation

I sipped my wine, both marveling at and grateful for his maturity. “So you’ve never

been in a long-term relationship?”

“Once. It lasted almost three years until we decided it wasn’t really working.” He

gave me a sidelong glance. “Actually, I think she started running around on me after

the first six months or so.”

I was about to take another drink of wine but stopped, my mouth frozen open.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. She was a player, a party girl. She had gypsy feet. I was more grounded. Or

had standards. Or something.” Looking at me, Bron lightly ran two fingers through my

mess of hair and smiled. “So, what’s your embarrassing story?”

I took his hand and kissed it. Warmly. A bit to my surprise, I realized I was already

infatuated with the man. “Hey,” I said, “let’s get something straight here. Nobody

needs to be embarrassed by his ‘story’ unless he’s intentionally done something truly

rotten.”

“You know, you’re absolutely right. I might be a lot of things but I ain’t no Snidely

Whiplash.”

He settled back, resting on his forearms, one leg bent. It was a cover-model pose if

ever I’d seen one. The man was simply breathtaking. My gaze wandered to the

insouciant droop of his cock over his lowered balls. As usual, I apparently wasn’t being

too discreet in my scrutiny. A side of Bron’s handsome mouth hooked into a smile.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” he said, “I’ll have to fuck you again.” He

dropped his head back and slapped a hand to it. “Oops, you’re going to think I wasn’t a

very good student. I meant, make love to you again.”

“Promise?”

“Definitely.” He shifted a bit as he lay there, maybe trying to get more comfortable,

maybe trying to lure me. “So tell me about the recent men in your life.”

K.Z. Snow

I shrugged. “Common story. Got married and divorced. Confidence level dropped.

Threw myself into my work. Dated some guys with big waistlines and even bigger

egos. Struggled a little with my self-image.”

Now it was Bron’s turn to look surprised. “You?” he asked on a laugh. “Why?”

“Oh…the usual middle-aged-woman insecurity crap. I’ve been trying to get over it.

Tonight certainly helped.”

It suddenly occurred to me that Bron had never pursued the issue of our age

difference. In fact, age didn’t seem to matter to him. Maybe I had something he’d been

looking for, something he needed. I sure as hell knew he had something I needed.

What he said next startled me. I wondered if he’d tapped into my thoughts.

“Maybe we can help liberate each other. Maybe I’ll be able to free my inner artist

and you’ll be able to free your inner—” He stopped himself from speaking whatever

word he’d had in mind.

“Vixen?” I suggested. “Seductress?”

The pale rosy swatches on Bron’s cheekbones deepened in color. “Uh, I was going

to say something a little cruder than that.”

“Slut?”

“Bingo.”

Erupting into laughter, I dropped onto my back beside him.

“Not that I want you to be a slut,” Bron said with a self-conscious smile. “I just

don’t have a gigantic vocabulary.”

He rolled to one side and trailed his hand, fingers fanned out, from my stomach to

my thigh. Skin, muscles, nerves all quivered in response. I gazed up at him. My whole

body felt like a repository of desire for Bronson McCullough.

“Liberate each other,” I repeated.

I watched his eyes move, scanning my face. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that…if you

would.”

Liberation

“Oh, I would.”

He sat up. “Now may I take you out to dinner?” He grasped my hand.

“I never refuse a free meal,” I said, letting Bron pull me up to a sitting position.

“May I bring you home with me afterward?”

“I never refuse free sex with an incredible woman.”

K.Z. Snow

Chapter Three

We obviously needed to go about our respective business the following week.

Arranging to see each other every day was very tempting, but Bron and I had the same

thoughts on that issue. It would’ve been too much too soon. Our first time together—

sex followed by dinner followed by more sex followed by a sleepover followed by still

more sex—had been exhilarating and deeply satisfying. But assuming it made us a

committed couple would’ve been foolhardy. A relationship wasn’t a deal one could

broker after the first meeting. We were both sensible adults and sensible adults didn’t

mistake lust for love. Bron and I knew full well that sex could either be enjoyed as an

end in itself or be an evolutionary step toward a deeper bond.

We didn’t say it in so many words but I think we both felt the lure of such a bond.

We genuinely liked each other. Besides, we knew that each intimate encounter would

be freshly thrilling if some time elapsed from one to the next. “Anticipation,” Bron said,

“is the best aphrodisiac of all.”

Damn if he wasn’t right. We’d met on Thursday for the first time at night school

and been together from Friday afternoon through Saturday morning. I spent the rest of

the weekend doing two concerts—one with full orchestra on Saturday evening and one

with a string quartet on Sunday afternoon. In between, I squeezed in some

housecleaning. Afterward, I had dinner with my brother and sister-in-law and their

kids. New lover or no, I couldn’t ignore the rest of my life. But thoughts of that new

lover caused me considerable discomfort when I wasn’t with him.

On Monday night, I had the most interesting phone conversation of my life. Bron

called just after I got out of the shower and before I went to bed. After we’d done a little

catching up, he asked, “Do you fantasize very much?”

Liberation

Coming from him, the question was a pure tease. I felt my body react to it, my

pussy moistening. “Yeah, I guess I do. I think most women do.”

“That’s what I’ve heard. Men need visual and other sensory stimulation but a

woman’s most erogenous zone is her mind.”

I got into bed, back against the headboard. “I think that changes when she’s with an

exceptional lover. Mind shuts down, senses kick in.”

“So how do you satisfy yourself when you don’t have access to an ‘exceptional

lover’? And what are your favorite fantasies?”

The conversation was definitely heating up. It was evident not just from Bron’s

questions but from the tone and timbre of his voice. “I can’t tell you all of them,” I said.

“They’re very personal. Besides, there are too many. And they’re always changing.”

“Then just tell me one.”

I mentally plucked one from my stash. “Being nude in front of hundreds of great-

looking men, maybe getting fucked in front of them. Knowing I’m turning them on.

Knowing their cocks are getting hard because of me.” I could hear Bron breathing. I

hadn’t been able to before. “Now tell me yours.”

“Oh, you know, the usual male bullshit, totally unimaginative. Drowning in tits and

asses.”

“No faces?”

“Tits and asses don’t usually have faces, Jessa.” There was a smile in Bron’s voice.

“Except maybe on Halloween.”

I laughed. “Come on, you know what I mean. There are no faces in your fantasies?”

“Not that I can remember. Just female anatomy, below the neck. And of course the

woman or women coo over my dick and tell me how big it is. And then they fight over

who’s going to suck it and whoever wins sucks it so hard I think I’ll piss out my brain.”

“How can you be talked to and sucked off if these women have no heads?”

This time, Bron snickered. “They have heads, I guess, they just don’t have faces.”

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“So you like your cock sucked hard?”

“Hard and firm.” Bron’s voice had become thicker, rougher.

“I’ll have to remember that.”

“You don’t need to. You already do it the right way.”

Clichéd as it seemed, I had to ask him something. “Are you naked?”

“Yes.” His voice was very low now, decidedly suggestive. “I got undressed before I

called you. I’m sitting up in bed.”

“So am I.”

More audible breathing. “You’ve really gotten me hot, Jessa.” The words were

almost slurred.

I was tempted to ask if he was playing with his cock because I’d already guessed he

wanted a session of phone sex. I was certainly ready, willing and able. But I didn’t want

it to be ordinary. “Do you have any sex toys?”

A throaty chuckle. “My hand. Well, that’s not all I’m familiar with. Women have

used things on me—cock rings, butt plugs, vibrators—but I don’t have any of my own.”

“Do you enjoy them?”

“Yeah, a lot. When they’re used right. I just never got around to buying my own.”

He paused and added, “Yet.”

“Let me build you a toy,” I said. “Right now, with words. I’ll make it very magical.

Then you can build me one.” My voice had become a low purr.

Bron hesitated—probably because no one had ever made such a proposal to him

before—then said, “All right. Describe it to me.”

