Sapphic Voices Erotica

Pomegranate

This Story is rated 'Adults Only' for its sexual content.

‘Fool’, I think, as I strategically stuff white tissue paper into a sea blue box that costs more that the gift I plan to showcase inside. My last pomegranate of the season, and I’m sacrificing it to another woman. What is mine will become hers. I give the most precious thing I have, not jewels or flowers, but a hundred glistening, garnet seeds to bleed upon her tongue. I have promised that I will discontinue my pursuit if this last gift is refused. It is madness to spend any more time writing to her, talking to her, flirting with her, and guessing – guessing all the time what her words mean, really. What she wants, really. If its me, really, or does just she just like the attention? Perhaps I am a pleasant distraction. Will she miss me if I disappear? Will she notice?

This pomegranate, the last, is perfect. No mushy spots, no scratches, or bruises; a perfect unmarred orb of red, with a protruding top knot nestled against the startling white paper, and the bright blue box lining. I want …… I bite my lip, and close the lid. No use, I admonish myself, no use to want and wonder. Either she will accept or not. Either I will have a chance or not. I am weary, really – of hanging on every word, pulling sentences apart, and reframing them for a hidden meaning. She has a choice – yea or nay. Accept or deny. Fruit for her plate, a sweetness lingering on her palate, a stain of claret on her delicate fingers, or spent, bitter seeds for my limitless perusal.

Now – what to say? The blank note card stares at me. I purchased only one, not eight, as was my first inclination. We’ve exchanged so many words, and now I have four square inches to explain. I could say, ‘Accept my gift, a hundred promises, each wrapped around a seed, my love for you.’ No, I cannot say that. Love is not what I’m offering. I am offering my devotion, my bent head and knee, my bowed back. Adulation is what I can give. I could say please, a lot. I could beg. I could howl, could I, on paper? How would that look? Have I howled before? I pick up the pen, and stop. What is the truth? How can I make it simple? I want you. I write. I offer my favorite fruit. This is a gift; you can refuse it.

I look at the words – gift, favor, and refuse. I tie the card to the box, make a bow, and make a vow. I will not unwrap. I will not disturb. I will only deliver. I leave the box in the dark, on my desk, in front the blasted computer, which started this downward spiral. I close the door. In the kitchen I find my wine chilled – a good vintage, and sweet. Its been breathing while I have not, not for days, now. We keep one another company in the dark, listening to the wet traffic noises outside the window. Then even that disappears. I dream.


              It is the first time, but not really because I am not being careful. I’m sipping my coffee at work, and checking e- mail.
              You write - why don’t you e-mail me from home? I write - I have to have something to look forward to in the mornings.
              I know it’s a dream because it takes hours for responses in real life, but as soon as I type the words in my dream, your
              answer is in my head.

              You: Your life sucks, right?
              Me: It sucks to be me sometimes, but not all the time.
              You: You suck?
              Me: Yes, you can say that.
              You: I can say that about me, but would you say that about you?
              Me: I’m confused.
              You: No you’re not. Confused doesn’t manage to drink coffee at 7:15 a.m. at my store every morning.
              Confused doesn’t begin to describe you. You know what you’re doing.
              Me: Usually, but not so much lately.
              You: Why lately?
              Me: You are like Lucy. You pull the ball away right when I’m ready to kick. I’m not playing today.
              You: You’re always playing… get close; I’ll let you kick this time. Tell me what’s on your mind.
              Me: The same thing as always.
              You: What?


The phone wakes me – I grapple for it, remembering that I am on the couch. The clock says 7:45 am. I am so late. My head hurts.

“Hello, are you punishing me?” It’s the same tone I heard in my dream, playfully serious.

It's her, my voice – where is it? I want to cry – it’s her. “Where have you been?”

She laughs, “ My mother, remember?”

“Oh”, I say. “How did it go?”

“It’s gone. Are you going to work?”

I look at the clock. “I don’t know.”

“Are you alone this morning?” She's not so playful, serious.

My heart is in my throat. “Do you care?” I ask.

Silence.

“Are you working today?” I fill the gap, not wanting her to hang up.

