Together by Christina Morning finds her sitting cross-legged on the bed, sipping rich coffee. The memory of the varied moods of their love yesterday plays through her mind. In the earliest hours yesterday, she had crawled under the covers to take his morning erection in her mouth. She had sucked and tongued him till his cock swelled and his hips tried to push deeper into her. But then she had pulled her mouth away. She had watched his face fall with disappointment. Then she watched his face suffuse with desire as she asked him to take her--completely. Today, her hips bore the marks of his fingers where he had pulled her kneeling body to him while he pressed his cock, still wet from her mouth, into her puckered rosebud. She knew how they both loved the times that he stretched her smaller opening with his engorged member. She also knew how, by unspoken agreement, they deferred this pleasure until her desire to be taken in this way had reached fever pitch. After the intensity of their passion yesterday morning, she knew again how right for them that understanding was. Throughout the day they shared stolen moments. Brief connections, serving both as reminders and as promises. To her delight, they had found more hours to share late at night. She trembles now, remembering the whisper of his voice in her ear, the flurry of soft kisses covering her body, the gentle suction of his lips on her slit, the flicker of his tongue over her clit, the pressure of his cock opening her sex, and, finally, the flow of their mingled cum when his spent member left her swollen folds. As usual, she had not counted her orgasms. But that was yesterday. Sometime in the darkness, he had slipped from her cabin, headed home. Refilling her cup of coffee, she knew that today she would see him only briefly, if at all. This was the established pattern. His birthdays were days spent in his other, more visible life. This year, he had not only the surprise planned by his wife and his best friend, but also various civic responsibilities. He was loved by many, both those who knew him well and those who knew his public persona. Years ago (when their love was new and all) she had resolved the dilemma of the "special days" from each calendar: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, and-the hardest of all-his birthday. The holidays brimmed with friends and family. Her life also was blessed with many who loved her. But his birthday presented a special challenge. Had their lives been different, it would have been her favorite day of the year. As it was, it was a day she had to reclaim. One part of the reclamation process had been exemplified yesterday. The day before and the day after his birthday had become right and left halves of a parenthesis, marking off this day. Those days were full of their love and passion. As she takes another sip of dark roasted coffee, she smiles to herself, thinking of what tomorrow could bring. As for today, this year she has decided to try a new tactic. She will spend this day as she would if he were at her side. Grinning, she thinks about how much of her work life is spent in asynchronous environments, where encounters occur over the span of hours or days. Why not, then, enjoy his birthday as if she were with him, and tomorrow, tell him of the fullness of the experience? She commits herself fully to this plan. She tells herself that she knew he had to leave her early to participate in the community pre-Halloween parade. She loves how people are drawn to him, regardless of their ages or life circumstances. This morning it will be children. She can envision the ghosts, goblins, princesses, and cartoon characters flocking around him. She can almost hear his voice, telling each child something special about the costume, seeing each small person so clearly and individually. So, with him away at the festivities, she sets about her day. After a quick shower, during which she shaves her legs satin smooth, she heads out to the farmer's market. Arriving early, she first selects two armfuls of flowers-red and white gladioli, both red and peppermint carnations, white spider mums, and some sprays of pepper-berries. She takes the flowers to her car, then returns with her canvas shopping bags. She stops by the olive man's stand, and picks up a jar of plump, cured green olives. Next to him is a stall with this year's crop of nuts. She carefully selects a small number of perfect walnut halves. Next she heads for the honey vendor, and debates over the choice between orange blossom and red clover honey. Today she chooses the orange blossom. She flushes a bit as she thinks of ways that she and her lover might enjoy the honey. Placing the heavy jars and nuts in the bottom of one bag, she wanders among the stalls laden with fresh produce, selecting two bright red bell peppers, a bunch of fresh asparagus (cut before dawn this morning), and a bag of organically grown mesclun. Nearing the end of the second row, she finds that the fisherman has parked his refrigerated truck in its usual location. She jokes with him as he describes last night's catch, now displayed on a bed of ice: swordfish, salmon, a few crabs, halibut, and shark. Purchasing a thick swordfish steak, she exchanges her crisp bill for the fish and her change, provided in slightly