“It looks at first like a simple tube, a black tube with a strange feel to it. It isn’t rigid

yet it isn’t pliable. It isn’t solid yet it isn’t liquid or gaseous. The material is like a dense,

oiled gelatin.”

“Pussy slick?”

Liberation

“Yes, slick to perfection. Neither too wet nor too dry. You slide it over your cock.

The tube immediately conforms to its size…and begins to undulate. Ribs rise to its

surface. It moves in dainty, shifting waves like a dark sheath of cloud, flexing against

you. As your excitement mounts, ribbons of color begin to swirl through the tube. It

feels your arousal, responds to it. And your arousal grows. There’s a creeping tension in

your muscles, a crawling fullness deep in your belly. The colors become more

luminous, brilliant as streamers, flowing over and through each other.”

I paused briefly, listening. I could hear Bron’s breath cutting through the relative

silence on his end of the line. He’d obviously been paying attention. I had too. I could

see what I’d been describing, could see this magical tube hugging his rigid shaft and

moving against it as my fingers would move—as his fingers were moving now—coaxing

it into erupting. Damn, the image of Bron stroking himself and the sound of those harsh

expulsions of breath were scraping across my clit. I squirmed, getting wetter by the

second.

“Are you getting there, sweetie?” I crooned. “Is that gorgeous dick of yours getting

tall and hard?”

The affirmative he breathed back at me didn’t even sound like a word. “Keep

going,” he murmured.

“The tube alters. It contracts around the swollen head of your cock, conforming

snugly to the shape, so snugly your hips twist slightly. But you can’t shuck it off. It’s too

late. You’ve set a process in motion. The second skin glides around your cock head,

throbs against it, draws at its tip. Sucking. You feel its warm, moist draw, that

irresistible pulling, trying to coax you into coming. But your balls are hoarding their

treasure. You want to keep feeling. You want to wait until your body explodes into

release. Isn’t that what you want? To see your cum shooting out?”

I heard only a deep, gritty groan in response. So I kept talking. I wanted him to ache

with arousal.

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“Tendrils snake down from the cap hugging the swollen crown of your cock. Some

wrap around your shaft, some follow the thick ridge beneath it. You feel slender,

massaging fingers everywhere. Gripping your cock. Twining around your high, large

balls. Slipping into your ass. Your cock is tall and rigid now. More tendrils creep up

your stomach to your chest, their tips circling and squeezing your nipples. Your nipples

sting and grow tighter.

“Sensations assail you. Your cock, your balls, your ass, your chest. The stimulation

to your body is like a breaker about to crash on a beach. You stiffen—”

I didn’t have to continue. Distantly I heard a series of broken, whimpering moans.

Bron had climaxed. I imagined the phone lying beside him on the bed, his hand

clutching his spurting cock. The image tugged at my body. I parted my robe and spread

my bent legs, preparing to seek my own relief.

Bron’s voice came through the phone. “Jesus.” He took a couple of breaths. “You

can tell me a bedtime story anytime, sweetheart. How do you feel right now?”

“I just listened to you come. How do you think I feel?”

He voiced a growly “Mmmm” then said, “Okay, let me tell you about your toy.”

“Yes, do.” I reached over to my nightstand and pulled a sleek vibrator from the

drawer. Then I put down the phone’s handset and pushed the speaker button on its

base.

“You have three toys,” Bron said. “Each is in the shape of a mouth. My mouth.

They’re very realistic. No matter where you put them on your body, they’ll start

moving. And they’ll move in exactly the ways you want them to. Since they’re magical

and I invented them, I’ll feel everything they feel, taste everything they taste.”

“Where should I start?” I was ready. He could’ve said, Just imagine me poking my

hard cock into your tits, and I would’ve come.

“Remember,” Bron said in a voice like liquid sand, “you can use one or two or all

three. I think you should start by using one. Put it on your breast. Let it glide around

the flesh of your breast. Feel the point of the tongue between the lips.”

Liberation

I closed my eyes and slid the vibrator over my left breast. Bron’s mouth… I imagined

its humid warmth, its tender pressure.

“Let it kiss you, darlin’,” he said. “Let it kiss you and lick you. Let it move toward

your nipple. Are your nipples hard, Jessa?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe you need two mouths, one for each. Let one mouth suck one nipple,

harder and harder until it starts to ache, until it starts to burn. Let the other mouth circle

your other nipple with its tongue, sometimes flicking against it, making it tingle.”

I used my fingers to simulate the pull of Bron’s mouth, the vibrator to do the

caressing. The feelings sent little, prickling stabs of arousal to my pussy.

“I can feel you, Jessa,” Bron murmured.

He too was getting excited again. I could tell from the drawl in his voice. It only

fueled my spiraling need.

“Is your cunt wet?” he asked.

“Yes, very.” I could barely speak. His question alone stirred up little pulsations in

my pussy.

“Then put one of the mouths there. Keep the other on your breast—or two others, if

you want.”

I lowered the vibrator to my pussy. It wanted to clench against the toy.

“The tongue slides through your wetness, slipping beneath your lips, probing the

entrance to your body. Feel it, darlin’. It’s tasting you and teasing you. I’m tasting you.

When you’re ready to come, the mouth will move to your clit. Its lips and tongue will

push you over the edge. My lips and tongue. Lightly flicking, sucking, rubbing your clit,

knowing it’s swollen with arousal and at any moment—”

The moment was now. Bron’s words and my imagination and the efficient vibrator

all came together in an explosion of relief. The tension between my legs and in my belly

came unwound like a tightly coiled spring suddenly freed by the fist that had been

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clutching it. The orgasm zinged and vibrated throughout my body. I went senseless and

rigid, letting the intense pleasure whiplash through my muscles.

Distantly I heard Bron’s voice. “Jessa? Sweetheart?”

I couldn’t answer. Didn’t want to answer. Selfishly I bobbed along the final waves

of the energy he’d released.

A chuckle came through the phone. “Wow. I guess I can paint with words.”

* * * * *

On Tuesday, I met Roy for lunch at a cozy bistro that served delicious homemade

soups, salads and sandwiches. As soon as we were seated and had menus in hand, I

casually told him, “By the way, I really have to thank you for doing me that favor last

Thursday. If you hadn’t agreed to come along, I might not have gone.”

“Would that have been so bad?”

“Yes. It would’ve been tragic. A great loss indeed.” My tone was suggestive.

Roy barely glanced up from his menu. “Why? You still have visions of Bronson’s

sugarplum ass dancing in your head?”

“Try, dancing in my bed.” I held my breath.

That caught Roy’s attention. His gaze flew to my face. “You…are…shitting me!”

“Nope.” I grinned at him.

We handed back our menus and placed our orders. Roy’s eyes were still wide

enough to hold a couple of quarters. Vertically.

He leaned forward. “You actually corralled that man and…”

“Hon, he corralled me.” Looking a bit smug, I imagine, I folded my hands on the

table.

“You’re shitting me,” he repeated more quietly.

“How nice to have a friend with so much faith in my appeal.”

Liberation

Roy looked stymied but quickly recovered. He’d always been pretty smooth. “Jessa,

you know damned well how highly I think of you but…”

Okay, now he really had to fish around in his mind for a diplomatic phrase. I

decided to give him a break. “But he’s young enough to be my little brother, right?”

“Well, that’s not exactly the phrase I had in mind,” he muttered. “I was going to say

the two of you seem so different.”

“Liar.”

Blushing, Roy met my smile. Only his was considerably more guilt-ridden.

“And for your information,” I added, “we aren’t all that different.”

“But don’t you feel…” Roy sipped some green tea, maybe for inspiration. “Don’t

you feel a little, you know, self-conscious when you’re with him? Especially in bed? I

mean, damn, that man could be spending his days in front of photographers and his

nights on top of models.”

Although I wasn’t crazy about his word choice, I couldn’t fault him for wondering.

