16) The Weight we Share

16) The Weight we Share.

The tabletop fountain gurgles, it is a soft, rhythmic pulse like a stone dropping or skipping into still water, over and over.

Lavender oil hangs in the air, thin enough to notice, but faint enough to ignore.

The office has two plush armchairs facing a third across a low oak table, its surface scattered with a box of tissues, a tray of ceramic mugs, and a small card printed with the words 'Serenity Haven Counselling Centre' in serif type.

The walls wear a colour somewhere between green and grey, the shade of lichen on a winter wall. It is a colour that is non-threatening and supposedly comforting.

Behind the therapist's chair, a bookshelf sags under the weight of books titles and subtitles

Titles like 'Holding Patterns, When Love Stays, The Reattachment, and Theory of Grief.'

Megan and I are both here because our respective mothers Anne and Elizabeth thought we could get something out a pre marriage counselling session.

I have finished work early and picked Megan up on the way. We spoke quite freely as we both believe that our relationship has no issue or kinks that need to be ironed out.

I sit in the left armchair, my back straight, my black suit jacket pulling across my shoulders. I have folded my right ankle over my left knee, a posture that suggests ease, though my hands, clasped in my lap, thumbs pressing against each other, tell a different story.

My white shirt is crisp, the black tie knotted tight against my throat.

My blonde hair, slicked back and still damp from an unexpected afternoon rain shower, catches the overhead light. A faint scent of sandalwood cologne clings to my collar, mixing with the lavender until the two become something new something that smells like a man trying to present my best version of himself in a room designed to strip that version away.

Beside me, Megan sits with her cane folded and tucked between her hip and the armrest.

Her black glasses cover the upper third of her face, the lenses dark and slightly curved.

Her red hair is gathered in loose waves at the back of her skull by a gold alligator clip catches the same overhead light, but whereas my hair looks polished, hers looks alive, strands escaping the clip and curling against her neck and temples.

Her light pink blouse is buttoned to the throat. Except for one button the uppermost. She is trying to look respectable, but I know differently. She may look respectable but I know differently when she is the mood she is wanton slut. But here she looks all respectable, decent butter wouldn't melt in her mouth like.

Her left hand rests on her knee, fingers tracing the face of her gold watch no glass, just exposed hands she can read it by touch.

Her right hand finds my left and settles there, her thumb moving once across my knuckles before going still.

Megan is quiet and confident, I am more anxious. Anxious about what is anyone's guess.

The therapist, a Dr. Elena Martinez sits across from us in the third chair.

She is a woman in her early fifties, her dark hair shot through with silver, her face carrying the kind of calm that comes from hearing other people's worst stories for twenty years.

She looks possibly Latin or something Mediterranean. Looking like a nerdy, Latin mother

Black framed glasses sit on her nose, she wear a black business suit with black trousers and a white blouse. Giving someone she could be anything from a psychologist to a lawyer to a high school teacher or librarian.

A pen rests in her fingers, uncapped, the nib poised over a blank legal pad. She has asked no questions yet. We have just all introduced each other.

She lets the fountain speak.

After a long pause long enough that the lavender seems to settle deeper into the room.

Dr. Martinez uncrosses her legs and leans forward.

"So," she says. Her voice carries the texture of someone who has spent years making it soft enough to invite confessions. I was a detective I know how it starts, how they try to get something out of you. For some reason I am not only anxious but guarded.

"Let's start with something simple. What brought you together?" Elena asks.

My thumbs press harder against each other. My jaw shifts not a clench, just a redistribution of pressure.

I look at Megan, then at the therapist, then at the bookshelf behind her as though searching for a title that might offer the right words.

"I think," I say, then I pause, I swallow I look around at Megan at the therapist, then at Megan again. Before I start again.

"It depends on what you mean by 'together.' If you mean sitting in this room today she agreed to marry me. If you mean the first time I looked at her and thought." I continue and then stop. My thumbs separate.

"That, That's a longer answer." I say after swallowing.

Megan's chin lifts. Her lips part, then close. Her fingers curl against my knuckle, release, curl again.

"The first answer is fine," Dr. Martinez says.

She does not smile, but her face holds a warmth that functions the same way.

"Start wherever feels right." Dr Martinez continues.

I exhale through my nose. My chest drops under the white shirt.

"Right. Well. I own a taxi. White Skoda Superb. I drive it myself most days I'm between things, career-wise. I did landscaping for a while. Before that, I was a Cop. Before that, I was a nurse." I explain. I pause. My throat moves.