fishy-smelling ones. Her last stop is the bread stand. She waits her turn amidst the yuppie throng, finally trading in those same fish-scented one-dollar bills for a crusty baguette. She wends her way past the street musicians and the tamale carts, and places her purchases in the trunk of her car. She hurriedly surrenders her parking spot to one of the cars circling the packed lot. When she reaches home, she pauses to free her dog from confinement in the run. As her dog speeds around the yard, the woman carries her finds into the kitchen. Fish safely in the refrigerator, baguette in a basket, vegetables and walnuts on the counter. She sets the jar of olives beside the veggies. Finding the honey, she again feels a flush creep over her neck and cheeks as she sets that jar aside. Seeking a vase sufficiently large and heavy to hold the tall flowers, she climbs on a stool to reach into the upper cabinet. After cutting the stems and stripping their bottommost leaves, she submerges the stalks in the water. She smiles as she counts the red carnations, her lover's favorite. Satisfied with the airy, casual arrangement, she moves the vase to the coffee table in her living room. The clock tells her that she must hurry if she is to accomplish her goals before he returns. Quickly, she rinses and dries the greens, then places them in the refrigerator to chill. She roasts the sweet red peppers over the flame of the gas grill on her deck. As they grill, she snips some herbs from her garden-a few chives and some dillweed. She returns inside to strip the charred skin from the peppers, which then disappear into the food processor with a few teaspoons of balsamic vinegar and a pinch of kosher salt. A few seconds later they are transformed into a succulent sauce. She blanches the dill, then dries it and places it in a small jar, covered with lightly perfumed olive oil. Reaching into the pantry, she pulls out the box of coarse meal, and prepares the polenta. Once it has cooked to the proper consistency, she presses it into a square pan and sets it in the refrigerator to join the salad, fish, and red pepper sauce. The final preparatory kitchen task: she dips each perfect walnut half in honey, and then places them in a small skillet of melted butter to candy them. Watching the carmelization process closely, she removes them from the heat just before they might scorch. They go onto a waxed paper-lined plate on the counter. She kept the jar of honey open, and pauses to dip a finger into the sweetness. She raises her finger to her lips, and slowly teases the honey from her skin. Her tongue laps delicately at first, then changes to slow slurps before it completes the task. The jar top still askew, she carries it into her bedroom, and sets the jar on the nightstand. Satisfied that she is ready, she glances at her small house to make sure all is in order. The light in the house is filtered through the white shutters, and creates a soft glow against the white walls and hardwood floors. She sits in her favorite armchair. Surrounded by the gifts he has given her, she marvels at how his love has enriched her life. She cherishes each reminder of him, running her fingers over the things he has given to her. She rereads the letters he has sent her-love notes that speak so eloquently of his desire and adoration, words that melt her core. As she sits reading, she finds her fingers easing open the buttons of her shirt and making their way to the skin of her breasts. She touches herself in the ways he touches her, first softly, then more boldly. She hears a sigh escape her lips as she slips a hand inside her bra and squeezes the nipple, feeling it stiffen instantly. Setting the letters aside, she is almost sure that she can feel his breath on her ear, whispering to her how much he wants to watch her please herself. After one small whimper, she reaches back to unhook her bra. Her body registers the weight of her breasts against her chest wall. She imagines that she can feel his eyes on her, as he stands over her increasingly sprawled body. She toys with her nipple under the loosened bra till her body is trembling and her sighs have changed to moans. Then she allows her hands to move to the waistband of her slacks. She closes her eyes and slides her fingers around her waist, letting them finally come to rest on the button. She waits a moment, until in her mind she hears him urging her to proceed. Rapidly she unfastens the button, and then unzips her slacks under his unveering gaze. She hears him gasp as she slides them down and he sees that she wore no panties today. Standing, she lets her slacks fall in a heap on the floor. She shrugs to be rid of her shirt and bra. She pulls her arms around her as the shirt slides down her upper arms, pulling the fabric taut on her flesh. She holds it there for a moment, imagining it to be the pressure of his hands. Finally naked, she stands trembling in her living room. She once more hears his whispers in her mind, asking her to touch herself as he would. She closes her eyes, and feels her body sway slightly. Her arms cross, and her fingertips begin to stroke her skin, tracing over her neck, shoulders, arms, and breasts. She occasionally lets the nails scrape against her flesh, knowing that tiny red trails will mark her body. She