“Let’s just say Bron has a way of making me feel very comfortable with myself. More so

all the time.”

“Your confidence hasn’t been undermined by this? At all?”

I choked out a laugh, almost dribbling water down my chin. “Undermined? Now

you must be joking. That man makes me feel like the most desirable creature in the

universe!”

“You know,” Roy said archly, “there’s a word for women like you. And Simone

Denison. And Kathi Flegler.”

They were two acquaintances of ours who were dating younger men.

“Yes,” I said. “Lucky.”

After chuckling through his nose, Roy grew thoughtful. He reached for my hand.

“Jessa, honey, don’t take this the wrong way but…since you’ve taken this past the one-

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night-stand stage, isn’t it possible the two of you might just be sort of using each other?

And I don’t mean sexually.”

“Well, I know Bron isn’t a gigolo,” I said. “He can certainly see I’m not wealthy.

Actually he probably earns more than I do.”

Roy traced the rim of his teacup with one finger. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” I didn’t like the slither of anxiety I suddenly felt in my

stomach. I drank some water, hoping to quell the feeling, but it only got worse.

“I mean—and I’m not trying to be a wet blanket, honestly I’m not—I mean, could it

be you’re using him as an ego boost and he’s using you as a mentor? You know, maybe

you want to reap the benefits of his youth and good looks. You admitted his attention

has done wonders for your self-esteem. And maybe Bron wants to reap the benefits of

your maturity and experience. He could see you as a classy, accomplished lady with an

abundance of intelligence and sensitivity and sexual savvy. Maybe he’s hoping to

absorb some of those things.”

The waiter delivered our meals. I realized my face had grown warm and my

appetite had dwindled. “And after we’ve used each other up,” I said in a tight voice,

“we’ll throw each other away. Is that what you’re implying?” Glancing at Roy, I

stabbed at my salad. “After my ego is pumped up to the max and after Bron has soaked

all the artistic imagination he can from me—”

My voice suddenly died. I drew my lips between my teeth. The conclusion of this

hypothetical scenario was obvious. Lost in some pathetic, dumb-ass illusion of being a

siren, I’d be blindsided by Bron’s sudden abandonment. He’d toss me aside and ride off

into the sunset with a woman younger than both of us.

“Oh, Jessa,” Roy sighed.

The sound of his voice conveyed nothing but hopelessness. Strangely enough, it

galvanized me. Goddammit, my best friend was already planning the funeral for my

burgeoning romance! How dare he?

Liberation

I’d never been a starry-eyed idealist but I’d never been a defeatist either. In the

wake of those realizations, another thought immediately bobbed to the surface of my

mind. Then just be a realist, Jessamyn.

It brought the whole situation into perfect focus. My appetite made a miraculous

comeback. I began eating, almost with a vengeance.

Roy downed a spoonful of French onion soup as he regarded me. “I’m surprised

you’re not going to start starving yourself,” he murmured, “and working out six hours

a day.”

I swallowed the mouthful of salad then laid down my fork. Without thinking about

it, I lifted the fork and pointed it at my companion. In fact, I rudely used it for emphasis

as I spoke. “Okay, listen up. Bronson McCullough is probably the first man I’ve met

who’s made me want to piss on all those propagandistic diet-plan commercials that try

to make women think they’re repulsive trolls if they can’t wear a size four or smaller.

Bron’s been damned enthusiastic over my size-twelve self so I have no intention of

trying to whittle it down to a fucking two.”

Roy opened his mouth to respond but I didn’t let him. I sent more bulletins his way

on the tines of my fork. “What’s more, I didn’t go into this with some happily-ever-after

glaze over my eyes. Bron delights me. Period. I enjoy his sense of humor and his

conversation. I enjoy his body. I enjoy my body when it’s with his body.”

Almost comically, Roy’s jaw slowed and his eyes shifted to scan our fellow diners. I

was sure he thought they were all eavesdropping on my tirade. Maybe some of them

were. I didn’t give a damn. Let them learn something from it.

“Every second I’ve been with him has been a joy,” I added. “So if and when he bails

out, I’ll still consider my time well-spent. To say the least.” Finally I lowered my fork. I

couldn’t wait to tear into that toasted baguette sandwich. “You can relax now. I’ve told

you all you need to know.”

“Honey,” Roy murmured, “I think you’ve told me more than I need to know. And

half the restaurant too.”

K.Z. Snow

Chapter Four

Roy’s theory about Bron and me was still lodged in the back of my mind when my

young lover called that evening. What was the difference, I wondered, between using

each other and learning from each other? Or “liberating” each other? And there surely

was a significant difference. Teaching and learning implied mutual caring and respect,

an exchange, an equal investment. I wanted to ask Bron what he thought but it seemed

too early for us to raise such a charged issue.

He said something in the course of our conversation that helped clarify matters.

“I miss you. I know it sounds crazy but I miss you, Jessa.”

I thought my heart would stop. I missed him too but, until now, hadn’t wanted to

admit it to myself. “I feel the same way. And I guess it does seem a little crazy.” I tried

to lighten the mood. And fish for insights as well. “Maybe we’re developing a sex

addiction.”

Bron’s mood immediately changed. “It isn’t just the sex,” he said. He sounded less

tentative, more earnestly firm. “I’m sure as hell not going to turn sex down, but it isn’t

just that. I love being with you.”

“You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say that.” I felt weak with longing for

him. And it wasn’t just physical.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Very much really.”

“I just don’t want you thinking I’m like some moony fifth-grader with a crush on

his teacher. I just…hell, I just miss you. Can you stop by the shop tomorrow, say around

six? I know it’s a helluva drive for you but I want to ask you something. I’d rather not

do it over the phone. Besides, I’d just like to see you again.”

Liberation

The shop where Bron worked, AutoMorph, was clear on the other side of town. So

was his apartment for that matter. Since his schedule seemed more demanding than

mine, at least for the time being, I couldn’t fault him for wanting me to make the trek.

I asked myself if it was worth it. I answered myself with a resounding Hell yes. It

had only been a few days since we’d seen each other but it felt like a few weeks. And I

was intrigued by that question he didn’t want to ask over the phone.

“I’ll be there,” I said. And, just in case we are getting addicted to sex, I’ll leave the

underwear behind.

* * * * *

AutoMorph consisted of two long, cinderblock garages. I parked in front, beside

Bron’s truck, and deduced from its location which building he was working in. When I

walked in, I didn’t see him.

Pacing around the large area, I called out an echoing “Hello”. A door opened

somewhere behind me. As I turned, Bron’s hands circled my waist. Reflexively, my

arms slid over his shoulders and around his neck.

Seeing and feeling him again made me lightheaded. We simply stood there for a

moment, holding each other tightly, savoring our closeness. My fingers crept into his

silken mass of hair then moved around to his cheeks. I turned up my face.

Bron didn’t need any further prompting. I saw his eyelids lower just before I felt the

dizzying press of his lips. We both made the kiss wild, even sloppy, our mouths

moving with an ardor neither of us tried to control. Tongues plunged and twined, teeth

nipped at lips, lips crushed harder.

“I want you,” I said in a harsh gasp. “I want you now.”

Without a word, Bron grabbed my hand and led me over to a sleek, low-slung

sports car sharing the garage space with a partially disassembled van. Almost roughly,

he pushed me over the hood. I didn’t mind. We were taking our cues from each other’s

rampaging need. As he flipped my skirt up over my bare ass, I heard him moan low in

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his throat, a sound of appreciation and desire. My pussy had flooded as soon as he’d

touched me. I was ready for him. That wild kiss had been more than enough foreplay

for me.

I dimly heard Bron fumbling with his jeans, heard the uneven snarl of his lowering

zipper and soon the fainter hiss of paper being torn—a condom packet probably. He

quickly grasped my hips. My wet cunt became more swollen by the second, eager to

feel the thrust of his cock. I wished I could see it.

