The Fruition of their Wildest Fantasies

It doesn't take much to convey the message to Brad—all it takes Sophia is a single, casual phone call. She makes up the excuse that although she'd like to continue their tutorial arrangement, she'd like a change in venue—her house, Saturday evenings when the hustle and bustle have largely died down. She detects a hint of excitement in the way Brad Silverstone says, "Tomorrow Saturday! I'll be there."

If anything, that Saturday is typical—she wakes up to Derek's eggs and bacon. An early riser, Derek also loves to cook and tend the garden, and Sophia often gets praised for marrying such a "perfect husband." Derek is particularly in high spirits, his hands animated as he talks about what a busy day they have ahead of them. He does not mention anything about Brad coming over later—that fact hangs in the air like a presence, yet it remains unacknowledged.

"I might come home really late tonight," Derek says, sipping a steaming mug of brewed coffee. "But I promise this would be the last time my work takes me away from your arms." He smiles; a picture of confidence and contentment. "If all goes well tonight, by next week, you'll find yourself married to a renewed husband."

"I'm quite sure of that." She smiles.

The hours flash by. At around five, just a few minutes after Derek left, there are knocks on the door. Her heart jumps as she opens it. It's their old next-door neighbor Mister Castor, his wrinkled face resembling baked earth. Standing at the threshold, she looks around; no sign of her awaited visitor yet.

"I wonder if you wouldn't mind if I make you one of my emergency respondents," Mr. Castor says, dragging the words out of his seventy-year-old throat. "It's just that I have this new medical alert, and it will beam an emergency message to some of my trusted neighbors just in case something happens to me."

Sophia's heart melts for the old man. "Of course, Mister Castor," she grips his hands. "I won't mind. I'm glad to help."

Then Mister Castor's off to his affairs. The seconds tick by like bombs. The wall clock hits half past five. Then six. Then half past six. Sophia fidgets in the living room, unsure of how to take this all in. Brad should have been here a few hours ago. Maybe something happened. Or maybe he has changed his mind. And the evening's hot and humid; maybe a quick shower, she thinks, to clear her head. But a few minutes in the shower, just as the water rinses away her hastily scrubbed shampoo, the loud knocks on the door jolts her. She hastily towels off her hair and puts on the bathrobe, simultaneously thinking about Mister Castor and Brad Silverstone, thereby giving her a sense of emotional confusion. But when she opens the door certainty falls in its rightful place: it's indeed Brad, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a box in the other, beaming that perfect American smile she has secretly loved all this time.

"You're late," is the first thing she says, putting on that air of authority.

"I'm sorry. Had to take care of a few things." Brad holds up the box. "Your favorite?"

"What's that?"

"Chocolate-covered oysters." Brad flashes the schoolboy grin.

Sophia couldn't help but laugh. "Come on in,"' she says. And only then did she realize she's just wearing a bathrobe. She ushers Brad towards the living room as she runs upstairs to change.

Brad calls after her. "Take your time!"

Sophia does not take more than five minutes and here she is, in a casual dress that flatters and hugs all her curves. The world seems to stop for Brad: he stares at her as she descends the stairs.

"Cat got your tongue?" Sophia laughs. "Let's start."

Sophia sits beside him on the couch, acutely aware that she smells so good that even the asexual Mister Castor next door would want to ravage her. She has read somewhere that horniness makes a woman emit pheromones, and she wonders, between opening the textbook and asking Brad about the last lesson he got before his family's business affairs kept him away from the classroom, if she's emitting them now, activating parts of Brad's brain that manage his animal desires.

"You smell great," Brad actually says, ignoring her question about lessons. "And you look terrific."

She stops and stares at him, yet unwilling to go down from the mentor's pedestal despite all her internal turmoil. "Not even five minutes into this tutorial, and you're dragging me into irrelevance. Is that the game plan, Mister Silverstone?"

The rebuke, however mild, stuns him. "I'm sorry. But I just can't…" His voice trails off. He flips through his notes distractedly, but it seems it's all for show—a stealthy glance and Sophia takes note of the bulge in Brad's pants. It excites her, but she summons all her will to focus on the lessons. But truth be told, this tutorial is an obvious farce—Brad clearly knows his literature and his language. They talk about contemporary literature, for starters, comparing American authors like Cormac McCarthy with the British Ian McEwan. And often, it is Brad who veers away from the formal discussion to share his opinion.

"Like in 'The Cement Garden'," Brad says, his gestures animated, as if he actually cares about all this. "McEwan boldly ventures into taboo territory. It's all bleak and sensual and the desperation climaxes to incest. All these feelings are there in the cauldron, like a pig's dinner: disgust, horror, shock, loneliness, and lust. I have yet to encounter anything like it."