continues this until the skin of her entire body is alive and glowing. Her breath comes in shorter bursts as she lets her nails rake more roughly over the rounded curves of her ass. She twists slightly to one side, reaching to let her finger press into the dimple of her puckered hole, moaning louder. In her mind, she hears his breath rush into his body, sucked in over his slightly parted teeth. She knows they both are remembering how he pierced her tight aperture yesterday morning. Her sex and inner thighs are wet with her slick juices. She moves one hand to cup her mound, holding herself as she stands and rocks against it. She knows before she touches farther that her clit is swollen and her lips are pouting open. Her middle finger slides easily between her folds, bumping over the nub of her clit as it follows the furrow of her sex. She hears his whispered voice once again, asking her to taste herself. She withdraws the finger, and places it on her extended tongue. Just as her tongue had earlier licked and lapped at her finger coated with honey from the farmer's market, now it cleans her of her own honey. With the taste, her body's demands accelerate. She replaces her hand on her sex, this time rubbing hard and fast on her clit. She hears her voice rising with desire, then an abrupt shift to a lower register as the orgasm races through her. One moment after the peak of her climax, she uses her other hand to pinch and tug at a nipple. She feels it as if it were his mouth biting her hard flesh at exactly the right moment to send her into a second frenzy of passion. As always, it works. She cries out, standing so naked and exposed in her living room. She imagines that she hears his familiar moans of delight in her pleasure. Her knees wobble as her body returns to her control. She eases herself back into the comfortable chair, whimpering, pressing her hand flat against her sex as the final spasms ripple through her body. She lays her head back, hearing his voice telling her, as always after she has pleasured herself, how beautiful she is when she comes, and how he loves to watch her. She closes her eyes, and drifts off to an easy light sleep. When she awakens, she registers that dusk is nearing, and the air has taken on a slight chill. Her previous sense that he was present is gone. She recalls that he had told her there was an errand he must run this afternoon. Acutely aware of her nakedness, she gathers her clothes from the floor, and moves to the smallest room in her house. She slips a warm robe over her shoulders as she fills the deep tub with warm, almost hot, water. She adds the bath gel he gave her, and her favorite clean fragrance fills the room as the gel forms a zillion tiny bubbles under the force of the running water. Removing the robe, she lays it aside and steps into the tub. She reclines against the small terrycloth pillow as the bubbles and warm water surround her. Soon she imagines that she sees him enter the bathroom, take the puffy net from its hook, and lather it with the goatmilk soap. She moves her hand containing the puff as if it were his hand, gliding the puff over her skin. She imagines a strong hand moving her limbs. She leans forward, feeling the warm water cascading down her back. She submerges again in the water, loving how her breasts become rounded as the water envelops them. She slides her hands over the slick skin, unable to resist. She hears his voice again, asking her to squeeze them, to press them together, to slide them against each other. The bathroom walls echo her low moan. Reluctantly, she lets her hands fall from her breasts. She rises from the tub, and rinses quickly under the spray from the shower. Toweling dry before the mirror, she sees how red her skin is from the hot water. She twists, noticing the smudge of fingerprints on her hips. She raises one leg and places it on the lip of the tub, then thrusts her hips toward the mirror. She pats dry her soft bush, then dries carefully among the folds. Her sex is exquisitely sensitive from all the loving attention it has had in the past day and a half. She feels a flush of excitement as an idea takes form in her mind. She closes the bathroom door, just as if he might really walk in. She takes the hand mirror from its usual place. Reaching for her razor, she inserts a new cartridge. She giggles, thinking how surprised he will be. He has often hinted that he would like to slurp her clean-shaved lips into his mouth, but also has told her quite clearly that he would never ask her to shave them. She feels a rush as she recognizes that this is a birthday gift he is not expecting. She moves across the room toward the can of shaving cream, then thinks better of it. Instead, she takes her bar of soap. Standing near the sink, she turns on the warm water. She lathers the puff, and slides it between her parted legs, then up over her mound. Standing before the mirror with her legs slightly parted, she takes a deep breath, then places the razor at the border of her bush. She pauses, momentarily reconsidering, staring at her hand holding the razor by her soapy bush. Then she proceeds. She carefully shaves the hairs from her mound, watching the forward vee of her slit come into view. She concentrates fully on her mound, rinsing the hairs from the