But I felt it when he entered me. Oh yes, I felt it. The distended head and stiff shaft

sank into my body and immediately began thrusting. I rose up on the balls of my feet,

angling myself so I could take in that rigid, demanding cock all the way. Bron plunged

into me with a rhythm so perfect and hypnotic it seemed to be coaxing the strength out

of my arms and legs. His groans and my whimpers punctuated each push.

Neither of us would be able to hold out for long. Shivers had already begun to trill

down my thighs and up into my stomach. I shoved my hips against his, urging greater

force…and Bron gave me what I wanted. His cock rammed faster, harder. The shivers

spread over my skin, under my skin. I trembled and stiffened as the orgasm rolled

through me. The strong pleasure wave seemed to peak when Bron let out a near roar,

jerking and shuddering as he released his pent-up cum. My internal muscles clutched

his rod, refusing to let it go, refusing to accept the inevitable.

Panting, Bron lowered himself onto my back. I loved feeling his weight, smelling

the shampoo fragrance of his hair. I felt like little more than a pool of oil on the car’s

hood.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He kissed the back of my neck, twice, three times. “I’m

sorry it went so fast.”

“Don’t be sorry. I needed it that way. I needed you. Badly.”

Unsteadily, as if we were boneless, we both stood. While I tried to straighten my

hair and clothing, Bron peeled off the condom, hiked up his jeans and carried his spent

Liberation

treasure into a back room. I heard a toilet flush then had a silly thought that made me

smile. Bet the workers at the treatment plant see plenty of those.

Bron sauntered back to me, his hands shoved into his hair and a lazy, naughty-boy

smile on his lips. His jeans, still open, rode low on his slender hips and gave me a

tantalizing glimpse of dark hair. Within minutes, I could’ve been accepting his cock

again. He was without a doubt the most naturally seductive male I’d ever laid eyes on.

Any caution I’d been harboring had flown out the door as soon as I’d laid eyes on him.

“Come with me,” Bron said, taking my hand. “I want to show you something.” He

led me to the room he’d been in when I arrived.

It was AutoMorph’s paint shop. The Hummer Bron had told me about stood in the

middle of the space. Color-splattered coveralls and respiratory masks hung from hooks

on one wall. A couple of large, sturdy worktables were strewn with cans, brushes, paint

guns, nozzles, sketches and paper cups. Many more cans lined shelves set against a

second wall and other supplies probably filled a bank of cupboards. The smell wasn’t as

strong as one might expect, so the room was likely well ventilated.

“My God,” I said, “you must have to be a chemist to know what to mix with what.”

“Yeah, there’s definitely chemistry involved.” Bron again took my hand and led me

to one side of the Hummer. “I wanted you to see the result of Olmstead’s class and

especially of your advice.”

I stared at the vehicle. After a moment I whispered, “Wow.”

Despite the fact there were sections of tape everywhere, a stunning African veldt

scene had begun to spread across the panels.

“Can you see the music in it?” Bron asked quietly.

It might’ve seemed like a strange question to most people but I knew exactly what

he meant. Both the forms and colors had a sweeping, organic flow combined with

meticulous precision. There weren’t individual images so much as a blended palette of

images, at once strong and graceful. A gazelle’s horns wound into the trunk and limbs

of a tree. A lion’s mane bled into a sunset. Other animals melded with elements of the

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landscape. In addition, the whole mural was so skillfully done and had so many levels

of depth, it almost seemed to be hovering over the vehicle’s surface rather than covering

it.

It was musical—a beautifully woven symphony of shapes and shades.

“Yes,” I said, glancing at the artist. I felt a bit awestruck. “Yes, I see it. This is

absolutely beautiful, Bron.”

He responded with a modest smile that conveyed his pleasure. “It wouldn’t have

turned out the way it did if I hadn’t met you.”

I blushed. Furiously. “Don’t shortchange yourself. You obviously have incredible

talent. Maybe Olmstead’s class just sort of…helped you access another dimension of it.”

“You did,” Bron said quite definitely, “more than the class. I’m convinced of that.”

He simply would not allow me to contradict him so I gave up trying. Besides, I’d

never before been someone’s muse. If Bron wanted to believe our relationship was

lending poetry and passion to his work, I would do everything in my power not to

disappoint him.

“I’m very flattered,” I murmured.

“Well, it’s a fact.”

“I’m still very flattered. Now what did you want to ask me?”

Self-consciously, Bron cleared his throat. “Let’s go sit in the office. It’s more

comfortable there.”

My curiosity sharpening, I let him take my hand and lead me through a door in the

far wall. It led into a short, enclosed hallway and then into the second building, also a

cavernous garage. The office was in the right rear corner. Bron led me inside and shut

the door, even though nobody else was around.

We sat on a somewhat soiled and battered loveseat.

Bron held one of my hands in both of his. I read uncertainty in his expression.

“Have you heard of a place called Country Pleasures?” he asked.

Liberation

“It sounds vaguely familiar but I’m not sure why.”

“The couple who brought in the Hummer own Country Pleasures. It used to be a

working farm, about twenty miles northwest of the city. Now it’s one of those seasonal

tourist attractions. Petting zoo, pick-your-own berry patches, fresh honey, horseback

riding—that kind of shit in the summer. Pumpkin fields and a corn maze and haunted

hayrides in the fall. Sleigh rides in winter, if there’s enough snow. They have some

championship beef cattle too, I guess. The man, Dex, used to be some corporate mucky-

muck. Income in the high six figures. He retired when he hit fifty-five. That’s when they

set up this hobby-farm gig.”

“Yeah, now I remember. I think I’ve seen their ads or something.” None of this was

making much sense to me yet so I just let Bron continue.

“Well, they have this sideline, Country Pleasures After Dark. Kind of an exclusive

private sex club. My boss Wally told me about it. I don’t think he belongs or anything

but he heard about it somehow.”

Oh no… I could feel my face fall. “You mean, like a swingers’ group?”

“Yeah, something like that, I think. There might be more to it. I’m not sure.”

Staring at him, I tensed.

Bron eyed me warily. “Jessa, darlin’, I don’t know what you’re thinking right now

but just hear me out.”

“All right.” I tried to keep an open mind. But a swingers’ group? No way. No

freakin’ way.

Bron took a deep breath. “Dex called me at home one evening to talk about the

Hummer project. He kind of casually mentioned that his wife Natasha said she liked

the way I looked. I didn’t know what relevance that had to anything so I just sort of

blew the comment off. Then Dex said some other suggestive stuff—you know, like he

was feeling me out, trying to get some sense of my sexual experience and attitudes—

and that’s when I asked him about the After Dark business.”

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“He actually owned up to it?”

“Yeah, right away. And he said that was part of the reason he’d called. He and his

wife had a proposition for me. Then Natasha got on the phone too and they started

asking me some strange questions.”

It felt like all the blood had drained out of my face. “Like what?” I asked. My voice

seemed to be hiding deep within me and I had to force it out.

“Like, if I had a partner and, if I did, how sexually adventurous we were…”

I pulled my hand, which had begun to sweat, out of Bron’s hands.

“Jessa, please, don’t freak out. Okay?”

“I’m sorry but I’m starting to.”

He gently skimmed the side of my face with his fingers. “Hey, there’s no reason for

it. Believe me.” Sighing, he briefly closed his eyes and hung his head. “Maybe I should

never have brought this up.”

It was too late now. I sure as shit wanted to hear the rest. It would help me discover

what manner of man my new lover was. And maybe help me determine exactly why

he’d started pursuing me.

“Just finish what you were saying. How did you answer their questions?”

“I almost didn’t. I almost hung up on them. The only thing that stopped me was

that Hummer project. My boss would’ve flipped out if they’d cancelled. So I forced

myself to be polite. A little defensive maybe, but polite. I asked them why they wanted

to know. They told me why.”

“And?”

