He’s hardly the first guy at a concert with a jacket tailored to carry concealed, and you’d never thought you might have a gun fetish. You know, these things just happen– you see a beautiful man in the backstage crowd, you catch a flash of something metal and precise when his jacket flies open.
You wonder if he let that happen on purpose. And if he meant it for you, as if you were some secret agent operative or something. Then you wonder what the movie scene would be like– the password, the danger, you’re hearing the nervous, scratchy background music, before he gestures you into the dubious safety of a hotel room.
The next thing you know, there’s a porn film running in your head while you shake hands with corporate flacks and accept the congratulations of the mayor’s wife in her three-year-old Gucci.
You’re introduced– Auren Han (the unvoiced U precisely indicated), and you’re able to meet his cool regard with your normal poise. But in shaking hands, you’re very aware of his masculinity, and his natural scent meets your nostrils and coils up in some corner of your limbic system.
It riles up your normal impatience to go home after a performance. They’re surprised how much you want to get away, somewhere private, you don’t care. Emma’s clever, she finds a closet in the building. She watches, with those greedy eyes of hers, at the door, and Drin can’t keep quiet when he fucks you with her hand creme and condoms from her purse. Your pants smell of it in the car, when you wrestle yourself out of them for Emma to get at you. Auren Han’s presence is there, the whole time.
This is all part of something else, random impressions firing wrong and turning into sensory phantoms. This itchy heat that crawls up and down, and the vague sense of pressure at the base of your spine, that comes and goes. That makes you so achingly needy that two lovers aren’t enough for you. You find yourself arching your back to direct Emma’s fingers, Drin’s prick, not towards your prostate but your back, to rub, from the inside, the tip of your coccyx into soft blossomings of white light up your back and down your thighs–and only when that itch is scratched can you get things moving again in the right direction, back to your cock, and what’s that about?
It’s not orgasmic, as you’ve ascertained one long afternoon on your own. Not by itself.
Thinking about stroking that heat-lightning alive, with the feel of Auren Han’s hand touching yours, that’s the fantasy in your head when you take care of business. When you can’t sleep, when your prick is begging for relief, because your husband is gone and your beloved woman is asleep almost before her head hit the pillows. Why would you wake up hard, dreaming about Han’s cock, dreaming about the smell of him?