“I’m leaving soon.” I hear one of her co-workers yelling out an order in the background.

Is she leaving for good, for the day? I begin to panic. “Can you wait for me? I have something for you.”

“I guess so.” She is hesitant.

“Okay – 20 minutes.” I’m already pulling off my stale tee-shirt.

“Okay.”, she agrees. “But no more flowers, right?”

“Right!” I say.

Toothbrush, box, comb, box, clothes – the box, the box, the box. The box is under my still wet arm, wet from my hasty shower, and with sweat. The most, the only, the last and best gift I have – and I’m dripping with sweat, and rain mist, arriving like a panting puppy at her doorstep. My throat hurts; its dry. The deep smell of coffee assaults me as I propel myself through the door, searching for her behind the counter. She’s not here after all.

I hear my name, over here, in my ears, and spin around. She is tucked into a corner of the sofa, waiting with two talls – one for me, and one for her. I approach, and don’t know why I was in such a hurry. I sit. She offers me my usual. “Thank you.” I say.

“You’re welcome.” she says.

I cautiously sniff, and then take a sip – trying not to singe my lips. “Nutmeg.” I guess. My ‘usual’ has been unusual ever since she’s been preparing my drinks. Everyday something different, even decaf – I suspect, from time to time. I’ve accused her of poisoning, but she always laughs – even on e-mail. Ha Ha-s cajoling across the page. Her joke of the day – peppermint, hazelnut, foam, no foam, cream, half and half, chocolate sprinkles, cocoa powder, steamed flavored milk, hot chocolate, iced coffee, and once, green tea – the ultimate sabotage.

I consider the flavor, and her crossed leg, bare toes. I know my face can’t get any hotter, but it does. I can feel her eyes on me, waiting. Normally she watches me while I taste, if there are no other customers. If there are, she attends to them and I am allowed to leave on the condition that I e-mail her my response. That’s how she got me; she gave me her e-mail address and I was hooked.


On the couch I don’t know what the rules are. On the way to meeting her gaze, which I must do eventually – I travel up her khaki covered calf, hands folded on thighs. Hands lightening quick, and soft, too. I know. I watch every day. My daily wish is that she will hand the cup to me, not place it on the counter. Brown hands the color of wet sand, of weak tea, of cream with coffee. The fingers of one hand twist a silver band around the other index finger – waiting. I continue. The crook of her elbow, the sleeve of her polo, her chest, the dangling ends of a multitude of braids. Her chin, full, mirthful lips, the small gap between her bright teeth, her nose, and finally, the gray, green brownness of her eyes. Eyes I cannot seem to hold very long no matter how I prepare myself. Five seconds, I dare, and make it to three. A slight improvement.

I smile, “Are you taking pity on me this morning?” The coffee tastes similar to what used to by my usual – tons of non-dairy creamer in it, and full of sugar.

“Yes”, she smiles slyly, “I assume you’ve been good while I was away?”

“Very.” I affirm, enthusiastic.

“Hmmm?” she says around her own cup – tea it is. I can see the paper tag on the string.

“Did you miss me?” I can hear her words from my reverie; she said to tell her what’s on my mind. I’m trying.

“Perhaps, “ she says slowly, then perky “.. enough to bring you a present.”

I am looking at her full on now; it’s easier to take in the whole of her, and not just those eyes. She nods her head towards the box beside me. “You missed me, too?”

“Enough to bring you a present.” I reply, matching her tone.

She looks out the window – from sprinkles to torrential rain. Louis Armstrong plays overhead. A couple runs in from the street – dripping, shouting, everyone watches sheets of rain cloud the windows.

“May I?” she says, sitting upright, reaching across me for the blue box, a whisper of her whole body crossing mine, the texture of her hair brushing my cheek. Her ear crosses my field of vision, delicate, a spiral of silver clinging to its apex. I want to kiss it, feel the cool steel of it sandwiched between her warm ear, and my lips. Too late, as always – she has the box in her lap. I say her name aloud for the second time, and it sounds funny to me. “Alaine”, like Elaine. ‘Laney’ it says on her nametag.