“And so I told them the truth. I told them I didn’t have a partner, because that was

a week or so before you and I met, but I was open to just about anything when it came

to sex.” Bron paused then added, “But not everything of course.”

I lifted my eyebrows and gave him an arch look. It seemed to make him even more

uneasy.

Liberation

“Shit,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I must be naïve. I really didn’t think this

would be so hard.”

“Why did you think that?”

“Because of something you said. The night we did…our phone tease.”

“What could I possibly have said that has any connection to…” Bewildered and

anxious, I tossed up my hands. “To these people’s activities?”

“You mentioned one of your fantasies.”

“Huh?” Frowning, I tried to remember.

Bron spared me the frustration of trying to dredge it up. Or maybe he too felt

anxious and just wanted to speed this conversation to a conclusion. “The one about

being nude,” he abruptly said, “in front of a group of men.”

Shock and outrage made me bolt up from the couch. “Listen, Bron, I’m not in the

least bit interested in doing a sexual square dance with a bunch of horny, probably

unattractive, probably inebriated strangers and I sure as hell don’t want to sit back and

watch you do it!”

He smiled up at me and grabbed my wrist. “You don’t want to share me?”

His reaction plunged me further into confusion. Why was he amused? “Of course

not! I’ve barely had a chance to enjoy you myself! So if the only reason you started

seeing me is because you need a partner for—”

Bron’s smile immediately fell. “Hold on, darlin’. Just sit down.”

I balked.

“Sit down, Jessa.”

I lowered myself to the worn loveseat.

“That is not the reason I started seeing you. I’m attracted to you, for God’s sake. I

like you. A lot. And for your information, I don’t want to share you either.”

Now I was totally befuddled. “Then what’ve you been getting at?”

“Once every couple of months, that club puts on a kind of show for its members.

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Invitation only. Each member pays a hundred-dollar cover. Hundred fifty for couples.

They get to watch live sex. Not participate, just watch. Two, three or four people are

involved. They’re encouraged to be creative. It’s like,” Bron shrugged, “raunchy theater,

I guess. The performers get eighty percent of the take.”

By now my heart was pounding. “And you thought you and I could…”

Bron leaned closer to me, his eyes bright. “At first I wanted to tell Dex he was out of

his flippin’ mind. But after I met you, the whole setup started having a kind of appeal it

didn’t have before. It turned me on. But more than that, I thought we could both get

something out of the experience that we need. And we’d be doing it together.”

That we need. The phrase echoed in my spinning mind until it called up a

conversation we’d had.

Maybe we can help liberate each other.

“Do you want to do it for the money?” I asked, just to get that issue out of the way.

I’d never liked mercenary motives in people.

Bron scoffed. “Shit, no. I don’t need the money. I make plenty working here.”

That was a relief. “You said these performances are like theater?” I still needed to

get a better fix on what Bron felt he could get out of the experience.

“Yeah. Not because they’re make-believe or insincere but because they’re supposed

to be imaginative. Natasha called it ‘artistically provocative’.”

“And we’d actually be making love?”

“Yes. Only to each other though. Nobody in the audience will be allowed to come

near us. There are certain rules and restrictions they have to abide by.”

I was beginning to understand. I felt a growing titillation as I thought about this

blast of liberation, about Bron freeing his “inner artist” while I freed my “inner slut”—

simultaneously, together, in the course of a public erotic encounter. I could shed my

self-doubts and inhibitions and have them replaced by a comfortable, confident pride in

my womanhood. Better yet, the experience could bring us closer together too. What

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could be more intimate, after all, than two lovers bonding with and losing themselves to

each other amidst a group of strangers?

“How could we conceal our identities?” I asked.

It was a huge concern. My profession made it necessary for me to appear regularly

in public, but in a much more conservative, dignified role. The Appletree Chamber

Orchestra’s image wouldn’t exactly benefit from having a known exhibitionist as a first-

chair cellist.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bron said. “I could use body paint on our faces.

Maybe elsewhere too, as long as it doesn’t conceal much of our bodies. I mean, these

people are going to pay big bucks to see nudity and sex.” His artist’s hands caressed the

sides of my jaw, my neck. “I’ll make you another kind of beautiful, Jessa. I promise.

Nobody will recognize you. Only I will.”

He leaned forward and kissed me. There wasn’t much I could refuse when that

gorgeous man plied me with his lips. And when I recalled how he’d said, “I miss you,”

there wasn’t anything he could ask of me that I would refuse.

But as much as Bron meant to me, in the end I wouldn’t be doing this for him. I

wanted to do it for myself. And for us.

K.Z. Snow

Chapter Five

“Incredible. Absolutely, stunningly incredible.” Dex Hallowell ushered us into his

home. Or rather what appeared to be an addition to the main house. He was a burly but

distinguished-looking man with neat salt-and-pepper hair and he didn’t seem prone to

effusion. But effuse he did. And he couldn’t seem to stop ogling us. “Your work,

Bronson?”

“Yes.”

Bron didn’t seem nervous at all.

I was. I clutched my lover’s hand as we walked into a handsomely appointed,

dimly lit lounge. A well-stocked bar backed by mirrors ran the length of one wall. The

central fireplace was surrounded by groups of plush furniture—recliners, loveseats, two

sprawling, sectional sofas. I counted four wide-screen TVs.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Dex said, turning to me. He gave me a warm, welcoming smile.

“Please forgive me for not introducing myself but the face paint has me thunderstruck.

I’m Dex Hallowell. And you must be Abigail.” His blunt fingers clutched mine in a

firm, muscular shake.

“Nice to meet you, Dex.” It felt odd being called by a different name but it was only

logical that I wouldn’t use my own. Bron had gone through the trouble of concealing

my face so I’d figured I should complete the alteration of my identity. I could not be

Jessamyn Kozak here.

His smile broadened for an instant as he looked directly into my eyes. “My

pleasure. Bron did an extraordinary job, don’t you think?”

Dex was referring to the face paint. “Yes. It took my breath away too.” I gave Bron’s

hand a squeeze. “He’s extremely talented.”

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“I could tell that just from his sketches. For the Hummer, I mean. Truly inspired.”

Dex swept an arm to one side. “Please, make yourselves comfortable while I see what

my wife is up to. The bar is at your disposal. The bathroom’s over there.” He pointed at

one of the room’s four doors. “It might be another thirty minutes or so before you’re

on.”

My stomach seemed to flutter and drift up toward my heart. Bron glanced at me

then addressed our host.

“What should I do with this?” he asked, lifting the black camera bag he had slung

over one shoulder.

“Ah, your playthings. No?”

Bron and I both nodded. We’d picked them out together just recently. That little

shopping trip alone had whetted our appetites. We’d had some pretty explosive sex

right afterward.

“Here,” Dex said, reaching for the bag. “I’ll put these things in the theater for you.

Beside the bed.”

Theater. Bed. My stomach writhed like a worm on a fishhook.

Dex carried the bag through a door with, absurdly enough, a star on it. He’d

already told us on the phone that, when the lounge lights dimmed and brightened two

times in a row, it was our signal to enter the “theater”. He’d also described its setup.

“Want to go check it out?” Bron asked me. He slipped an arm around my waist and

gave me a quick hug. “Or do you want to back out?”

“Neither.” I took a long breath. “Let’s just sit down for a while.”

As we passed the bank of mirrors behind the bar, I stopped and stared at myself.

Dex was right. Bron’s work was incredible. At my request he’d transformed us both,

from the shoulders up, into fanciful zebras. I recalled the tickling glide of the brushes as

Bron meticulously applied the durable paint, which couldn’t simply be rubbed or

sweated off. Except for our lips, our faces were totally covered in a kind of slashing

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pattern of black and white that made it impossible to discern what we actually looked

like. He must have mixed in other colors to give the pattern depth because it looked like

a natural part of our faces.

Bron had promised to make me “a different kind of beautiful” and that’s exactly

what he’d done. I loved the way I looked. Even when I was younger, I’d never been

more pleased by my appearance than I was now.

