The Screen Porch Ch. 01

In the Indian summer days, time slips away on the screen porch like a comforting dream. He sits alone in the enveloping darkness, a single pillar candle in the center of the long table casting shadows on a good bottle of a Rhone red and a half-full glass nearby. One of his favorite albums bleeds out of the wireless speakers, the melody adrift on the gentle breeze, the voices of Grant McLennan and Syd Straw swerving around each other, then joining seamlessly.

How's a girl gonna sing all her songs when the world's gone wild, they wonder.

He looks up, just as she opens her mouth. She speaks so softly her voice wasn't startling, even though it was unexpected. "Sorry to intrude, but I was drawn by this song, one of my favorites on one of my favorite obscure albums," she says, punctuating the line with a coy smile.

She is an apparition in the darkness. He'd never seen her before.

"The play list is only half finished...and there's always the replay button," he replies, opening the door and beckoning her in.

"Let me get you a glass."

He hints at a smile as she sits down in the candle light, then gets up, goes inside, and returns, filling her glass with a healthy pour.

The next song tumbles out of the speakers; they nod ever so slightly across the table and take a sip.

She wears nondescript shorts, a tank top, and a zippered hoodie against the evening chill. Her auburn hair frames her face, curling behind ears and down the middle of her shoulders. Her eyes are mysteries in the shadows of the inky evening. The music and the breeze cement a curious connection, each of them enjoying the wine and the unspoken dialogue.

They listen, smiling eyes meeting briefly and bashfully, then darting off to stare at the breeze in the tree nearby. Bob Marley, The Box Tops, Lucinda Williams, Josh Ritter, Adele, Hem, and Over the Rhine come and go from the speakers. He thinks he sees her flush a little during the last song, "Born."

I was born to laugh

I learned to laugh through my tears

I was born to love

I'm gonna learn to love without fear

Pour me a glass of wine

Talk deep into the night

Who knows what we'll find

Glasses are emptied and refilled. The sun dies completely somewhere offstage; the breeze fades to the background, and a comforting coolness rises. A blooming ginger somewhere nearby flirts with its spicy scent. He opens his mouth to say something charming, but retreats, unwilling to break the barrier. They're alone together.

In the cocoon of the porch, partially hidden from the street. the speakers go quiet and she gets up, brushing his hand, resting on the chair's arm, with her hip as she passes by to push replay on the iPod. "Nanci Griffith's version of "San Diego Serenade" seeps into the air.

When she comes back around the table, he rises, softly blows out the candle, takes her into his arms, and kisses her ever so softly, slowly, and teasingly around the lips.

She begins to turn back to her chair, but he pulls her tight. She slides her hand to his crotch. His slips to hers, unbuttoning and then unzipping her shorts, then sliding up to pinch her left nipple hard. She stifles a gasp, theatrically licks her lips and defiantly looks into his eyes. She pauses, then undoes his shorts. They kiss again, hard, unrestrained, her head arching back, offering.

She grinds against him, her lips on his, soft, gentle, lingering. She slides her hand up into the unruly silver curls tumbling over his collar, then pecks behind his ear. He pulls her tighter. Griffith croons softly.

I never heard the melody until I needed a song

He steps back, confidently giving her a look that says "Trust me." She demurs. His slides each of his hands down her sides ever so gently, stopping at her hips, where he firmly puts each hand. He turns her away from him as he eases them down into the chair, his face nuzzling her hair. She reaches back and pulls aside the curtain, offering her nape, and he languorously nibbles with his lips and teases with his tongue just behind her ear.

She's atop him, facing away, and she rises up so his hardness eases against the base of her lips so the head barely slides in and out when she gently bucks her hips. His hand strokes her hair from back to front and slides down her cheek before he slips a finger into her mouth, one she eagerly suckles, then he moves his hand down her front, his palm hard against her erect nipple, moving, moving, moving down until she feels his wet finger gently circle her smoothness, and soon, her hard clit.

As she grows ever more aroused, her slips his finger back up into her mouth, and then down to her clit, circling ever so slowly and gently, his gentle touch a contrast to his clear control.

Eventually, she grinds harder and faster, losing control, riding him with abandon, his cock filling her from beneath, his finger massaging her clit, a different kind of duet than the one that lured her to the screen porch.

Involuntarily, she reaches down to entwine their fingers, joining his to stroke and massage her clit. She leans her head back against his face, hair in his eyes, the scent of her shampoo subtle and alluring. Her attempts muffling her moaning are increasingly futile.

Her release is hard, fast, in spastic gasps. She falls against him, her back against his front, their chests heaving in unison, their eyes closed.

After long minutes knitted together, he traces his still-slick finger along her cheek to find her open, wanting mouth. She licks it clean and pivots to kiss him deeply, slowly, longingly. They sit there, entwined for a few minutes, listening to the music and the rustling leaves, feeling the evening breeze, picking up now that the sun has surrendered for the day.

Slowly, she slides off him and onto her knees and takes him in her mouth, stroking her hand over as she slides her lips back to the tip. He's well past due. She's teasing only for a bit. When he puts his hand on the back of her head and holds it still, she smiles with her eyes, an agreement. She calmly takes all of him, enjoying feeling the surge of passion.

As he finishes, he strokes her hair; she reaches up to touch his cheek. She drops her head on his knee, her hair falling between his legs, swaying. There she stays for silent minutes, Leonard Cohen's "Night Comes On" serenading them.

Eventually, she pulls on her shorts, adjusts her bra and top, and takes the three steps to the door. Only then, does she speak again.

"I'll take care of the music next time," she says, smiling. "And you'll be on your knees."

He nods, waiting until she disappears into the dark, and then rises to push "play" again.