The Story- Part One

I shall do my best to relay the details of what transpired during the...ah...hmm...ordeal?..without exaggeration or dramatic license. I can only offer my assurances, such as they are, that this is a true story.

It's Friday afternoon, roughly 3:30 central time. In only an hour and a half I'll be able to leave work, go to the store and prepare for Astarte's arrival. I've made my list, checked it twice, and I'm determined to be very, very naughty. My cell phone, always set on vibrate, begins it's angry buzz in my pocket.

"Hello?"

"Hello." A low, smokey voice is in my ear. Astarte. I close my eyes and inhale, trying to smell her over the phone.

"Is your plane delayed? I thought you'd be in the air about now."

"No, it's not delayed. In fact, I'm already here, in your apartment."

"What? No you're not. You said you'd be here around eight. You're messing with me. Typical of you."

"Really, I'm here. Trust me."

"That's the last thing I'm likely to do, and you know it. No, you're not there." I'm getting nervous, even though I'm sure she's lying to me.

"I can prove it to you. Oscar, speak." Oscar is my dog. He listens only to me.

"Bark!" He speaks. Apparently he really, really likes Astarte. Great.

"Oh, and you have beans soaking in a pot. What are we having tonight?" Shit. She really is there. Early. This is just like her, actually. Surprise after surprise. I can barely contain my excitement, which is heightened by the fear I feel. Is that good? I don't know, but I like it. "I'll see you when you get home. I have to go change. Bye." She hangs up.

The next hour and a half crawls by, each minute seemingly trebled by anticipation and desire. Five o'clock finally rolls around and I run out the door, jump in my truck and race to the store. Wine. Chocolate. Pancetta. Shit, they don't have it....Prosciutto instead. Bread. The list goes on. Back in the truck. Race home. It's a 35 mile drive one way...I'm doing roughly eighty-five and decide to slow down. I take a deep breath and light a cigarette. I don't normally smoke.

I finally arrive at my apartment, tires crunching on the gravel driveway, and pull in the garage. I shut the truck off and take a deep breath. Gathering my groceries I walk to the stairs, climb them and open the door to my apartment. Normally when I get home Oscar runs to me and jumps around, excited. Not this time. I sniff the air...it smells like a bakery. I walk into the living room to find Oscar laying on the couch and Astarte in the kitchen. Baking. Oscar looks up at me and wags a hello, then closes his eyes. Fucking traitor. I drop the groceries on the kitchen table and look at Astarte. She's wearing one of my work shirts and a tie. It just covers her ass, so I can't see what she's wearing underneath. She says a hello over her shoulder as she turns back to the stove. Something in the oven is done. Bending over, I discover what's under the shirt: A pair of boy-cut panties, tan in color, with a picture of a monkey wearing a crown. My hands go straight to her ass. Withouth flinching she quickly turns around and I feel the heat of a glass baking dish as it narrowly misses my face.

"Hands off, monkey-man!"

I look up into bright hazel eyes, down to her cruel, full lips and whisper something I don't understand. Desire has propelled me beyond reason. She speaks again, her voice a chorus of the damned.

"You have cooking to do, don't you?"

"I don't care about the food...it's good to see you again. Now I want to feel you again."

She smiles. "Oooh..you will. But I'm hungry, won't you cook for me?" I'm weak. So weak.

"Yes, of course. I'll open the wine first."

"Good boy." She kisses me. Her lips are sweet and full, her tongue warm as it slides against mine. I think I'm melting. The back of her hand gently brushes my face and she walks...no, strolls over to the couch, hips moving under my shirt. She sits next to Oscar, who begins wagging his tail and moves closer to her. Fucking traitor.

I open the wine and pour us each a glass. It's deep, dark red, blood and passion, love with a streak of mean. This same red haze will color my eyes for days. I hand Astarte her glass and run my fingers through her hair, dark brown and wavy, thick. She tilts her head back into my hand and I'm offered glimpse into her lap, my gaze running down her legs, touching her with my eyes. I sigh and go back to the kitchen to prepare the minestrone.

(I have to get some work done, I'll have more later)

M. PotPie