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Fiction

The Walk to Water (Part 1)

CONTENT WARNING: Sexually explicit, 18+. All characters are consenting adults.

Arley is outside waiting when XianSheng pulls up for her. 

She has dressed carefully, the day’s activities and XianSheng’s tastes on her mind. Her shorts are shorter than will be comfortable once the day heats up and the sweat of climbing makes thighs grab at each other. It’s a sacrifice she makes not just willingly, but gladly. The continual rub, rub, rub of flesh on flesh, spanning the hours of the climb, will introduce an element of pain beyond the soreness of muscle, closer to her center than the blister that may form at the back of an ankle.

She’d go for a tee-shirt for any other day out on the trail, but she’d rather not test XianSheng’s benevolence. He’s already allowing her to wear flat shoes– a first, but non-negotiable today. They have plans for today that they don’t want to miss out on, sitting in the ER waiting on care for an ankle sprain. Hiking boots, he’d agreed, were a necessity. “But you’ll make up for it elsewhere, won’t you, little girl?” he’d asked, more of a warning than a question, and she’d agreed without hesitation. 

So there she stands, the sun already growing hot at its low angle, in shorts that more resemble a pair of denim panties and a lace-trimmed camisole, her freckled shoulders and the tops of her tits coated in two layers of sunblock. Waiting, with her ID crammed into her tiny back pocket and two full canteens of water, one in each hand. 

He pulls up and she slides in, the fabric seats, the dusty buildup in the center console familiar. He drives a Toyota even though he could afford something flashier. But XianSheng is not given to flash. He moves unassuming, and for good reason. There is a wife back home, a woman he loves too much to expose her to the darkest ruminations of his need. There are two children who are no longer children, but are nevertheless at home and will expect their father around six o’clock for dinner. In all his years of creeping at the corners of the nearby city, of adding a day onto the back end of every business trip, he has never let them down. 

Arley slides a hand over XianSheng’s knee as she leans over for a kiss.

“Good morning,” she murmurs into his neck in a voice still full of sleepy gravel. “Thanks for coming to get me.” She settles back into her seat as he shifts into gear and pulls off from the curb. He’s quiet today, she notices, returning her greetings with a stiffness that she’s never felt from him before. Their dates usually begin with him pulling her against him the moment the hotel room door closes behind her, his kisses hungry, his cock already standing firm to greet her. Maybe it’s the absence of those walls that normally contain them. It’s been a year, true, but this is their first time venturing together out into the open world. She looks over at his lap and confirms that, no, he isn’t hard. Today is going to be different, in more ways than one. 

The man has a name, surely. But the fake name that he gave her was gaudy and Western, a poor fit. She couldn’t call him “Hugh” and keep her face straight. Instead, she’s used the honorific since before they spoke out loud to one another, the deference of it ushering them both into the first toe-dips of what would grow into a clear dynamic, a power exchange. It was perfect, crystal clear over text, but in person she pronounces it so poorly that half the time it translates to “rope” or “braided cord”. Not inappropriate, considering. If her butchering the Mandarin bothers him he shows no sign, indulging her with a smile as he corrects her, explaining again that he is not the rope and would she please present her wrists so that he may remind her of the difference?

Arley knows the man beside her in ways that are invisible to everyone else who knows him, his desires a dance that she rehearses, countless images of his secrets tucked away in her PC. But in this one way, she is even more of a stranger to him than are his lab mates, his overseas collaborators, fellow members of his HOA. Arley will never know his name. 

She doesn’t mind it, the contortions of their strange intimacy. She knows him as he is to her. Her master. Her teacher. Her XianSheng, and that’s enough. 

The pair roll through the last of the narrow one-ways of her Bella Vista neighborhood, having exchanged little more than the perfunctory greetings. He runs a redlight, his hands spasming on the wheel as he realizes his mistake. She castigates herself silently and quickly as a voice from her childhood slips into her head, brothers and their teenage friends with stupid jokes about Asian men and driving. She shakes her head a little to clear the thought, and he looks over. 

“How many bottles so far?” he asks.

She blinks, plunging suddenly back into the jitters of the morning’s preparations. His question cues her attention towards the lower of her belly, the seatbelt pressing against the little bulge beginning to swell above her hips. 

“Two,” she answers, turning to look into his face and meeting his resolute ear instead. 

What hovers between them today that causes her to feel awkward? They have been seeing one another nearly a year, sporadic dates interspersed with heavy bouts of late night texting. They have spent full days together while he is ostensibly at work but is actually in a day-use hotel room two towns over, and they have never run out of conversation. She listens about the parents who are dead and the sisters left behind, the inner workings of mechanical parts he has designed, the taciturn son who was twelve when he took apart the family computer, and he listens to her feminist screeds in between telling her that she’s a pretty little slut, and will be good for her XianSheng, won’t she? 

But today the thirty-minute drive looms ahead of them, and Arley begins to feel sweat sliding between her thighs that has nothing to do with the warm morning. She wants today to be perfect. Like a fantasy, not some stilted litany of forbidden acts. She is suddenly desperate for something to fill her mouth besides talk, so she reaches over and unzips him. Both his hands remain on the wheel as she works hers through his fly and under the waistband of the cotton shorts below, freeing his soft cock for her mouth to take as she bends over him. 

He is utterly silent, eyes committed to the road ahead as he merges on I-95 and accelerates to exactly five miles per hour above the speed limit. His is not the silence of a held-back moan. He is concentrating on the drive, hardening slowly in her mouth, unyielding to the distraction of her working him with her cheeks and tongue. XianSheng is a careful man (his mind forever running through potentialities and how he might explain them to his wife), and road head might not be his thing, but he does not stop her. The submission of the act, at least, must satisfy him, her quiet, determined ministrations to his pleasure. He allows one hand to leave the wheel and brings it to the back of her neck, where he twists gently at the fine strands of strawberry-blonde.

To be continued…

Check back for more of Arley and Xiansheng’s illicit adventure in the days to come! 😘

By Peach Berman

Smutty wordsmith exploring kink, fetish and power dynamic in narrative and verse. Expect characters of many backgrounds, genders, and sexualities with peculiar desires and rich inner lives. Indulge with me in all things sensual and weird.

13 replies on “The Walk to Water (Part 1)”

I’m glad you’re enjoying it! I’m working into some of the less-discussed emotions and motivations that happen during sex, and I’m looking forward to seeing where this one takes me. Fiction is such an adventure, isn’t it? 😇😈

Liked by 2 people

I am, indeed, Yes, fiction is fun, and like writing poetry, I love diving into my own emotions to draw out those subtler feelings and experiences that are part of the human experience. Lovely. Have a great day! ❤

Liked by 2 people

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