Our bodies wouldn’t be concealed but Bron had worked the zebra theme onto them

as well. The stripes crept down my neck to my chest, thinning, fading and disappearing

before they reached my breasts. Another narrow bundle of stripes followed my

backbone then separated and flared just above my ass. On Bron’s body, creeping black-

and-white tendrils wound down his neck and over one shoulder. Another group of

stripes fanned out from his pubic hair, reaching out to wind over his hipbones and to

snake partway down his thighs.

Bron had transformed himself before I came over. An animal seemed to have joined

with his beautifully molded body, turning him into some lust-inspiring mythological

creature. The half-man, half-beast I saw before me was sleek and mysterious and

dominant-looking. Even his cock seemed larger. Within minutes, before he had a chance

to begin working on me, I dropped to my knees and gave him head fervidly. It brought

him to his knees as well.

From that moment on, we’d conscientiously refrained from touching each other in

any kind of provocative way, even denying ourselves the occasional kiss. We wanted to

hoard our desire until this evening. Bron said I’d given him just enough relief to ensure

he wouldn’t come too quickly but any further play before our “appearance” would

subvert our sexual tension. And we’d need that tension to give the audience their

money’s worth.

We took off our shoes and sat together on one of the loveseats in Dex’s lounge. Bron

draped an arm over my shoulders. Beyond that, we didn’t touch, still mindful of

becoming prematurely excited. Soon I’d go into the bathroom and change into a knee-

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length, semitransparent tulle robe with a flyaway baby doll chemise beneath it. No

underwear. The lingerie was carefully rolled up and tucked into my shoulder bag. Bron

didn’t know I had the lingerie with me. I knew he had something to wear though. It was

concealed by a garment bag. I just hoped a g-string was part of the outfit. Damn, but I

wanted to see his cock hugged tightly by a g-string.

“You doing okay?” he asked, lightly rubbing my shoulder.

I tried to smile. “I think so.”

“Just keep in mind what Dex said. We won’t even be able to see the people in the

audience. They’ll be in darkness. We’ll be floating in our own little pool of light, doing

what comes naturally. The music should help too.”

Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring. Alternately driving and lyrical. I’d suggested it and

Dex had enthusiastically approved. He said he liked its “pagan sensuality”.

But as soon as we’d arrived, I’d begun struggling again with feeling self-conscious

about my body. Would the club members be able to tell I was older than Bron? Would

they find me unappealing or joke about me afterward because my legs weren’t thin

enough or my ass wasn’t small enough or my breasts weren’t at once voluptuous and

perky? Worse yet, would Bron feel embarrassed by being with me?

“What are you thinking?” he murmured, trying to study my face. We’d already

gotten to the point where we could sense when the other was troubled or preoccupied.

“I just hope I’m good enough for them.” I looked at him. “And you.”

“Oh God, Jessa…” He let out a single, disbelieving laugh. “You should know by

now that you’re more than good enough for me. Too good for me probably. I can’t count

how many times I’ve asked myself if I deserve you.”

“Stop it, Bron.”

He angled toward me. “No. You need to hear this. I get hot every time I see you,

every time I even talk to you. I’d fuck your damned mind if I could. And you know

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what Dex asked me when I said I’d do this? He wanted to know if I’d be bringing ‘a

womanly woman’. The men in the club liked ‘curves’, he said.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I wouldn’t lie to you. I mean that. Besides, these people can all go to

hell if they don’t like us. I like us and you like us. That’s all that really matters. We’re

doing this for ourselves—remember?—not Dex or his club. We’re doing this for

ourselves as individuals and as a couple and when it’s over we’ll go on our merry way

and live happily ever after.”

Stunned, I stared at him. A couple. Happily ever after. Those phrases, among others,

hadn’t thus far entered our vocabularies. I wondered what he meant but felt too caught

up in this situation, or too scared, to ask.

“Let me try to relax you,” Bron said. Rising from the loveseat, he went to an

adjacent recliner and sank into it. As I watched, curious, he pulled his harmonica from

one of his jeans pockets and lifted it toward me. His smile was tinctured by both pride

and apprehension. “Maybe I’ve started to play with some passion. I hope so.” He licked

the reed plate. “Close your eyes.”

I did and leaned my head back against the cushion.

Bron began to play something smoky and haunting, the notes weeping into each

other, daring me not to be touched by them. It reminded me of a Tom Waits tune

although Bron could very well have been improvising. It didn’t matter. The music was

both moving and mesmerizing. It was coming from his soul.

Just like his recent painting.

Just like his lovemaking.

All it had taken was a little nudge to loosen all this feeling. And all I wanted right

now was to match it.

I realized I might be falling in love with him. Damn it!

The music stopped. “Jessa?”

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“That was lovely,” I said quickly, unwilling to dwell on the thought. I couldn’t be in

love with him, could I? “Really, really captivating. How did you do it?”

Looking down at his lap, Bron idly fingered the harmonica. “You should know the

answer.”

Did I? Maybe I was afraid to know the answer…or to assume it. “We should, uh, go

get ready. I’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind.”

It was hard to read his expression beneath the paint but I knew there was something

to read. Suddenly I felt like crying. Bron had begun to touch me deeply, maybe too

deeply. I felt I was being pulled out of mentor-and-mistress territory and into a much

more dangerous place.

I quickly got up and hurried to the bathroom. Once inside, I gulped for air then

pulled the lingerie from my handbag.

Whatever I’d told Roy at the bistro was rapidly breaking down into bullshit. My

cavalier attitude about simply enjoying Bron McCullough for as long as it lasted had

cruelly mutated into a need to be loved by him. Fighting back tears, I mechanically

donned my seductress clothing and swabbed my pussy so I’d be as clean as possible. I

spritzed on some perfume for good measure. I don’t want to fall in love with a twenty-five-

year-old man! The thought echoed in my head until I wanted to scream it out at my

image in the mirror.

My heart obviously had other ideas. Feelings I hadn’t experienced in years, or

maybe ever, were washing through me. I kept trying to tell myself it was only because

Bron was so enchantingly beautiful, such a refreshing change from the other men I’d

been with. But the excuses just wouldn’t stick.

I really bloody fucking deeply cared for this man! This young man!

Of all the lousy, stinking luck…

Slipping on the light coat I’d worn here, I left the bathroom.

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“You don’t need to look any more luscious,” Bron murmured as he walked past me.

“I don’t know what you could’ve done in there except pee.”

“You’ll soon find out,” I said, summoning my inner slut.

No matter how this played out or what its aftermath would be, I wanted my sweet

lover and me to have a go-round we’d never forget.

The lounge lights dimmed, brightened then dimmed and brightened again.

“We’re on.” Bron grabbed my hand and gave me an encouraging smile. As we rose,

he impulsively touched his lips to mine.

That alone was enough incentive. My jangling nerves began to quiet. I focused on

making love with my fantasy-come-to-life and slipped off my coat.

Bron’s gaze sizzled down the length of my body. “Damn. Let’s hurry and get out

there.” He took off the coat he’d been wearing.

Beneath it, he wore a sleeveless black ankle-length robe without any front fasteners.

The muscles in his arms were sleek, hard mounds that flowed together as perfectly as

the paint on our bodies. They looked lightly oiled. I suspected the rest of his body was

too. My desire sharpened.

“You go out first,” he said. “Don’t get on the bed. Just walk around it. Tease them.

Think about making all those dicks hard. When I come out, don’t approach me. Let me

stalk you.”

Nodding, I opened the door to the theater.

I heard little more than an encompassing rustle and quiet murmurs, saw nothing

more than shadowy forms in tiered seats surrounding a softly lit, circular platform.

Strains of music began to play through the room. The Rite of Spring. Head and shoulders

high, I sashayed up a narrow aisle to the stage. A queen-size bed, draped in shimmering

white satin, was in the center, a single nightstand at its head. I caught a whiff of scent—

expertly mingled florals with a spicy undertone, like a designer perfume.

