“Where is my makeup bag?”
I laid propped up naked in bed, watching as Jasmine frantically searched around the room, packing up a massive suitcase that already looked stuffed past the brim.
I noted the small black bag next to me and lifted it up, letting it dangle from my fingers. “This one?”
“There it is,” she said in a huff. “Can you throw it to me?”
I gave her a mischievous grin, putting the bag under the covers next to me. “Nope, You’re going to have to come get it.”
She chuckled lightly and gave me a teasing wink, knowing this game well. “Fine,” she sighed, then turned to the bed and bent over, slowly crawling up toward me and making a show of swinging her hips as she moved. She stopped hovering directly above me, letting her long braids cascade down and create a canopy around my face as she enveloped my field of view. “Can I please have my makeup bag?”
My eyes broke from her gaze and moved down to her plump lips, the white of her smile sparkling against her dark skin. God, I was going to miss her. “For a kiss.”
She rolled her eyes and kissed me gently, but I was hungry for her. She moaned gently under my lips as I pulled her weight on top of me, coaxing her hand onto my breast and guiding her thumb to lightly circle my nipple. Her kisses grew more forceful until she met my passion, setting me alight, leaving me throbbing with desire…and then she stopped.
“Thank you,” she teased, sitting up with her makeup bag and quickly scooting back toward the foot of the bed. Leaving me buzzing, my pussy still desperately throbbing.
“You are so cruel,” I groaned as I snaked my hand down toward my thighs, yearning for relief. “How am I supposed to go three months without you?”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she assured me as she put her makeup bag on top of her pile of clothes, moving to close the suitcase before stopping in her tracks. “Hey, this could be an opportunity for you. Get your weird shit out of your system.”
Pulling no punches, eh? I thought, letting out a surprised chuckle. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I’m not judging. I’m just saying.” She flopped the top of the suitcase down, then stood. “What happened to your subby boy?”
“Jon? I haven’t talked to him in ages.”
“You should see what he’s up to.”
I was surprised to hear the suggestion. Our relationship was open and we both spoke frankly about our outside escapades, but she’d never actively encouraged me to pursue another partner before. After thinking about it for a moment, I realized the obvious. “You heard he sold his start-up, didn’t you?”
She bit her lip, giving me a sheepish smile. “Caught me,” she confessed. “Mama needs a new laptop.”
I gasped, clutching my invisible pearls in feigned horror. “Are you whoring me out?”
“No, no. Just…see if it comes up naturally. Like, in a sexy way.”
“Oh yeah, sure. ‘
She beamed. “Right, like that!” she replied through light laughter.
I grabbed a pillow and threw it at her but she blocked it deftly, looking impressed with her own reflexes. With the initial surprise worn off, I considered her proposal. My sex life with Jazz was joyful and fulfilling, but our tastes didn’t always align – as much as I enjoyed the passionate, vanilla lovemaking she craved, I sometimes lamented that she took no interest in sating my dominant streak.
Jon was the opposite. We’d met in college, back when he was a lanky, skinny nerd who hadn’t yet blossomed into the Adonis he’d eventually become, and we began as friends before a drunken night in our dorms uncovered our mutual kinks. We never even floated the idea of romance, but we dove into an intense sexual relationship – discovering ourselves, testing our limits. Eventually his desperation to submit became so overbearing that I had to distance myself, but it had been so long since I’d indulged…
“Alright, maybe I will,” I decided.
It took Jon about 30 seconds to enthusiastically respond to my text proposing we meet up.
I knew he’d gotten rich in the past few years, but I still found myself in shock as I entered his door code and stepped into his gorgeous penthouse. It looked ripped from the pages of Architectural Digest, each piece curated perfectly and hand-picked by one of the world’s foremost interior designers.
“Damn, Jon!” I called out, hoping my voice would echo loud enough to hear me as I removed my shoes at the door. “Definitely a step up from your room in the quad.”
I started exploring the apartment, playfully slipping around on the polished hardwood in my socks. I walked into the open living room, but he wasn’t there. “Jon?” I called out.
I kept looking around the huge penthouse, peeking into each room. Empty and silent. I checked my texts – nothing. Deciding that he must have gone out, I picked up my phone and gave him a call.
Bzzt! I heard his phone buzz in an adjacent room, behind a closed door. Why would he leave without his phone when he knew I was coming over? I thought. Maybe he’d fallen asleep?
I knocked loudly on the door, and my ears perked as I thought I heard his voice. It sounded like he was mumbling something from the other side of the room. “I’m coming in,” I announced, but when I opened the door, there was no one – his bed was unmade, but empty. I checked his night table for a note, but it was just his phone and an empty glass bottle that I assumed once housed some kind of homemade kombucha.
“Anna, I’m in here!” Jon called, still sounding distant – his voice was fearful, desperate. He sounded like he was far away, but I’d checked every room in the apartment and hadn’t seen him. “Look down!”
Given the panic in his voice, I realized he may have been in danger. Had he fallen from the balcony? I ran over to the door, pushed through a gust of frigid air, and looked over the railing, but sure enough, he was still nowhere to be found.
“No, I’m in my room! Come back and look down!”
More confused than ever, I doubled back, the wind slamming the door behind me. “What are you talking about? There is no down.”
“At your feet!”
I complied, and sure enough, there he was. Desperately tugging at my sock, nude except for a piece of tissue paper wrapped around his waist like a towel. Standing no higher than my ankle.