"The taxi is what it is. It pays the bills. It gets me out of the house. Keeps me sane." I say and have a half laugh.

Dr. Martinez writes something on the legal pad two words, maybe three and looks up.

"And Megan was a passenger?" Dr Martinez asks.

"She was a passenger," I confirm

I turn my head toward Megan, studying the side of her face as though checking whether she wants to take the thread. She doesn't. Her thumb has stopped moving on my knuckle. She waits.

"But not the way people think," I add. I almost smile a twitch at the left corner of my mouth, there and gone.

"It was raining. Not just raining. It was the kind of rain that comes out of nowhere in late summer, the kind that turns the gutters into rivers and makes the windscreen useless. I was driving home from a job out in Henderson. I was coming down Mount Albert Road. And I saw her." I explain. Again, I stop. My hands separate. I lay them flat on my thighs, palms down, fingers spread, as though I'm steadying something. Before I continue.

"She was walking," I say.

"Walking down the footpath in the middle of, of it was biblical rain, honestly. Sheets of it. You couldn't see two car lengths ahead. And she was just walking. Soaked. Her blouse it was a different one, but same sort of thing, pink it was plastered to her. Her hair was stuck to her face. She had the cane. She was navigating by feel, by memory, by whatever it is that she does. And she wasn't running. She wasn't panicking. She was just walking. Like the rain was an inconvenience, not a catastrophe." I explain to the Doctor and Megan. Knowing full well Megan can't run. Well she can just like anyone else she has no mobility problems. But running when you have a cane and/ or counting steps can be a bit difficult.

My voice has dropped not in volume but in register, the way a man's voice drops when he stops performing and starts speaking from the part of himself that doesn't perform. Dr. Martinez's pen stops moving Dr Martinez looks at me, Megans squeezes my palm. It is a long pregnant pause.

"I pulled over, I got out. Walked up behind her. She didn't hear me at first the rain was too loud. I said something I can't remember what. Probably something stupid like 'you're getting wet.' And she turned, and she said what did you say, Meg?" I explain.

Megan's lips curve. It is a small movement, private, the kind of smile that belongs to a memory being relived from the inside.

"I said, 'Thank you for the observation, I was wondering what was happening to my clothing." Megan explains with a small giggle.

I let out a breath that is almost a laugh. As I remember the somewhat sarcastic reply she gave me.

"That's her. That's exactly her. So I offered her a ride. She asked how much. I said nothing I was going home anyway, which was a lie, I lived in the opposite direction, but she couldn't exactly check the route. She got in. I drove her to her place. She offered me money at the end and I refused. She said, 'Then I'll owe you.' And I said, 'Then you'll owe me.' And that was it." I say as I explain and recount our very, very first meeting.

Then I stop. My jaw works. The fountain gurgles. Somewhere beyond the closed door, a kettle clicks off in another room.

"I drove home the long way," I say, quieter now.

"And when I got there I sat in the car outside my house for I don't know, maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Maybe longer. And I thought I thought that might be her. That might be the one. A little while latera retiring driver in the fleet gave me one of her regulars to look after as she was retiring. Turns out it was Megan. And the rest as the saying goes is history." I explain as my right hand lifts from my thigh and rubs the bridge of my nose.

Dr. Martinez lets the silence hold for three seconds, then four, then five. She writes on the pad. She looks at Megan.

"Megan, would you like to add anything to that?" Dr Martinez asks.

Megan's head turns toward the therapist. The black glasses face her directly, the lenses reflecting the soft blue-green of the walls.

"He's right about the rain," Megan says.

"I remember the sound of it. On the pavement, on the bins, on the awnings. It was so loud I couldn't hear the traffic, which is how I navigate I use the sound of cars to map the street. Everything went quiet except the water. And then a voice came through it." Megan explains.

Her fingers find the gold bracelet on her right wrist and turn it once, twice.

"I didn't trust him. Not at first. You don't get in a stranger's car in the rain when you can't see But he said something I don't remember what, exactly and my voice was " She pauses. Her hand stops on the bracelet.

"His voice was the kind you believe. Not because it's smooth. Because it doesn't try to be smooth. It just says what it says and lets you decide. Also he asked me to feel his face, which I did. And that first feel it's like a first glance for sighted people, I knew he could be trusted, the tone of his voice and the feel of his face told me I was safe with him." Megan explains further.

"And from there, the relationship developed?" Dr. Martinez nods.

"Regular cab rides," Megan says. Before swallowing and continuing.

