Lake House
Palms sweaty. Legs shaking. The two glasses of wine that I inhaled were useless in quelling my nervousness. My insides had twisted themselves into several knots the size of golfballs.
“Calm down” I keep saying to myself. “Have another glass of wine. What am I overthinking this for? She wants me just as much as I want her. Well maybe not AS much, but she does want me. I think.“
I am cursed. Not in a supernatural sense. Witches, Wiccans, and voodoo priests are not a major factor in my life. At least that I am aware of. I am cursed in the twisted way that fate curses a select few. My entire life I have desired and craved that which is just beyond my grasp. Bicycles were too slow and impractical, I needed a car. The women I was most attracted to where always the ones who were too advanced in life to put up with me.
In middle school, my next-door neighbor lived at home during her junior and senior years of college. She was my first soul mate. We would stay up all night talking to each other out of our bedroom windows. We even would leave the blinds open whenever we would get out of the shower or change clothes. In high school, Ms. Turner, our newest guidance counselor, and I were going to run away together after my graduation. She was going to be waiting in a convertible right outside the auditorium doors. I would run off the stage and right into her car. Alas, the world is a cruel and fucked up place and these scenarios only existed in my imagination.
Back to the matter at hand, inhaling my third and fourth glasses of wine. Jesus, I was going to drink the entire bottle before she even had a chance to finish showering. The heavens had aligned. I met my dream woman, in the flesh. She existed in the real world, no longer just imagination. After a lifetime of daydreaming, and imagining and wondering I had finally found her. And I was about to ruin it by being too drunk, too nervous, and too selfish. I can’t believe I drank this whole bottle of wine in less than five minutes.
I had met her while taking a personal getaway to my lake house. A 1-bedroom ranch style house that my grandfather left to me when he passed away. It was way too far from proper civilization to be my primary residence but was perfect for when I need some seclusion and privacy to write. On those occasions where my fingers could not produce anything worth reading, I would grab a beer and walk around the lake. Hoping to steal a glimpse of my muse for inspiration.
Our sordid affair started simple enough. Exchanging admiring glances from opposite sides of the lake. Watching intently, without trying to be too obvious, when the other would don a swimsuit to go for a swim. She had spent several mornings sitting on the dock outside of her house. Sometimes with a book, other times with what appeared to be a sketch pad. More often than not, she just laid in the sun with a glass of wine admiring the day.
After several weeks or so of our tepid version of flirting, she decided to up the ante. It was a hot and humid Thursday evening. I had spent most of the day in my makeshift office, adding and revising to my latest collection of essays. After 8 hours of staring at a computer screen, I decided to give myself a break. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, and left out the backdoor to take a stroll around the lake. I don’t know whether she was sick of playing coy, had finished a magical drawing and wanted to celebrate, or if it was just the heat of a Georgia summer evening in that compelled her. Whatever the catalyst, I am eternally grateful.
This blessed evening she was sitting underneath an umbrella on an oak patio chair lined with turquoise cushions. As usual, her cranberry-leather cased sketching pad was resting in her lap. She was wearing a loose-fitting white blouse and blue jeans that stopped just above her ankles. Seeing each other for the first time today, she smiled and waved with the grace and radiance of an angel. I wanted to jump up and down and giggle like an excited kindergartner, instead, I waved back and offered cheers with my beer. She responded likewise with her wine glass.
I walked to the edge of the dock and sat down with my legs over the edge. My Vans creating waves every time they skimmed the surface of the lake. I took out my phone and began checking emails, texts, and the other nonsense from the outside world that I had successfully blocked out for the past 10 hours. Over the top of my phone, I see her stand up from her lounge chair. I assume she is going inside of her house, presumably for the duration of the night. Thankfully, I was wrong.
Instead of walking inside her home, she walks in the opposite direction towards the end of the pier. I put my phone down on the dock next to me. Whatever is about to happen I don’t want to miss a single second. She walks to the end of the pier and kicks her sandals off. She unbuttons her jeans and slides them down next to her ankles and steps out of them. I am ready to risk it all just to caress her thighs. Her body is more akin to that of the most popular Instagram models as opposed to the stereotype of what a 62-year-old body should look like. I use my beer to try and hide the massive erection that is growing in my shorts. She pulls her blouse over her head. All the blood in my body rushes immediately to my dick. Fantasies of kissing and rubbing her body invade all of my thoughts. Her smile grows larger when she sees my reaction.