“Did you wrap this yourself?” she asks.

“Yes.” I say.

“Its beautiful.” She admires it, shaking it from side to side.

“I meant for you to open it later.” I did not anticipate this scenario - that I might have to watch her reject me. I’m such a fool.

“Why?” she asks, stopping.

“Its not your typical gift.” I explain.

“Okay.” She says, handing me a durable canvas tote that says Café Le Monde on it, “Here’s yours. You can’t open yours either, then. Fair is fair.”

I accept the bag. “Thank You.”

“You’re really not going to open it?” she asks incredulous. Disappointed.

“Do you want me to?” I will do anything to please her.

“Yes – just like I always want you to.” She smirks. She enjoys teasing me.

I open the bag – two yellow canisters.

“Real coffee …”, she says, “from home. Ever had chicory?”

“No,” I admit, “but I’ve heard of it though.”

“There’s more!” she says expectantly. Christmas crosses my mind. What could she be like at Christmas if she gets such a thrill out of this? She sits on her hands and bounces in anticipation of my next discovery. Two boxes of beignet mix.

“Ever had those?” she asks.

“No.” I say, overwhelmed. I look at her, really look – her eyes, and her face, the freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose. Why? Why is she doing this for me?

“So,” she says, “Can I please open mine?” She winks at me for encouragement.

“I can’t watch you open it though, so I am going to ….” I look around. Hide in the bathroom, what? She is excited, rosy cheeked, happy, victorious. “ .. wait outside” I say, getting up. “I’ll wait outside.”

“In the rain?” she asks puzzled.

“Yes, in the rain.” I say. “You keep this until you see mine.” I place the tote bag at her feet. “Its just a little something. I missed you.” The torment of the last week has been reduced to three empty words.

I make my feet go because I think I will start babbling soon. The sheets of water have relented, and now the rain is steady, tolerable. I contemplate walking two businesses over to an awning, or continue getting wet. Wet, at least, is a distraction from panic, or grief, or whatever might happen next. I lean against the brick, wishing for a smoke, sipping at my coffee. I haven’t paid for coffee since I sent her flowers four weeks ago. She said I must be punished for my presumptuousness. I now taste caramel, nutmeg. Fooled again – its not anything like my usual coffee. Its altered, like everything has been lately. Skewed, contorted, off kilter. I would like to cry, or scream, knock my head against the wall. I’m watching the door. ‘Five minutes.’ I say, and look at my watch. No watch. Cool it! I demand of myself. Breathe; recite that poem you memorized in 6th grade, count sidewalk cracks, bricks, count the number of e-mails you’ve sent.

The door opens, and … its not her. I feel tears coming on. How long have I been waiting? Not here in the rain, like a fool – but weeks, months? Enough, have you had enough? Yes.

I look toward home. There is another bottle of wine in the fridge, maybe two. I can take the day off. I can wallow. I can turn on the computer and wait for a missive.. I wiggle my cold, wet toes and watch water bubble out of my shoes. I am going to walk home.

I’m trying to get my mind around the whole thing, passing the familiar sights – trashcan, mom and pop grocery store. I am trying to find my self-respect, remember where I left it. May in the tip jar? Maybe in my desk drawer? Perhaps in my shoes, or pants pocket?


Worms wiggle on the sidewalk washed from their cozy homes, drowning, trying to get back somewhere they can’t see but know exits. Me too, I think I block out more observations with a silent mantra: Shut up and walk, shut up and walk, no more thinking, glass of wine, start smoking again.


I’ve been ignoring the horn, but no more. A car screeches to a halt a block ahead of me, the door flies open. Her shirt is quickly becoming drenched. I hadn’t realized it was raining so hard. She raises her hand in front of her face. Good, I won’t have to look into her eyes. The pomegranate is clutched in her other fist, she is swinging it – walking so fast, her clothes darkening, collecting water. I wonder if she’ll throw it at me, bang me on the head, kill me. Might as well. A few more feet and she’s standing next to me, grabbing my arm, and pulling me to the open driver’s side door, pushing me in – slamming the door. I watch as she crosses in front of the car, ignoring the horns of the other drivers – gives one the finger, and gets in the passenger side. The blue box is open in the back seat; my beignet mix and chicory have spilled out of the bag onto the floorboard.