"I needed transport for work I'm a transcriber, I work from home mostly, but I have meetings, deliveries, errands. He became my driver. Then he became my friend. Then he became " Her hand finds mine again. Her fingers slot between mine. She turns and looks at me just like a sighted woman would do.

"Then he became something else." Megan says emotionally. Almost starting to well up.

Dr. Martinez sets the pen down. She folds her hands in her lap. She clears her throat.

"I'd like to try something, if you're both willing. I want to ask each of you a question, and I'd like you to answer honestly, without consulting each other first. Is that all right?" The Doctor says.

I nod. Megan tilts her head a listening gesture, her ear angled slightly toward the therapist.

"Good lets start with Jon shall we?" Dr Martinez says, leaning forward. So far forward I could see down her top the light olive skin with freckles hiding beneath what appears to be a pink bra with light blue lace accents.

"Jon. Who is your hero?" Dr. Martinez asks me. Her tone is direct, direct and warm.

My knee uncrosses. Both feet plant on the floor. My back straightens further, if that's possible the posture of a man bracing for something. I stare at the tissue box on the table for a long moment. I breathe deeply, then I give a short one word answer.

"Megan." I say.

The name drops into the room and sits there. The fountain gurgles. Megan's hand tightens around mine.

"Megan, she is my hero." I say.

"I know that sounds. But she is. She's blind. She's been blind since she was four. Measles. It took her sight before she could remember having it. And she " I shift forward on the chair.

"She bought her own house. She works full time. She navigates the world using a stick and her ears and her memory, and she does it every single day without, without making it into a thing. A lot of people would take on the attitude Oh, I'm blind poor little me the world owes me. But she doesn't." I explain my voice climbing.

Not in volume but in intensity. The words come faster, pushed by something underneath them. I swallow briefly and continue.

"She doesn't let it define her," I continue.

"She defies it. There's a difference. She's a woman who is blind. She's not a blind person who is a woman. The blindness is second. It's always been second. She puts it second. She wakes up and she's Megan first she's a woman, she's a worker, she's a person who likes roses and drinks tea and has opinions about things and cooks and bakes and makes me sandwiches to eat on the road so I eat healthy and live long with her. And the blindness is just, it's there, yes it is a part of her but it's not the headline. It's not the first sentence. It's not even the second." I say my tone is firm, authoritative as if I am telling somebody something and I mean it. I really mean it.

Dr. Martinez leans forward.

"Can you clarify what you mean by that? The distinction between 'a woman who is blind' and 'a blind person who is a woman'?" Dr Martinez asks me. Her tone gentle but probing.

My hand moves I reach up and tugs at my tie, loosening the knot a fraction.

"It's about what comes first," I say.

"When most people meet Megan when they see the glasses, the cane they see the blindness first. That's the headline. 'Blind woman.' Everything else comes after. Her job, her personality, her everything. It's all filtered through that lens. But Megan doesn't live like that. She doesn't introduce herself that way. She doesn't think of herself that way. She's Megan. She's a woman who happens to be blind. The blindness is something she manages, like a commute or a tax return. It's logistics. It's not her identity." I explain in a serious yet heartfelt way.

My hands are moving now gesturing, shaping the air.

"And that's. Do you know how hard that is? Do you know what that takes? Every single day, the world treats her like the blindness is the whole story. People talk louder. People grab her arm without asking. People speak to whoever's standing next to her instead of to her. And she just, she navigates it. She corrects them. She keeps going. She bought a house by herself. She lives alone. Well lived alone. She works. She pays her bills. She has a life that is full and complete and hers, and the blindness is just, it's just in the background it's not the front and centre." I explain. I drop my hands. My chest rises and falls once, heavily. The sandalwood cologne has warmed against my skin and the room smells like cedar and rain and something underneath both.

"That's a hero. That's what a hero is. Someone who does the hard thing every day and doesn't ask for credit. Or sympathy " I explain.

Megan's chin is trembling. It is a small movement a vibration in the muscle beneath her lower lip, the kind of tremor that precedes tears but hasn't committed to them yet. Her black glasses are pointed at the bookshelf. Her hand in mine is very still.

Dr. Martinez looks at Megan.

"Megan," she says gently.

"Same question. Who is your hero?" Dr Martinez asks.

Megan's throat moves. She swallows once. Her hand in mine tightens.

Her free hand rises to her face, touches the edge of her glasses, adjusts them a fraction a gesture that is more about buying time than correcting anything.

"Jon," she says. Looking across at me.