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I was acutely aware of my unfettered breasts bouncing slightly beneath the

diaphanous lingerie. My nipples tightened and rose. Strolling around the bed, I glided a

hand over its glossy sheets. Almost unconsciously, my movements seemed to be

dictated by the music. I felt like a storybook temptress awaiting the arrival of a dark

warrior-prince.

And he appeared. Strides purposeful, black robe swaying around his long body,

rich hair gleaming in the light. Slowly, we both circled the bed. He reached for me. I

eluded his grasp by slithering across the bed. He stood still for a moment and put his

hands on his hips, intentionally parting the robe, displaying his body.

A tight black g-string trapped his semi-erect cock. Light glimmered off his tawny

skin. My pussy gushed at the sight of him. I’d never wanted a man so much. My breasts

rose and fell with my rapid, shallow breathing.

Slowly I peeled off the filmy robe and draped it over a bedpost. I ran my hands

over the sides of my breasts and pushed them together, drawing attention to their

weight, their high nipples. I licked my lips.

The warrior-prince let his robe fall from his shoulders. Nearly naked now, his cock

bulging against its snug black sheath, he crept toward me as I backed away from him. I

watched the tense shift of muscles in his legs, his shoulders. Tingling, my nipples poked

against the sheer fabric of the white chemise. I arched my back a bit, taunting my stalker

with my outthrust breasts.

He lunged at me, forcefully caging me with the arm he twined around my waist. He

shoved his other hand into my hair. My breasts made maddening contact with his chest.

Forcing my head back, he trailed his lips along my throat. I let my eyes drift shut, my

mouth fall open. He held me tighter, forcing me against his body. As soon as my

nipples grazed his chest, I began rubbing against him.

I heard him moan against my neck. His head dipped down farther. I felt his mouth

suck and nibble at the swelling tops of my breasts. Suddenly he turned me around to

face the audience. He molded the front of his body to the back of mine, as if we were

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snakes trying to slip into each other’s skin. He leaned forward, forcing me to lean with

him. His hands glided along the insides of my thighs. I felt the solid hump of his cock

against my ass.

Deft fingers slid toward my pussy and slyly parted its folds, skimming through the

moisture collected there. I whimpered, feeling my clit throb. His hands continued to pet

my body, tracing its outlines, as we gradually straightened. His fingers glided on either

side of my crotch to my belly. Around my ribs. To my breasts. Slowly, so very slowly.

He lifted my breasts, as if showing them to everybody around us. His fingers burrowed

inside the low neckline of the chemise and pulled it down. When I felt it catch for a

second on my distended nipples, more fluid gushed from my pussy. Gripping the bare

peaks between his thumbs and forefingers, he pulled them. I gasped. My head rolled

back against his chest.

I turned to face him. He pulled the chemise open, fully baring my breasts, and let it

fall to the floor. I was completely naked now. Our hands instantly flew to each other’s

face as our lips crushed together in a manic, bruising kiss. Over and over we lifted and

pressed them together, our tongues lancing out to clash then meld then clash again. Our

lips were feathering, pushing, gliding, pulling. I put my fingers to my lover’s mouth as

we kissed. I wanted to feel his magic with my fingertips. He drew them into his mouth

and sucked on them. I bit his lower lip and pulled it forward.

The warrior-prince merged with Bron McCullough. Only my beloved Bron could

kiss like that.

When he threw me onto the bed, my legs parted to expose my wet cunt. I

immediately rolled to one side and scrabbled for the bag we’d brought with us. Leaping

on top of me, the warrior-prince too reached for the bag. We tussled, our limbs tangling.

When our hands emerged, I held a leather cock-and-balls ring and a vibrating butt plug.

He held nipple clamps. We’d used such toys before, with previous lovers, but it would

be our first time using them with each other.

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I was on fire for this man and I knew the people around us were on fire as well.

Stifled grunts and moans of stimulation and sex play occasionally sliced through the

music. Honing their hunger only increased mine. I wanted to be fucked in front of them

all. I wanted to suck my lover’s proud, towering cock and then have him plunge it into

me while these strangers boiled with arousal, an arousal we had incited. I felt like the

most potently, shamelessly sensual female who’d ever lived.

Bron and I knelt on the bed, facing each other. Undoing the closure on his g-string

and tossing it aside, I let his thick rod bounce into the air. Flushed and rigid, it was

ready for me. Lifting the leather restraint, I snapped the ring over the base of his cock

then fitted the two lower loops over his balls and snapped that section in place around

his scrotum. My cunt pulsed at the sight. Lava seemed to thunder through my blood.

I saw Bron’s hands rise up. He secured a clamp to my right nipple. I gave a small

nod when it was tightened just right. He did the same to the left…then tugged on the

chain that joined them. I let out a thin, wailing cry as a bolt of excitement shot from my

breasts to my flooded pussy.

Our mouths again crushed together, Bron’s garroted, stony cock butting against my

abdomen, my trapped nipples burning as the clamps made contact with the hard wall

of his chest.

Dragging my fingernails down the mounds of his pectoral muscles and over his

own taut nipples, I scored his torso with parallel red lines, marking him. His back

bowed to my clawing caress. Bending over, I slipped the velvety, swollen head of his

cock between my lips. His hips jerked. I drew the meaty column farther into my mouth,

marveling at its density. I sucked lightly without pumping it. Instead I swirled my

fingers over its silky base, over the full veins that seemed ready to pop through the skin.

I fondled his cinched balls.

“Soon,” I heard Bron hiss. I knew he was hurting.

When I felt a bead of pre-cum ooze from his cock, I removed my mouth. I wanted to

see it wink in the light. I wanted everybody to see it. Like a god risen from the satiny

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cloud beneath him, Bron lifted his shoulders and rolled his head back. Raising his arms,

he held them at shoulder height. He remained that way, still as a statue.

I had no idea what prompted him to strike that pose but I could only stare at him.

Maybe he was delighting in his glorious manhood and wanted to show it off. Maybe he

wanted to avoid the temptation of gripping his upright shaft. I didn’t know. But he was

so indescribably magnificent at that moment—his strong, lean body fully displayed, his

proud cock straight as a javelin. I felt nearly paralyzed with awe and surging desire.

I had to have him. I had to bring him even more pleasure and then let him pleasure

me. I grabbed a pack of condoms from the small table beside the bed. A female voice

suddenly rose from the audience, mildly startling me.

“No, leave it off.” She almost sounded imploring. Other voices, male and female,

murmured in agreement.

Lowering his arms, Bron held my face. “It’ll be all right if you do. I promise, Jessa.”

We exchanged understanding smiles. I believed him. It would be safe. He told me

he’d never lie to me and I trusted him. In addition, I was conscientious about birth

control.

Crawling behind Bron, I put the packet back on the table and grabbed an expensive

lubricant the club provided. After moistening the butt plug, I put one hand on his back,

making him ease forward onto all fours. I stroked his ass for a moment, relishing its

oiled smoothness. Then I felt up his cheeks with my breasts. The sensation thrilled me—

those tight, satiny mounds against my sensitized skin, the clamps sparking fire in my

nipples.

Sitting back, I turned on the vibrating plug and tenderly rimmed Bron’s anus with

it. His hips rolled ever-so slightly, welcoming the feeling. I inched the plug between his

cheeks, felt him relax into its gentle invasion. I worked the somewhat bulbous tip in

until he squirmed in excited response. I was massaging his prostate gland. He’d told me

he found the feeling stimulating.

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Sitting up, he seductively drew both hands over his hair and rotated his hips, the

plug still in place. I ran my hands over his firm body, worshiping it. Bron nimbly

dropped down and lay on his back, the top of his head against my knees. I rose up. He

slid between my thighs and pulled my hips down to his mouth.