Off comes her bra. There isn’t a beer can large enough to conceal my erection poking through my shorts. To say that her body was perfect would be an understatement. She was one of those rare humans that seemed to have been created by the gods, blessed in every way possible. The coup de grâce, down goes her thong. Slowly, carefully, clearly, she is toying with me. She has to know that each removal of an article of clothing brings me to the cusps of ejaculating. An amazingly trimmed landing strip leading to the most kissable lips the most creative artists could even imagine. Who knew one human being could be so angelic.
She dives in the water with the grace and elegance of an Olympic swimmer. Her every stroke in the water poetry in motion. She swims 2 laps around her dock before she swims over to my side of the lake. She swims to where I am sitting. Her perfect breasts bobbing in and out of the water as she floats near me.
“It’s rude to stare without paying a compliment first.”
I am officially in the full grasp of her siren’s song now. Her voice was seraphic, a sweet melody that has me captivated.
“You are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen. Is it ok if I stare now?”
She laughs. “Yes, but one more condition. I am about to swim back to my house. You lock your house, grab your favorite bottle of wine and come over to my place. I’ll leave the back door unlocked. Share a drink and conversation with me. Deal?”
My mouth uttered the word before my brain even had time to process her request. “Yes!”
She laughs. “See you shortly dear.”
She turns and swims back to her manor. I watch her naked body swim away in the setting sun. The sunlight reflecting off of her body gives the illusion that she is glowing.
Once she is completely out of view inside of her house, I rush to my house. I grab the only unopened bottle that I have left, lock the front door, and ride my bike the 4 minutes it takes to get to her property from mines. When I arrive at her house, I park my bike near the front porch and walk around to the back door and walk-in. A bar is located just inside the backdoor with a note that tells me to help myself.
Her house is simplistically elegant. Beautiful expressionist paintings are hung on every wall. The decor of the living room and kitchen is mid-century modern. Her bar is filled with a few bottles of wine that cost as much as my yearly salary. I feel like I am at a small museum.
I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down on the sofa. Her sketch pad is on the huge rustic chestnut coffee table. I pick up the pad and absentmindedly begin thumbing through the pages. Her sketches, like everything else about her, are breathtaking. Towards the end, I see several sketches of a man who looks eerily similar to me.
“You like?” her angelic voice echoes from the corner of the room. She is standing in the doorway that I am assuming leads to her bedroom. She is wearing only a large semi-sheer sky blue blouse.
“You are very talented. Are you an artist by trade?”
“No, its just a hobby of mine, something to feed the creative in me whenever it gets hungry.”
“This last picture of me, the one of me nude, um…”
“You like?”
“I do, but where did you…where did you get a reference for this one?”
“A fantasy of mine, that’s all.”
She pours herself a glass of wine and sits down on the sofa next to me. She places her back against the armrest and her feet in my lap.
“I hope you don’t mind?”
“Not at all…I…”
She cuts me off, “Ya know what’s strange. We have admired each other for weeks. You have seen me naked. And now you are inside of my home rubbing my feet. The funny part about all of this, we don’t know each other’s names. Why do you think that is?”
“It would ruin the fantasy in our heads. Right now both of our “perfect” fantasies, whatever they may be, are still very much intact, maybe even enhanced. And we are scared that even the smallest detail will begin to chip away at the dream.”
She is intrigued. “But in the same breath, we aren’t cavemen. There must be a way to remain civil and preserve the fantasy.”
I suggest, “Since we have to preserve the dream, how about we give each other names? We can’t ruin something that we create for ourselves.”
She loves the idea. “I like. I’ll go first. You are handsome, youthful. Intelligent. I have the perfect one. Your name will be Sebastian.”
“Sebastian? I like. Let’s see. I have watched you for weeks across the lake. You are gorgeous, intriguing. Your name is Lorelei.”
She stands, walks over to the bar and pours two shots. She brings them both back to the sofa. We toast before taking Tequila shots chased with wine, a recipe for a great evening.