The word comes out rough. She clears her throat.

"He was a police officer," she says.

"Before the taxi. He was a cop. I understand a good one, good at what he did. And he was married. His wife's name was Jenny." Megan says calmly.

I sit beside her, my posture changes. I go rigid.

Not dramatically I don't flinch, don't pull back. But my spine, which had been leaning forward with the momentum of my answer, settles against the back of the chair.

My hands return to my lap. My thumbs find each other again.

"Jenny was also a police officer," Megan continues. Her voice is steady in the way that things are steady right before they aren't.

"They were together married and one night, during a call, she was " Her voice catches. Not a crack. A catch, like a thread snagging on a nail.

"She was killed. She was shot. Jon was there. He watched it happen." Megan says. Stopping.

The fountain gurgles. The lavender sits in the air. My jaw is tight, the muscles along the hinge visible beneath my clean-shaven skin. My blue eyes fix on a point somewhere beyond the wall.

"And he," Megan's hand tightens around mine.

"He lost her. He lost my wife. He lost his career, eventually. He lost the person he was supposed to spend his life with, and he was standing next to her when it happened. And he, he survived it. He got through it. He rebuilt himself. He became a businessman he runs his own operation, the taxi, he is thinking of buying another one and put a driver in it, before that the landscaping, he works for himself. He found a way to keep going. And then he found me." Megan says.

She turns toward me. The black glasses face me directly. She takes them off and places them on the table. I can see the tear welling at the corners of her eyes. The opaque whiteness covered in a thin layer of tears. I go to try to comfort her, but something stops me.

"He found me in the rain. And he didn't, he didn't treat me like a charity case. He didn't treat me like a story. He just, he drove me home. And he came back. He kept coming back. And eventually, eventually he became the person I, I, I love." Megan says slightly up.

She stops. Her free hand rises to her face again. This time her fingers press against the bridge of her nose, and at the inner corner of her left eye, a tear escapes. It traces a line down her cheek, following the curve of her cheekbone, and hangs at the edge of her jaw.

Dr. Martinez is quiet. She lets the moment sit. Then she looks at me.

"Jon, Would you like to talk about Jenny?" she says

My thumbs press together so hard the knuckles go white. I don't know if it is anger or something else but the good Doctor has definitely pressed my button.

The room is very quiet even the fountain seems to have dimmed, though it hasn't, it's just that everything else has stopped.

I take a sigh and then start.

"It was a Friday," I say. My voice is flat. Not cold flat, the way a road is flat after rain, everything laid out and visible.

"November. The thirteenth. I remember because Tom well, Sergeant O'Malley he always said Friday the thirteenth was a load of rubbish. Superstitious nonsense. He said that every Friday the thirteenth, and then that one " My jaw shifts, clenches.

"That one proved him wrong." I say.

I uncross my hands and lay them palms-down on my thighs again. The gesture looks like a man bracing against a deck.

"We got a call, we weren't partners. I was a detective and she was in uniform. But we had met for a drink and a muffin at a café." I say.

"Robbery in progress, shop nearby. We were some of the closest available. Jenny and I ran to the scene. It was quicker. Three perps came out. One surrendered straight away. I cuffed him, the other unit had two uniforms in it. The second perp had a fistfight and the third approached Jenny. And when Jenny asked him to stop. He laughed. I was coming up on them both from the side. I could see the perp pull something out. He called Jenny a bitch, a hot bitch but a bitch. He then shot Jenny with a sawn off shotgun. It was only about twenty meters away. Everything stopped. He started to run, Jenny put her hand over her wound, she was bleeding out. Not much left after you take a sawn off to the guts. She fell backwards and I caught her. She died quickly in my arms. I spoke to her, She said her last words and passed. She died in my arms." I explain as my tears start to flow.

My eyes haven't moved from that point beyond the wall. They are blue and dry and fixed. I sniff loudly.

"Jenny went in first. She always went in first. She was -- she was braver than me. She was braver than anyone I've ever." I say my voice breaking.

My voice stops. My throat moves. I swallow. And I start again.

"He fired. Jenny was three steps ahead of me. Three steps. That's, that's the distance. Three steps. And she went down." I say.

The tear on Megan's cheek has dried. Another hasn't come. She sits perfectly still, her face angled toward me, her hand around mine and she listens with her whole body. This is the first time I have explained the actual details of Jenny's death to anyone, and I mean anyone.

"I got to her," I say.

"I got to her and I, there was, I had my hands on her and I could feel " I stop.