I mewled as soon as his fingers parted my pussy lips and his mouth closed over my

cunt. His cock twitched and leaked more pre-cum. His tongue swept around my cunt

and darted into my opening as his lips covered my clit. Gently he sucked and probed

until I teetered on the brink of orgasm. My need for him became a razor-edged pain.

Bron must have been able to tell from the sounds I was making that I needed his

cock. Now. And I was sure his cock needed me. In one fluid motion he slid all the way

behind me then rose and knelt at my back. Forcing me onto all fours, he presented my

ass to the onlookers. Grasping my hips and turning me around, he slid his shaft into me

with a barbaric growl and began thrusting. Slowly at first then more vigorously. Each

time I exhaled, a cry of ecstasy came from my throat. His arm curled around me and

tugged on the clamps’ chain. The pleasure-pain launched me into orgasm. Its tremors

shook my tense limbs just as I heard Bron roar over my back and into the cavern of the

theater. I felt his hot, hard cock plunge deeper than I’d ever experienced. My cunt

clenching around it, I came again. Cum shot into me. His rod kept throbbing and

spurting until it felt like his cream was pooling the walls of my vagina.

Finally Bron collapsed onto my back. We toppled onto our sides, his arms around

my midsection, his erection still buried within me. The stage lights gradually dimmed.

The music gradually faded away.

And then I heard it. Carried on the harsh, warm breath that filtered through my

hair, the phrase “I love you, Jessa” drizzled into my heart.

K.Z. Snow

Epilogue

Five weeks after we’d first been there, Roy Emerson and I walked towards Edgar

Olmstead’s classroom.

“Bron really gave you fucking Ben Wa balls? And you wore them through the

fucking concert?”

Oh…I so loved shocking my friend. “Yes. They’re quite lovely actually. Chinese

jade.” As we passed the ladies’ room, I grabbed Roy’s sleeve. “Come in the john with

me and I’ll show them to you.”

A look of horror crossed his face as he uttered a small shriek and jumped away

from me. “Good lord, Jessa, don’t even begin to think that was funny.” Eyeing me

suspiciously, he crept back to my side. “You have them in now?” he whispered.

“Yes,” I whispered back. “I’ve grown quite fond of them.”

Roy shuddered. “I’ll stick to anal beads, thank you very much.”

I hadn’t told him about my appearance at Country Pleasures After Dark. Bron and I

had agreed not to tell anybody. It was our own very special secret. We’d also agreed we

wouldn’t return for any encores, despite the fact we’d apparently been quite a hit.

For us, repeat performances were unnecessary. What we’d wanted to achieve

through that experience had been achieved…in spades. It had intensified our intimacy.

What’s more, Bron had finally, fully mined the personal lode of creative artistry and

passion he hadn’t previously been able to find. And I’d discovered a whole new respect

for and joy in my beautiful, physical self. We’d both learned that self-doubt was self-

defeating.

That was particularly true in my case. It had been easy enough to admire and enjoy

my younger lover but not nearly as easy to let him admire and enjoy me. But that

disparity had vanished. I was finally able to see myself through Bron’s age-blind eyes.

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Our souls and bodies were singing now and they were singing in perfect harmony.

We were freakin’ in love.

I did tell Roy about our feelings for each other, without the musical metaphor. I told

my friend how happy I was and how full of shit he and I both had been when we’d first

discussed my new relationship. Funny how neither of us thought it would develop into

a romance.

Roy draped an arm over my shoulders as we ambled toward the classroom. “So,

Jessamyn, am I to assume I won’t be seeing as much of your not-so-sorry middle-aged

ass? You gonna put a white picket fence topped by razor ribbon around your place and

keep Bronson as your sex slave?”

“I don’t have to keep him imprisoned. He’s essentially offered to become my sex

slave.”

“Ah.” Roy nodded sagely. “Mind control. Yep, that beats walls and fences. Maybe

you should start a cult. All the members could be young slices of gorgeous.”

“I only want and need one.”

“Shit. I was hoping I could be your deputy.”

I laughed and leaned into him.

“Have you discussed living together?” he asked more seriously.

“We’ve discussed it but there’s no rush. We’re together nearly every other day the

way it is. I think what’s important now is that we spend time talking. Just enjoying each

other’s company and talking, talking, talking. Our relationship is getting stronger by

the hour, it seems.”

Roy gave me a quick hug. “Now let’s see if stud-muffin’s passion is reflected in his

playing.”

We turned into the room.

My face and Bron’s lit up simultaneously. The sight of him still made me giddy. We

immediately approached each other.

K.Z. Snow

“Hi, Jess,” Bron murmured, taking my hands. Still smiling, he glanced at my

companion. “Hello, Roy.”

“Bron.” Roy clapped him on the shoulder. “Get lucky lately?”

They both snickered. “Luckier than I deserve to be,” Bron answered, glancing at

me.

Surreptitiously, Roy raised his eyebrows and gave me a thumbs-up.

He and I sat at the back of the room. It was Edgar’s idea that we attend the class

again. He wanted us to hear “how nicely the students have progressed”.

I remembered how Bron had played for me at Dex’s place. I’d heard him play many

times since. Roy was in for one hell of a surprise.

This time, Bron went first and he did play at the front of the room. He did it calmly,

self-assuredly, but without any hint of a show-off attitude. My gaze continually shifted

from him to Olmstead to Roy. Even before Bron finished, my friend looked at me with

stupefaction.

“Wow,” he mouthed.

I smiled. I was no longer surprised.

When Bron was finished, he sauntered up to me. I was still smiling, still unable to

take my eyes off him. It simply didn’t matter anymore if our bond was obvious. He

must have felt the same way. Bending over, he cradled one side of my face in his large

hand, lowered his head and gave me a long and savoring kiss. My hands rose to his

hair. I held his head in place, relishing the feel of his unabashedly expressive lips.

There was sporadic rustling in the room. Seeing this open display of affection may

have made some people uneasy and others downright envious. It certainly surprised

everybody. Ultimately though, no one else’s reaction could reach us. Whether alone

together or out in public, Bron and I were blissfully, unshakably united.

Besides, I knew we’d be going home together. The anticipation of even more

intense contact made my whole body so ache with desire I was aware of little else.

Liberation

“I love you,” Bron murmured against my mouth.

“I love you too.” Reluctantly I let my hands slide from his hair, down his face and

into my lap.

Bron casually moved away from me and resumed his seat. My face was burning but

it was from pride and excitement rather than embarrassment. Damned if the student

hadn’t just shown the teacher and the whole class what playing with passion was really

all about.

Roy put his hand on my lap and subtly lifted his thumb. Second time in ten

minutes.

It was the icing on the cake.

The End

About the Author

K.Z. Snow (formerly writing as Kate Snow) is the daughter of Milwaukee

tavernkeepers and learned her first words off a Wurlitzer jukebox. Nine years of higher

education, resulting in two and a half English degrees and a stint as a teacher, did not

dampen her enthusiasm for beer, Green Bay Packers football, classic R&B, and various

forms of political incorrectness.

She’s been many things in her life, including a varsity debater, a Catholic, a hippie,

a Girl Scout. a junker, a fag hag, a gardener, an editor, a saxophone/bassoon/

tambourine player (not all at once), a damned good dancer, and a companion to most

species of domesticated animals, including men.

One thing she has never been is a Republican. One thing she will always be is a

writer.

She now lives in rural Wisconsin, not far from the birthplace of surrealism, a.k.a.

“The Dells”. Her imagination and her hips continue to grow unchecked.

K.Z. welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address

on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

Tell Us What You Think

We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at

Comments@EllorasCave.com.

Also by K.Z. Snow

Cauldron of Keridwen

Cemetery Dancer

Cheer Givers & Mischief Makers

Plagued

Wing and Tongue

Also see the author’s title at Cerridwen Press (www.CerridwenPress.com):

Pirate King

Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning

publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC

on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you

breathless.

www.ellorascave.com

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