Sophia is just staring at him. The boy could talk. He's articulate. Now here's proof that there's more to him than meets the eye, aside from the gorgeous looks and the immense wealth. She wonders how someone could be so perfect, and how such someone could be sitting here, in her humble living room, sharing with her his most intimate thoughts and feelings. The realization deeply arouses her.

"That's a very good observation, Mister Silverstone," she says, reaching over for the coffee table for what Brad said is a box of chocolate-covered oysters. "Maybe next week you can lead the class in fleshing out some of these modern novels. If you're not so busy." She opens the box with a flick of a thumb and picks up a morsel. "Do you mind if we have a little break?"

"Oh, no. Of course, a break." Brad grabs the wine bottle and stands up and disappears into the kitchen. He materializes with two glasses, the wine already opened. He pours one for Sophia. She first sips the wine, her eyes half-closed, surprised at its delicious, rich sweetness—this is obviously something utterly expensive. When she opens her eyes she discovers Brad is observing her—he's holding his goblet to his lips, entranced.

"Anything wrong with my face?"

Brad wakes up from a dream. "I'm sorry," he says, smiling. He gulps down the wine and refills her goblet. "I missed this a lot."

"What do you mean by this?"

"Studying. I missed studying." Brad laughs. "I'm a passionate student, you know."

"Yeah. I know." Sophia rolls her eyes. "But tell me, Mister Silverstone, what other passions do you have aside from studying?"

"Off the top of my head? Swimming, which you already know."

Sophia finishes off her second goblet of wine, and refills for her third. Something about this wine that makes her crave for more. And it has started kicking in—the walls, in her vision, seem to wobble. She looks at Brad, and in the dim light, she sees his lips full, glistening, tempting…

"And skiing in the French Alps," Brad says, ticking off his fingers one by one. "And trekking across the French countryside."

Sophia, on reflex, stretches out her neck in an effort to shake off the dizziness. "This was a tiring day," she mumbles. "I was even thinking of cancelling this tutorial—"

"And massage," Brad beams. "Haven't I told you I'm great in giving massages? Shiatsu, Swedish, you name it."

"You're kidding," she says, disbelief sitting on her face. "You, Brad Silverstone, heir of a business empire that spans the globe, know how to give a massage? You're only eighteen, for fuck's sake."

"Fuck," Brad says, laughing. "Yes, I know, pardon your French."

"Where and when did you learn all that?"

"Thailand," he says, matter-of-factly. "During my fourteenth summer. My father actually forced me to learn that. He said it will help me connect with others in a primal way, anticipate their moods, understand what makes them tick."

"I never thought of massage in that way."

"Well, it's actually true. I can demonstrate some proof, if you want?"

"How do you mean?"

"Let me give you a massage. You were stretching out your neck a while back. I'll give you a slow one to help you regain your bearings—and then we can continue with the tutorial."

"Hmmm," Sophia's mind is on over-drive. He's laying his hands on me. There's something reckless about saying yes to this offer, something that tells her she's entering the there's-no-turning-back zone, yet she says, "How do we do it? Should I sit here, on the couch?"

Brad looks around, deciding on the best place to perform the massage. He theatrically taps his forehead. "Silly me. Why not on this couch? You can lie here, face down. This feels comfortable enough, anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Do you have some mineral oil, or anything?"

"Wait." Sophia disappears upstairs and later comes down with a bottle of oil.

Brad reads off the bottle. "EZ Lubricant. Hey, this is a—"

"Doesn't matter," Sophia laughs, arranging herself on the couch. "That should do the job."

Brad shrugs.

"No monkey business, alright?"

Brad laughs. "Yes, boss." He flips open the bottle and pours some on his palm. He carefully rubs his hands together, a serious expression on his face, as if he's been asked to perform some delicate surgery. He tentatively tugs at the edge of Sophia's top. "Can I roll this up? I need access to the, uhh, your bare back."

"Sure," Sophia says.

He fumbles with her top and realizes her bra gets in the way. He tries to do his "magic" first on her shoulders, but the fabric of her top—soft as gossamer, but still a hindrance—cramps his style. After a while, sensing it, Sophia wordlessly pulls up her top, unhooks her bra and tosses it to a corner—all without unnecessarily exposing her bare breasts to Brad.