My jaw locks. A muscle in my cheek twitches, once, twice, three times.

"She was gone. Before the ambulance came. Before anything. She was gone. I was kneeling on the footpath with my wife's blood on my hands and she was gone." I say in a broken voice.

Dr. Martinez's pen is still. Her legal pad has one word written on it, repeated twice, underlined once. She doesn't look at it.

"The grief," I say. My voice has dropped to something barely above the fountain.

"The grief was, was, I don't have words for it. I don't. I've tried. I've tried with the counsellors they sent me to after the department made me go, mandatory sessions and I sat in rooms like this one and I said the right things and I used the right words and none of it was, none of it was real. It was performance. I was performing grief for people who needed to tick a box so I could go back to work." I explain.

I turn my head and look at Megan. My eyes are still dry, but the skin around them has changed -- tighter, redder, as though something behind them is pressing outward.

"This is the first time," I say. And then pause.

"This is the first time I've downloaded. That's what Tom calls it. Downloading. When you finally, when you stop performing and you just say it. To someone who." I say and look at Megan.

"To someone who matters." I confess.

Megan's hand leaves mine and finds my face. Her fingers cup my jaw, her thumb resting against the hinge where the muscle is jumping. She holds me there.

She can't see me, but she is looking at me with every other sense she has the warmth of my skin, the tension in my jaw, the faint vibration of the muscle beneath my cheek, the scent of sandalwood and sweat and the clean cotton of my shirt.

"I know, I know " Megan says.

Dr. Martinez reaches for the tissue box. She doesn't offer it, just sets it on the edge of the table, closer to us. It's an availability, not an instruction.

My hand comes up and covers Megan's on my face. My fingers fold over hers. I hold her hand there against my jaw and my eyes close. My chest rises. Falls. Rises again. When my eyes open, they are wet.

"After Jenny, I left the force. I Couldn't, I couldn't go back. Couldn't drive that area Couldn't wear the uniform. I did landscaping for a bit dug holes, planted things, built walls. Manual labour. The kind of work where your body hurts so much at the end of the day that your mind can't get room to, to do what it does. And then I got the taxi. And I drove. And I was, I was lonely. That's a small word for a large thing. I was, the house was empty. The bed was empty. The mornings were empty. I'd wake up and reach for, for the shape of someone who wasn't there. Every morning. For nearly two years. And then " I explain as I turn back to Dr. Martinez.

"And then I met Megan. In the rain. And something " I say and my hand tightens around Megan's. "Something shifted. Not immediately. Not in some cinematic moment where the music swells. It was slow. It was she got in the car and she was sharp and she was funny and she didn't need me. She didn't need me, and that was, that was the thing. Everyone else I'd met since Jenny they wanted something. They wanted saving or they wanted fixing or they wanted the story of the widower, the tragic backstory, the man who lost his wife. Yes it made national News, but they wanted the scoop. And Megan she just wanted a ride home. That was it. She wanted to get out of the rain." I say as I my eyes well up.

My voice cracks. Not dramatically a hairline fracture, the kind you hear in a glass right before it breaks.

"And I thought it might be her. She might be the one. Not because she's blind. Not because she's Ginger or so on, not because of any of the things people would list. Because she's Megan. Because she walked through a storm and she wasn't afraid. Because she got in a stranger's car and she was funnier than anyone I'd met in two years. Because she didn't need me, and I needed, I needed someone who didn't need me. I needed someone who chose me. Not because I was saving them. Or because they wanted something from me. Because they, because she wanted to." I explain finding words hard.

The room holds still. The fountain has become background, the lavender invisible, the books on the shelf just shapes and colours. Dr. Martinez's pen rests on the pad. She hasn't written anything for a long time.

"Oh, And there's something else," I say. My voice is rough now, like sandpaper on soft wood.

"Megan met my mother. Elizabeth." I say the name the way a man says the name of a building that once collapsed on him. I say the name with a certain amount of dread, or perhaps caution at the least.

"My mother is, um she's um, she's difficult. That's the polite version. She's terrifying. She's the kind of woman who makes people sit up straighter and check their grammar. When I brought Megan home, Elizabeth sat at the head of the table and she tested her. She tested Megan the way she tests everyone. With words, with silence, with looks that, Ah and Megan can't see the looks. Which is probably why she survived." I explain. I almost laugh. But It comes out as a breath, not a laugh.

