Dust of Days

It’s hot, slippery, the vibrations tickling my skin. I like watching her try not to attract any attention and, at the same time, almost lose her mind. I like how she looks at me, her eyelids and lips half-open, her posture out of sync with every shattering.

By Anne Lomberg on October 8, 2023 -
Updated on October 26, 2023

Also available in German
Staub der Tage

I think of Margot as I inhale a deep drag of my cigarette. The smoke feels pleasant, almost like balm. It’s always the last puff that makes me gloomy while I stand in the rain under the restaurant’s awning. When did we stop talking to each other? And by talking, I don’t mean the ordinary things that happen during the day, but the exchange of desires, vulnerabilities, fears. Things that made us so euphoric in the beginning when we met. I could only touch her with my gaze, and she softened. The last of the ashes, along with the embers, fall on my leather shoe; the rain will carry them away, I say to myself as I shake my head, glance at my watch, and then decide to take the leftover filter in my hand to the dustbin across the street. I pull my jacket over my head, skipping a few puddles before positioning myself in the same spot again, waiting impatiently. She’s been strangely distant this morning; we’ve barely exchanged a word, and I wonder how much longer we’ll live alongside each other like this. It shouldn’t be like that, but we’re probably just another specimen of doomed marriages: Couples who go about their routines like zombies day in and day out, showing the world that they live a happy life with all the presentable treasures that such a marriage brings. Instead, they suffocate in loneliness, and all the presentable treasures degenerate into a farce of deceptive hypocrisy. I exhale with a sigh, glance at my watch one more time as the taxi pulls up right in front of me, making me forget my loveless marriage for a brief moment.

“Glad you could make it,” I say with mock seriousness as I open the door, and she steps out onto the wet pavement in high heels. With a grand sweep of my arm, I bring my jacket over our heads and hurry her back under the restaurant’s awning. “I know. I’m sorry,” she replies, fixing her hair. I notice her mischievous undertone loud and clear. “It won’t happen again, I promise.” Her face becomes remorseful as she bites her bottom lip, and I can’t help but pull her towards me to kiss her passionately. Her lips taste of coconut and some other ingredient I can’t define. Must be her blood-red lipstick. “Are you wearing it?” I ask as she looks up at me through her long lashes and tries to dab her mouth carefully with the back of her hand. “I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself.” There it is again, that mischievous undertone that makes me want to docile her. Instead, I silently follow her into the restaurant.

A laid table is already waiting in the farthest corner with a bottle of Cabernet and two glasses, one of which I had emptied before. The waiter takes her dark grey cashmere coat, and she straightens her tight dress before sitting down, loose strands sliding over her bare shoulders. I pause, watching her expectant gaze, until I sit opposite her. The table is small; if I leaned forward, our knees would subtly touch. The thought alone turns me on, but I wait while she tells me stories about her day, how hectic everything was, and that she is glad to sit here with me to unwind finally. I, too, am glad to unwind finally. Having her near me reassures me, and knowing that I am the one giving her pleasure fills me deeply. After I made the waiter understand that I would take care of the wine and make myself known if we needed more, he made a little bow that seemed oddly forced and disappeared.

I didn’t take off my jacket and reach into my left breast pocket. The cool metal welcomes me, my fingers wander gently over the texture. “Now I’ve talked so much about myself. How are you doing? How was your day?” she asks, pulling her strands behind her ears. It almost seems like she’s nervous. I can recognize it on her cheeks, which are gradually changing color, and her posture stiffens too as she crosses her thighs, checking once more to ensure her dress fits properly. “Spread your legs,” I say softly but firmly. I can’t help myself. This woman is so sexy with her teasing ways and so easy to draw out of her reserve. A contradiction that awakens my animal instinct. She clears her throat briefly, leans forward a little, then leans back again and slowly separates her thighs. “I’m not a fan of small talk. When I meet with you, I want to go straight to the depths, and by depths, I mean evoking your lust, which in turn gives me lust,” with a discrete gesture, I take the small device from my breast pocket and place it on my lap as I pour us both some red wine. “So you’re wearing it?” I look at her promptly and raise my glass to toast her. She leans forward to meet me as she pulls her glass away. “I told you, you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.” She casually slumps back while she brings the wine to her full red lips, and a big sip runs down her throat. The purest temptation. Here with her, I ignore all my problems. Just for one evening, I want to experience the light-heartedness of first love when people meet, and suddenly, everything seems possible.

I play with the metallic thing, no bigger than a car key, between my fingers, turning it once to the left and once to the right before finally pressing a button. The table provides the perfect cover for unwanted glances, so I move all the way forward to touch her knees. Her face relaxes, her eyes close under thick lashes. Piece by piece, I make my way under the delicate fabric of her dress. I need to touch her skin but, more importantly, find out if she has kept our agreement. The closer I bring my fingers to her glorious cunt, the warmer and wetter it gets. Her skin is the softest I have ever felt. It feels like parchment on cotton wool, plump and smooth. Her expression reveals arousal. Even though she wants to give in completely, she tries to maintain decency and rests her head on one of her forearms. Her cheeks blush, and her lips spread just like her thighs, which now give me full access. As my fingertips touch her uncovered labia and I gently smear the wetness around her sex, I press again on the small device to get some clarity. A small sigh escapes her, our eyes never leaving each other. She trusts me as I trust her.

Slowly, I slide my fingers against her opening, inserting only the tip of my index finger. It vibrates. She hasn’t failed me. Her inner walls twitch, so I vary with the speeds to feel for myself. It’s hot, slippery, the vibrations tickling my skin. I like watching her trying not to attract any attention and, at the same time, almost lose her mind as the vibrator trembles in her pussy parallel to my finger. I like how she looks at me, her eyelids and lips half-open, her posture out of sync with every shattering. “Ask me again how my day was,” I say, gently pulling my finger out of her to caress her labia. I use all my fingers, which are so wet by now that I would love to put them in my mouth. She swallows and sighs, turning her head to the side, buried in her palm. “I um… How was your day?”

Incidental noises grow louder. I perceive the clinking of dishes, dull talks and fake laughs, soft piano music from the speakers above me, footsteps approaching and departing. I can smell the earthy rain air rising in my nostrils with each new visitor or those already saying goodbye. Even the smell of her sweetness greets me as I thrust finger after finger back into her, soaking up her receptivity while gazing into expectant eyes.

“My day could not keep up with the events of the evening. I’ve been waiting for you, Margot … perhaps my whole life.”

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