The storm of her face is more fearsome than the one above us. “Drive.” She commands. She swipes at her cheeks, hands trembling. Rivulets of rainwater drizzle down her forehead. Each braid hosts its own private waterfall. I reach over her for the seatbelt, search her flushed face, kiss her wet cheek. I drive four more blocks, windshield wipers frantic, the taste of salt and rain on my lips.

In the parking garage under my condo, it is eerily quiet. I stop the car. She reaches across me, turning off lights, wipers. She takes the keys. I get out and wait for her. Her wet shirt rides up to expose her midriff as she gathers her belongings, one large perfect pomegranate, one blue box with tissue paper escaping, two boxes beignet mix, and two canisters of coffee. She plops them in the canvass tote, and regards me somewhat hostilely through the glass. Caught, I think, trapped. I free her by taking her hand, pull her gently to her feet. I rub the thick silver band with my thumb as I lead her to my place. The rain is letting up, but still persistent. I dig in my pocket for the key. I will be persistent, too; I will not let go of her hand. I lead her inside.

My haste this morning is evident, but there are no dirty dishes in the sink. I haven’t been able to eat, really. The wine bottle on the floor next to the couch isn’t a good sign, but can be explained. I remove the canvas tote from her shoulder, lay it on the couch. I take both of her hands in mine, squeeze them. She squeezes back. I wrap her arms around my waist. I breathe, really, for the first time in a long time, when they stay there, tighten. She begins to shiver, for real, in my arms. I release her, very satisfied. I can live now. I can breathe and walk, and hope again. I find a towel and wrap it around her, turn on the hot water, rinse the tub, get more towels. I find some sweats, socks, a tee shirt, return to the hall and put them in her arms. “Why don’t you take a hot shower, use whatever you need. I’ll put your clothes in the dryer afterwards.”


She nods her head, agreeing with my plan. In the bedroom I peel out of my wet things, search desperately for clean pajama bottoms, a clean t-shirt, underwear, a bra. The water shuts off, and I realize I don’t have time to straighten up, to make a snack – what? She emerges with her hair in a turban, looking quite regal. She hands me her wet things, following me into the kitchen where I dump our clothes in the dryer.

“Do you ever use the fireplace?” She gestures towards the living room.

“Uhm … once or twice. Its gas.” Do I remember where the key is?

“Can I turn it on?” she inquires. She is not playing with me now, this is just a question. I suddenly long for our former playful banter, for being unbalanced. I want her to flirt with me, frustrate me. I don’t know what to do with this serious, shy woman.

“I’ll do it. Would you like something to drink?” I ask.

“Just some water, please. Mind if I get it myself?” She smiles.

“I guess not.” I say. I do mind, but I don’t know why.

She begins to open all of my cabinets systematically.

“Do you always do that?” I ask, fiddling with the fireplace, wondering what she is looking for, exactly.

“Yes.” She hollers above her rustling, “I’m nosy. I’m learning a lot about you today.”

“Like what?” I’m too worried about her adventure in my cabinets to coordinate my fire-making.

“Like …” she pauses in her search, “You don’t cook very often, you have no plastic ware, and you are fond of wine.”

“That’s not fair.” I holler back.

“Also.. that you have good taste. Or could it be that you might taste good?” I can hear the sly smile playing across her lips.

My hands will not cooperate to light the match. Whatsa matter, cat got your tongue? I don’t think my apartment has ever been so quiet. No traffic noise, no rain, no coherent thought from tenant #113. “You shouldn’t tease a woman when she’s working with gas and fire.”


“Oh – sorry!” She is busy, busy, busy in my kitchen. I hear a drawer squeeking closed.

“What are you doing now?” I ask, afraid of what she will find.

“Sharing.” She answers. She’s running water in the sink – I hear the clink of glasses.