"Megan sat there and she handled Elizabeth. She handled her. My mother said something I won't repeat it, it was about the blindness, about whether I'd thought about the 'Practicalities 'and Megan said, 'Elizabeth, I manage a household, a career, and a tax return. I'm fairly confident I can manage your son.' And my mother, my mother laughed. She actually laughed. I'd never heard her laugh at something someone else said. And after that, she was different. She was not warm, she's never warm, but she accepted. She accepted Megan. Accepted her for who she is, not what she is." I explain with warmth, As I turn and look at Megan.

"And that Dr Martinez, That's bravery. That's sitting at a table with a woman who could freeze hot soup and holding your ground. That's heroic. Knowing that your life is not get any better and making the most of it and living life to the fullest every day. Of knowing that people will automatically judge you, base their opinion of you on what you can't do, not what you can do. Judging and making assumptions based on what they can see. Not on what is underneath. And having the balls to challenge their opinions and stereotypes. And dear god I love her. Plus, Oh god I have to say it. Excuse me Doctor. Megan has a killer body underneath and to quote my mother she gives me hell in bed. And I love her. I love her more than anything." I explain my voice rising as I download everything. I turn and look at Megan and she is looking at me. We are holding hands.

Megan's lower lip is trembling. Not the controlled tremor from before this is visible, apparent, a continuous vibration.

Her hand is still on my jaw. She is crying. The tears come and run down her face in two parallel lines, one on each cheek, following the same path, dripping off her jaw onto the pink cotton of her blouse. She doesn't wipe them. She doesn't move to wipe them. Her hand stays on my face.

Dr. Martinez takes a tissue from the box. She holds it out. I take it.

I don't use it on myself I press it gently onto Megan's cheeks wiping the tears away, my first thought is for Megan, all tears and running mascara. Then I take a second and third tissue and press them into her free hand. Her fingers close around it. She holds it but doesn't lift it to her face.

"I didn't " Megan says her voice breaks. She stops. Breathes. The breath shudders on the way in.

"I didn't know you, all of that. I knew about Jenny. I knew, I knew some of the facts. The, The what happened. But I didn't know about the mornings. The reaching. I didn't know you, you. " Megan says her sentence punctuated with tears and sobbing gasps.

"I didn't tell you," I reply. My own eyes are wet. A tear sits on my lower lash line, balanced, catching the overhead light.

"I didn't tell anyone. I just I carried it. Like a like a stone in a rucksack. You get used to the weight. You forget what it felt like before the weight. And then you sit in a room like this and someone says, 'tell me' and you and it comes out. And you realise the stone was heavier than you thought." I explain equally teary eyed.

I turn to Dr. Martinez. My voice is raw.

"Is this, is this what it's supposed to feel like? The downloading?" I ask.

Dr. Martinez's face is soft. Her own eyes are bright not crying, not quite, but the surface tension of tears held in check by professionalism and twenty years of practice. She nods silently.

"It is, It's exactly what it's supposed to feel like." she says, nodding as she herself reaches for a tissue.

Megan lifts her tissue. She presses it against her cheeks, against the space beneath her glasses where the tears have pooled. She folds it, holds it. Then she turns, not toward the therapist, but toward me and she reaches for me.

Her hands find my shoulders first. Then my chest. Then my face. She pulls me toward her and I come to her. My arms go around her. She folds into me. My chin rests on the top of her head, against the gold alligator clip, against the escaped red curls. Her face presses into my shirt, into the white cotton, into the place where the tie meets the collar. My arms close around her back. My hands spread flat against her shoulder blades. I hold her the way a man holds something he has been afraid of losing, firmly, completely, with the full weight of my arms and chest.

We are both crying. My shoulders shake not violently, but visibly, a rhythmic tremor that moves through my suit jacket and into Megan's body. She holds me tighter. Her fingers grip the back of my shirt, pulling the cotton taut across my back. The cane, dislodged from between her hip and the armrest, clatters to the floor. Neither of us moves to pick it up.

Dr. Martinez sits quietly. She does not speak. She does not write. She reaches for her own tissue and presses it against the corner of her eye. The fountain gurgles. The lavender drifts. The books on the shelf hold their silence.

My hand comes up to the back of Megan's head. My fingers find the clip, the escaped curls, the warm skin of her neck beneath them. I hold her there. My mouth moves against her hair.

"I found you, I found you in the rain." I say. The words are barely audible, as I stroke Megan's hair like she is a cat with my free hand.