razor repeatedly, continuing until the skin is as smooth as that of her legs. She rinses carefully, checking again to be sure that no stray hair nor stubble is left. Satisfied with phase one, she inspects herself in the mirror. She smiles. She knows he will be instantly revved when he sees her. Replacing the razor cartridge once more, she lathers her sex again. She maneuvers the mirror to a stable position on the rim of the tub, and again raises one leg on the tub. She wants to have both hands free for phase two. Checking in the mirror to be sure that she can see her sex clearly, she notices a glistening line of clear moisture showing between the soapy outer lips. Stretching taut the skin of her right labia, she begins to shave her lips. She strokes the razor from her leg toward her slit, carefully stopping as soon as she reaches the pink. smooth flesh of her sex. She takes her time, shaving very slowly and carefully, cleaning the razor after each stroke. After repeating the process on the other side, she rinses her skin over and over. She feels her heart pounding as she completes her task. The touch of her hands on her smooth sex excites her. She forces herself not to yield to her body's desires just yet. She wipes down the bathroom, removing all traces of her activities, and slips into her robe again. In her bedroom, she dresses as carefully as if her lover would indeed see her tonight. His favorite bra, front-hooked, with the straps set wide, the fabric extending only slightly above her nipples. Her own favorite high-cut silk panties, the fronts of the leg openings loose on her skin, the backs of the openings lightly elastic, causing the panties to hug the curve of her ass. She giggles a little as she continues by dressing in her usual style for an evening at her cabin with her lover: tonight, his favorite pink shirt and the tight khaki skirt that buttons down the side. A pair of casual shoes, a heavy gold chain, and a pair of delicately dangling earrings complete her attire. Night has fallen as she returns to the kitchen. Flicking on the light, she sets to work. While the grill pan heats, she rinses and snaps the tough ends from the asparagus. Retrieving the red pepper sauce and the polenta from the refrigerator, she cuts a triangle of polenta, then covers the remainder and restores it to the cold shelf. Lightly coating both the swordfish and the asparagus with olive oil, she seasons them and places the food in the hot grill pan. She adds the wedge of polenta to the smoking pan. The sizzle of the oil lets her know that she must not slow her pace. She quickly assembles a salad of mesclun, topped with a few candied walnut halves and three long, gracefully drooping chives. On the edge of the salad plate, she adds a few cured olives. Topped with a splash of vinaigrette, she carries the salad to her dining table, carefully set for two. She brings the baguette, and a tiny bowl of dill-infused olive oil. Opening a bottle of dry white wine, she pours a sip into a glass. Swirling it, then tasting it, she knows how her lover will savor the perfectly dry wine. She fills her glass about half full, and places it on the table. She lights the candles. On a larger plate, she assembles the fish bearing its perfect grill marks, the asparagus only slightly limp from the heat, and the barely warmed polenta. She drizzles red pepper sauce over the polenta. She carries the plate of colorful food to the table, and sits. She looks across the table to her lover's usual place, and mentally installs him in his chair. She can see his eyes dancing in the candlelight. She hears his voice, complimenting the dinner. She watches his hands, his mouth, as he picks up his fork. She asks him to wait. He looks inquiringly at her. She half-smiles, biting the right side of her lip. She releases her lip, to ask him to pick up an olive. She does the same. She describes to him how the plump olive is so much larger than her nipple, but how the pit is probably close to the same diameter. She asks him to nibble the olive's flesh from its pit, letting her see his teeth and lips as they work their way to the pit. Almost before the words are out of her mouth, she imagines how his lips would close around the circumference of the olive. He makes quite a show of slurping it into his mouth, while still holding one end firmly between his fingers. He slurps on the olive till her own nipples indeed stand tall inside her clothing. Then he parts his lips, showing her his teeth. Very slowly and carefully, he bites into the flesh of the olive. She imagines the tiny "thunk" as his teeth strike the pit. He moves his head from side to side, his lips still closed against the pit, tugging on the olive held captive by his fingers. Then she sees him scrape his teeth over the pit, pulling, then sucking, the succulent flesh into his mouth. He lets his lips smack together as they slide off the olive. He holds it up, inspecting. He sees that there is still flesh on the pit. He scrapes his teeth over the pit again. His eyes meet hers. Her eyes glow with desire. She can hear him asking her, a bit sardonically, if he may now eat his dinner. She silently nods her head, gulping slightly as she tries to slow her racing pulse. She reaches for her glass of wine, sipping to buy some time. Finally she