The blue flame licks, then flares as I adjust the gas. I switch off the lights, close the drapes – we have atmosphere in my small apartment. Its not even 9:15 am and I have a guest. She situates herself on the sofa, wine glass in hand.

“What are you drinking?” I ask, joining her. She says something in French, melodious with the numbers mil neuf something or other. “Do you speak other languages?” I ask.

“Non, just French, Creole style.”

She takes my hand and makes me hold it steady, palm side up. I watch with alarm as she tips the contents of her wine glass into my hand. Seeds.. A torrent of seeds stumbles into my cupped palm. She takes a seed from my hand.

“Open.” She commands, and I do. “I accept.” she says, pushing a seed through my parted lips, sealing them with a chaste kiss. She takes a mouthful of seeds directly from my hand, crunches them thoughtfully, tucking the escaping juice back into her pliable mouth with her tongue. I take the last remaining kernels, and crunch along with her. She says quietly. “Yes I did.”

“Did what?” I’m confused. Have I missed something?

“Missed you.” Her lovely eyes hold mine a only a second before shying away.

I find her hands again, re-discovering the reality of them in mine. She doesn’t resist when I pull her to me, on me. She laughs, at me, at herself, at the moment? I’ll never know. She kisses me deeply, her eyes wide open, red and orange reflections dancing across her face. I kiss her back, closing my eyes before making it to the count of four , unable still to bear her direct and unwavering attention. She giggles fiendishly when I slip my tongue in the groove between her teeth. Finally something to torture her with, to unbalance her and leave her breathless.

I think I have distracted her enough to touch her, to ease my hands beneath the borrowed tee shirt. I don’t get very far. She sits up, straddling me – removes the shirt. I am riveted by the contrast of my hands encircling her waist, her thighs hugging my pelvis, her naked torso bathed in shadow and light. “Jesus.” I breathe.

“No, I’ve told you before, my name is Alaine. Its very simple, you have a short memory.” She grabs the hem of my tee shirt, and gives me a pointed look – what are you waiting for? I raise my arms up over my head, and my shirt joins hers on the floor. I feel acutely exposed, an ant under the hot gaze of a magnifying lense. She sits back on her haunches, pinning my knees to the sofa, reaches for the second glass of seeds - turns her attention back to me. She eases the waistband of my pj’s down, exposing my belly. I feel lightheaded, dizzy; I want her so bad. She takes a pomegranate seed out of the glass, and inserts it deftly into my navel. I am too startled at the cold nugget hidden in my stomach to protest, to move, to breathe. She slowly inserts two more, intent on her science project.

I watch every part of her while she is busy – such a busy girl. Her face, the way her braids brush her shoulders as she moves, her breasts – chocolate nipples taught. She replaces the glass on the table, and regards her work somewhat critically .She stretches out on top of me, her hands straddling my hips, her pointed chin keeping the seeds from escaping from the rapid rise and fall of my stomach – its hard to breathe. She watches me, amused. I want to scream at her – no beg. Beg her to touch me, say something, to make sense of herself.

“These,” she flicks her tongue around the seed pile in my belly button, “are mine”. My stomach heaves, and a few seeds catapult from my stomach. “Unh uh, be still.” She warns, “Relax. You must learn patience. Always in such hurry.” She roots around for another seed, every nerve ending shrieks at the sensations she creates, but I don’t buck or squirm. “ You’ve had lots of tastes.” Her lips and the tips of her braids trek across my stomach on un-coordinated journeys. Holding my breath doesn’t help. Controlling my breathing doesn’t help. “ Now its my turn.”

Howling does help. It helps me watch her take her many, many turns. The warbling releases of air allow me to hold her steady, challenging stares beyond counting the seconds. For each variation of my morning coffee she has prepared, she teaches me the art of patience in a new way. Patience while she sucks the last seed from my quivering stomach, patience while she pushes seeds into my slippery lining, patience while she retrieves them one by one, not caring that another orgasm is overtaking me, but amused, always amused at my persistent unraveling.

If you have enjoyed Mary Dawn's "Pomegranate", then please be certain to  Contact The Writer  and thank her for posting this Story.

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