Megan pulls back just enough to find my face. Her fingers trace my jaw, my cheekbones, the bridge of my nose, the wet skin beneath my eyes. She maps me the way she maps everything by touch, by texture, by the topography of a face she will never see but knows better than sight ever could. Her thumb passes over my lower lip. I close my eyes.

"You found me, And I found you." she says as she squeezes me into her.

Dr. Martinez sets her pen down on the legal pad. She folds her hands. She watches us both standing, holding, embracing each other, both crying a river.

The fountain gurgles. The lavender sits in the air. And in the quiet room, in the soft blue-green light, two people who have been carrying stones they forgot were heavy hold each other and let the weight, for the first time, be shared.

Megan and myself initially had doubts about this session, but our Mothers Anne and Elizabeth convinced us. Particularly after hearing of Megan's adventure at the park.

But now we have opened up, our relationship is cemented and stronger than ever.

The fountain gurgles. Dr. Martinez folds her hands in her lap, the legal pad resting against her knee. She watches us with that patient, practised stillness.

Megan's fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt. Her breath comes in short, shuddering pulls against my chest. The lavender oil hangs thick in the air, mixing with the salt of dried tears on both our faces. I tighten my grip on the back of her head, my thumb tracing slow circles behind her ear, just below the gold alligator clip.

"Jon." Megan's voice is a wet, cracked thing. She pulls back just enough that she can tilt up toward my face. Her cheeks are blotchy, flushed, still damp.

"Yes?" I reply as I look down at her.

"Take me home." Megan replies.

Her hand drops from my shoulder. Before I can respond, her palm connects with my arse through the suit trousers, then a firm, deliberate smack that rings out in the quiet office. Dr. Martinez's pen clicks.

I let out a breath that's half laugh, half something else entirely. Megan's already reaching for her cane, her fingers finding the handle by muscle memory, tapping it against the floor as she stands. I rise with her, my hand finding the small of her back. My possessive, protective, guiding place. And the warmth of her palm print lingers on my backside.

"Same time next week?" Dr. Martinez asks, her voice carefully neutral.

"We'll call you." Megan answers before I can.

Megan's already moving toward the door, cane sweeping the carpet in front of her. I hurriedly grab my jacket from the armrest and follow.

The corridor outside is fluorescent and clinical after the warm amber of the office. Megan walks ahead of me, her hips swaying with each step, the brown leather belt cinching her jeans at the waist. The light pink blouse stretches across her shoulders as she moves. She doesn't wait for me to open the door at the end of the hall, she pushes through it herself, her cane tapping the concrete of the car park.

I unlock the Skoda with the fob. The indicators flash white in the dusk. Megan's hand finds the passenger door handle before I can reach it, and she slides into the leather seat, folding her cane and setting it between her knees. Megan has walked no, strode here full of purpose.

I walk around the boot, my shoes crunching, and drop into the driver's seat.

The engine turns over with a low diesel rumble. I pull the seatbelt across my chest, click it in, and shift into reverse.

Megan's mouth is on my ear before I've cleared the car park.

Her tongue traces the curve of cartilage, hot and wet, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. The steering jerks slightly. I correct it, checking the mirrors. Her breath is damp against the side of my neck, her lips brushing the sensitive skin just below my earlobe.

"Megan!" I say with purpose.

"Shut up and drive." Megan replies almost defiantly.

Her hand slides across my thigh. Her fingers walk along the fabric of my suit trousers, finding the crease of my inner leg. She squeezes. I'm already half hard, just with her touch the blood rushing south with a speed that makes my head swim. Her thumb drags a slow line along the length of me through the wool.

I pull out onto the main road. The streetlights strobe through the windscreen, orange and white, orange and white. Megan's tongue dips into my ear again, and a shudder runs through my whole body, electric, from my scalp to the base of my spine. She traces the inner whorls, licking, probing, then sucks the lobe between her teeth and bites.

"Fuck." I cry out. The word comes out strangled.

Her fingers find my belt buckle. The metal clinks. She works the prong loose, yanks the leather tongue free, and pops the button of my trousers with her thumb. Her hand is already sliding beneath the waistband of my boxers before I can protest. Her fingers are cool against my heated skin, and when she wraps them around my cock, I grip the wheel so hard the leather creaks.

She pulls me free. The evening air hits my shaft for a moment, and then her fist closes around the base, squeezing, her thumb smearing the bead of precum across the head. She works her hand up the shaft in a slow, twisting pull, and my hips buck off the seat.

"You like that?" Megan breathes huskily into my ear. Her mouth is still at my ear, her lips moving against the skin.