"Is everything you need to access accessible now?" Sophia addresses the couch's cushion. Behind her, she hears a faint whimper that sounds like "Yes," and soon she feels his hands start kneading her flesh—hesitant at first, but quickly gaining confidence. Brad's hands are surprisingly deft—with each stroke, with each brush of his oiled hand against her soft curves, Sophia knows are steps further into vastly uncharted territory. What happens in that great beyond? Outside, the late afternoon slowly slips into darkness. What would Derek think if he appears and find them in this situation? Ah, but she's bone tired—all this thinking, this over-analyzing, why not just let it all go, let Brad take the reins? And as if reading her mind, Brad's hands seem to gain a renewed surety. He's muttering, "You've got a lot of tension here," rubbing down her shoulder blades, then making a firm sweep of his palm downward, all the way down her back, briefly touching her butt crack, then a sweep upwards again, then down, and Brad's caressing, kneading, expertly massaging her buttocks.

She could sleep. But there's a delicious sensation that tugs her awake—a growing sense of warmth between her thighs, a wetness that she knows Brad will soon notice. Just now, she lets out a soft moan—she hears it as if she were outside her own body, observing herself succumb to this moment.

Brad is now kneading her upper thighs. She's wearing one of those soft cotton shorts, and each time Brad's hands unintentionally (or is it intentional?) touches that area very near her pussy, Sophia couldn't help but hold her breath. If someone turns on the light, her wetness—soaking through her shorts' fabric—can be plainly seen. But Brad seems unaware of her internal struggle—or perhaps, he is in the middle of a raging storm, too? And what about Derek? What happens if he suddenly shows up? But what did he mean exactly by "influencing Brad"?

Even as she debates with herself, Brad continues paying complete attention to her thigh muscles. Slowly, his hands deftly make their way down her legs, her ankles, her feet. He fists her soles, kneading the arc expertly, grunting softly from the effort as he does so. Sophia's delirious with pleasure—she didn't even know her body has these aches and pains that she's tactilely discovering only now.

Brad's hands negotiate their way from her feet, upwards. His hands again massage her upper thighs, but this time, they seem to linger longer near her crotch, rotating, pressing, kneading... And then, finally, it happens: his hand grazes her pubic area almost accidentally. His hands sweep down her thighs, only to make an upward sweep to graze her pussy again. She's sure now that he knows she's wet—there's no way you'd touch that flimsy fabric covering her shaved pussy without sensing its sheer wetness. She lets out a soft moan the next time she feels his hands grazing her crotch. She hears Brad's deep sigh as she buries her face in the couch, unwilling to face the overpowering desire of her body.

Encouraged, Brad drops all pretenses: he's actually feeling her wet slit with his fingers now, gently, probing for her clit. He slips a hand in her panties and feels her slippery baldness in all its glory, her wonderful warmth, that deep, juicy wetness.

And the amazing thing: Sophia lets him.

She lets out a whimper at first. But as Brad so deftly uses his magic fingers to his advantage, Sophia's lusty moans increase in intensity. She's clawing at the couch now, digging her fingernails into the cushion, whispering, "Oh, fuck, oh, fuck…"

When Brad slowly pulls down her shorts and panties, Sophia doesn't resist. When he asks her to turn and face him and see his raging erection, she doesn't resist. When he motions for her to suck his cock, she obliges like a tame kitten. When he spreads her legs and penetrates her, she doesn't resist. When he starts fucking her, she bites her lip and calls out her husband's name in vain. When he comes inside her, she begs for more.

A moment ago, when they changed positions, Sophia thought she's drunk enough to not notice, but she did notice: as Brad doggie-fucks her with that youthful intensity that only a buffed eighteen-year-old boy can, she sees something—or someone—in the corner of her eye. A shadow by the window. A man watching. Could it be Derek? Sudden panic clutches her throat. She should stop this, throw Brad out, swear by everything that's good and holy that she didn't want this to happen, that she loves Derek—but Brad's too deep inside her now, and there's no way she will stop this beautiful boy from making her own fantasies come true. Instead, she closes her eyes and convinces herself that it's only an illusion, that the man by the window isn't actually there. But when Brad asks her to lie on her back "because I would love to fuck Miss Masterson like a lady," she discovers he's still there. A passing car briefly illuminates the window area, and there, his face indescribable, is Derek watching some boy fuck his wife. Yet, she could not stop. She's nearing orgasm, and Brad is, too.

"I'm coming," Brad whispers in those micro-moments she's not sucking his tongue. "I'm coming…"

"Cum inside," she moans. "Fill me up, baby."

She can actually hear the wetness of her pussy and the way Brad's penis pummels into it, now grinding, now maddening, quickly bringing them into the white blinding light of sheer animal orgasm.

Not ten minutes and Brad wants to fuck her again. And like a hungry kitten, she eagerly obliges.