The Face

His tongue buzzed over her clit like a live vibrator and in front of her tightly shut eyes was the face. It was the face of the man to whom her heart belonged while her body made the rounds among men she deemed lesser than her love. She allowed these creatures to use her body in order to satisfy her own human carnal pleasures, but the whole time her mind wandered to glorious memories and fantasies of him — the one whose face she would never forget.

She meditated on his name — screaming it over and over again in her mind — tensing slightly at the back-burner fear that with her growing pleasure and inevitable orgasm his name would escape her mind and then her tongue. Her pussy was devoured by her lover and as he eagerly slurped up her fountain of lust, he was unaware of the amorous thoughts that played through her mind. The same thoughts into which he was not at all invited, yet which were inspired in part by his artful tongue and fingers. As far as he knew, she came to him by choice to get a pleasure she could not find elsewhere; in reality, she came to him because only his tongue and fingers moved like those of the man whose face she saw behind her closed eyes. If she couldn’t have the man she loved then she would have the next best thing: a found replica of sorts who was eager — far more eager than her love — to gift her multiple orgasms until she lay panting and unable to take any more.

His index, middle and ring fingers stroked her pussy as if it were the keys on a piano and he a great pianist. He tickled a song and the chorus of her orgasm echoed through his small apartment, frightening his pet cats. She bit her lip because what she wanted was to shout the name that belonged to the face — the face she was imagining attached to those fingers that were soothing her lust. She clamped a hand over her own mouth and was about to let escape the name that yearned to flee from her lips, but her lover yanked her hand away just as he thrust his fingers into her cunt over and over again, making her release a scream with the squirt.

The following day she waded through the throngs of morning commuters with her dress crusty in some places and reeking of her juices, and she thought of her love again. Her bruised body ached with thoughts of him. It was as if it was he himself who had loved and used her body the previous night. The images — edited and amended over hours of viewing and reviewing — now played in a slide show in her mind: it was he who had fingered her to orgasm again and again; it was he who had groped her, caressed her, fucked her; it was he who had made every inch of her tingle; it was him beside whom she had woken this morning.

“The world is good,” he had once said to her, “and you make me smile.” These words floated through her head which carried a smile and jostled gently with the movement of the train.