“Stand up Sebastian, I have an idea.”
I take a large sip of wine. “What is your idea may I ask?”
Laughing, “You may. Let’s call it artistic curiosity..”
I really am just clay in her hands. Whatever she would have told me to do, I would have blindly followed.
I stand up and take another sip of my wine.
“No, no, not here, you have to go to the middle of the room, where the light is proper.”
I would have walked into the pits of hell if she would have told me. Once again, I obey. I walk to the middle of the room and stand there. She moves to the middle of the sofa, staring at me like a director watching the final cut of her latest masterpiece. Or maybe like a lioness sizing up her prey. I hope it is the latter.
She finishes her glass of wine and places both of her feet on the coffee table about shoulder-width apart. She is wearing nothing underneath her sky blue blouse. I lick my lips while fantasizing about kissing hers.
“Keep your hands at your side.”
She walks around the coffee and stands directly in front of me. She then uses her fingers to draw imaginary lines on my shoulders and chest. She kisses me. Her lips are full and soft. I try to put my hands on her waist.
She playfully whispers, “No, no, no, remember, keep your hands at your side.”
Her fingers make their way from my chest down to my abdomen and then down to my throbbing dick. “Oh yes,” she says as she caresses the outline of my erection. She circles behind me, still carefully tracing the contours of my body. Once fully behind me she wraps her hands around my waist and begins to remove my shorts and briefs.
I am her newest model, or maybe her latest muse. Comparing the contours and curves of my flesh to the lines and figures in her sketch pad.
She pours herself another glass of wine and then sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of me.
“Come to me. But, don’t walk.”
I am more than eager to appease her.
I kneel and crawl to her. Once I am close enough, she sticks out her leg.
I begin to kiss her feet, they taste like honey. I slowly make my way from her feet up to her legs and next to her thighs. She opens her shirt slightly and uses her index finger to massage her nipples.
I realize now the game we are playing. Her craving isn’t for power or dominance. She wants to know that she is wanted. She wants to know that she is still beautiful and desired. She is erasing doubts and insecurities that age and time have allowed to creep into her mind.
I french kiss her gorgeous voluptuous lips just above her thighs. Savoring every drop of juice that falls from them. I slide her blouse over her head, massaging her stomach and chest with my tongue.
“Lay down on your back,” she tells me.
She sits down on top of my massive erection and slowly rides me. She grabs my hands and places them on her ass. I sit up, kissing and pulling her hair simultaneously. I can feel her grip tighten around my dick.
The pace of her gyrations speeds up. I am completely lost in her. I can still taste her every time I lick my lips. in my mustache, the smell of the evening
And she knows it.
She takes her right hand and tightly grips my neck.
“Open your mouth.” I do. She spits in it.
I pull her hair even harder. She is now grinding my dick at a blistering speed.
I smack her ass, causing her cheeks to jiggle and turn slightly red. The sweat from her forehead drips down onto her chest, I lick it off.
Her eyes widen and thighs tighten. I can feel her toes against my leg curling up. She is reaching her breaking point. The same time I feel the juices from her lips drip down onto my dick, I erupt inside of her.
Afterward, we lay naked on her dock, enjoying the warm summer night. Sipping on glasses of wine and exchanging life stories.
She split her time between her condo in Brooklyn and this lake house. She was widowed at a young age, her husband died in a car accident. He invested in several businesses while alive that grew into extremely successful ventures that afforded her an elegant lifestyle. She did not have any biological children, just the select few fate brought into her life by chance, but was benevolent enough to never remove. Employees, mentees, beneficiaries of her charitable acts, these were her de facto children. She split her time between her condo in Brooklyn and this lake house.
We sat on the dock, feet dangling in the water and talked all night. I fell in love with her precisely at 4:37am, when I learned of her affinity for Jean Claude Van-Damme movies. At 6:15 we decided to abandon the dock and go to bed, just as the first sliver of sunlight was starting to peek over the trees. She invited me inside with her which of course I accepted. We fucked again before sleeping until 2pm. We spent the next three days never leaving each other’s eyesight.
The next week I moved to the other side of the lake permanently.