is able to join him in eating. She imagines his delight in the honeyed walnuts on the salad, then flushes again as she recalls the current placement of the jar of honey on her nightstand. Her lover enjoys, in her imagination, the combination of colors, textures, and flavors of the meal. They linger for an hour or more at the table, tasting, sipping wine, talking, laughing. Occasionally they stop to catch a particular riff of the jazz she has playing in the background. She loves how he describes the music. At one point during the meal, she moves into the kitchen for a moment. She slips her already-wet panties from her hips. She bunches them in her hand, and goes back to the table. Before sitting down, she imagines moving to her lover's side and wordlessly laying them on his thigh. Then she resumes eating her dinner. She motions him to silence when he realizes what she has done. She imagines watching as his hand repeatedly travels to his leg, knowing that he is touching the silk, feeling the wet crotch of her panties as they dine. Finally, their dinner ends. They stand, and she imagines him taking her into his arms for a kiss. The kiss begins filled with passion, as their kisses so often do, and builds quickly. She presses her body to his, molding her curves against his hardness. She hears him tell her, as he strokes her hair, how he wants to make love to her this night. She imagines him telling her, that she will be his dessert. Her breath quickens as she recalls that he doesn't yet know how very correct that statement is. Leaving the table as it is, she imagines leading him to the bedroom. As she enters her room, the sense of her lover's presence is overwhelming. She half expects to look up and see him there, smiling at her, wanting her. But she knows and accepts the reality. This is not a night he can be here. She smiles to herself, knowing how much he will love hearing the story of their day. She imagines him sitting in the wicker chair in the corner of her room. He kicks off his shoes. He knows that he never needs them in this room. She does the same with hers. Then she slides onto his lap, kissing him as she undresses him. As she removes his shirt, she whispers to her lover that she wants him to be ready for her. He lets her know that he is more than ready, even now. The bulge of his cock under her confirms his words. She slips off his lap, asking him to lift his hips so that she can remove his pants, briefs, and socks as she moves. Finally, she stands before him once more, her breath caught short by the sight of him naked and aroused before her. Her body shows just a hint of a tremble. She unbuttons her shirt under his gaze. Her fingers fumble at the last two buttons. She lets her shirt slide off her body and down her arms. She hears his gasp as he catches sight of her breasts, straining against the bra. She imagines how she then leans over him, resting her arms on his shoulders, inviting him to unclasp the front hook. He does so only after stroking her flesh above the bra line and flicking over her covered nipple. His hands cup her heavy breasts as they fall from her bra. In reality, it is her hands cupping her breasts. She caresses them just as he has so many times. She straightens back up, shrugging her bra from her shoulders. Her hands move to her side, unbuttoning her skirt in the way that she knows drives him wild. She hears his breath coming faster-or is it her breath coming faster? As she opens the final buttons of her skirt, she asks him if he remembers that it is his birthday. He looks questioningly at her, and replies, "yes, lover." She asks him if he can think of any gift he would like from her tonight. As she expected, she hears him respond, "Lover, just being with you is gift enough. The dinner, the music, your love. There is nothing else I can think of that you could give me. You have already spoiled me." Smiling and biting her lip, she prepares to give him his final gift. She lets the skirt fall to the floor. She feels his appreciative glance travel over her body. She knows that he knew she was naked under the skirt, and was anticipating seeing her sex when her skirt fell. She also knows the exact moment he registers what is different. She backs her way to the bed. She motions for him to remain in the chair for now. She imagines clearly his reluctant compliance with her request. She lies back, her legs parted, her knees bent, her feet planted on the bed, and her shaved, smooth, very naked sex exposed to him for the first time. She reaches for the jar of honey. She slowly and carefully paints her bare lips with the honey. She coats every swollen, wet fold, mixing the honey with the juices that are already flowing from her. She dips her finger into the honey jar often, bringing ever more sweetness to her sex. She presses her honey-covered finger into her sex, taking the sweetness inside her, swirling it with her juices. She makes sure her lips and clit have a thick coating of the sticky sweetness. She sets the jar aside. She raises her head, reaches out her arms, and whispers to her lover, "Happy birthday." Later, she smiles as she drifts off to sleep, pleased with how they shared his birthday. Had they been together? Oh yes-in her mind all the day, and also in her telling him of it. Together. Always.