"You like me jerking your fat cock while you drive?" Megan asks huskily, teasingly, saucily.

I can't answer. A truck passes us on the right, its headlights flooding the cabin, and for a moment everything is bright white. Megan doesn't pause. Her hand pumps faster, the wet sound of precum and spit slicking each stroke. She must have licked her palm because there's a warmth, a slickness that wasn't there before.

"Megan, I, I." I stammer trying to speak. She twists her grip on the upstroke, and my cock throbs in her hand. A groan tears out of my chest. I'm doing seventy in a fifty zone. The GPS says we're eight minutes from home. I'm not going to last eight minutes.

Her thumb presses into the frenulum, rubbing circles. My foot eases off the accelerator without my permission. The Skoda slows. Megan's hand is relentless, pumping, squeezing, her palm slick with my precum, the squelch of each stroke filling the cabin alongside the diesel hum.

"I can feel you getting close. I can feel this big fucking dick twitching in my hand. You going to cum for me? Going to cum while I milk you?" Megan huskily says, her teeth graze my earlobe again.

"Jesus, Megan" I say.

Her grip tightens. She speeds up, her fist flying on my cock, the wet slap of skin on skin obscenely loud. My hips are rising to meet her strokes now, fucking her hand, the seatbelt cutting into my shoulder. The streetlights blur. A horn blares somewhere. I don't care.

The orgasm hits me like a punch to the gut. My whole body locks, my foot mashing the brake, and the Skoda lurches. Cum erupts from my cock in thick white ropes, splattering over Megan's knuckles, her wrist, the gold bracelet on her forearm. Spurt after spurt, she keeps pumping, milking every drop, her hand squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that wrings me dry. I'm gasping. The car is stopped I've pulled onto the shoulder without realising. My cock is still twitching in her hand, oversensitive, and she gives it one last slow pull from base to tip, coaxing a final bead of cum from the slit.

Then she lifts her hand to her mouth.

I watch, breathless, as her tongue extends and drags a slow, flat lick across her cum-splattered knuckles. She licks between her fingers, sucking each one clean, her lips smacking. She tilts her hand, letting the pearly strands run toward her wrist, then bends and licks those clean too, her tongue tracing the links of her gold bracelet. She swallows, and I hear it, the gulp, deliberate, loud.

"There." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Now take me home." Megan demands.

I'm still pulsing, still half hard, my cock hanging out of my trousers. I tuck myself back in, fumble with the belt, and pull off the shoulder. My hands are shaking. Three minutes to home. Megan sits back in her seat, a smile on her face, her blind eyes staring at me.

"Jon." Her voice drops. The playfulness drains out of it, replaced by something lower, rawer.

"Yes Meg? I reply.

"When we get inside, I want you to fuck me like a cheap whore." Megan says plainly, simply. It surprises me.

I glance at her. Her hands are folded in her lap, but her thighs are pressed together, and her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths.

"I want you to be rough with me. I want you to treat me like I'm nothing--fuck me hard, fuck me mean, like you hate me. Pull my hair. Use me." She says.

Her tongue runs across her lower lip.

"Can you do that?" Megan asks.

I look at the GPS two minutes away. I don't know what to say. I have never been a rough lover, it isn't in my nature and particularly not with Megan.

"I said, can you do that?" Megan asks again, this time more firmly.

I swallow and answer Megan.

"Yes." I answer.

The driveway materialises. I swing the Skoda in too fast, the suspension lurching, gravel spraying. The headlights wash across the brick facade of the house. I kill the engine.

I'm out of the car before the word has finished leaving my mouth. I round the bonnet, yank her door open. She's barely standing when my hand closes in her hair. My fingers tangle in the wavy red strands, gripping at the root, and I pull. She gasps, her cane clattering to the concrete, her body arching backward. I drag her toward the front door. She stumbles on the step, her brown slip-on shoe catching the concrete edge. I kick the front door open. It bangs against the wall inside.

I am out of the car in two seconds. I round the bonnet, yank the passenger door open, and Megan steps out, her cane in her right hand, her left hand reaching for the familiar geometry of the front path. She takes one step toward the front door.

And then my hand closes in her hair.

My fingers bury themselves in the red waves past the gold alligator clip, past the escaped strands, into the warm tangle at the back of her head. I close my fist. And I pull.

Megan's cane clatters to the concrete path. Her neck arches back, her mouth opening on a gasp that is sharp and high. Her hands fly up and grip my wrist not to pull me away, but to hold me there, her fingers digging into the tendons of my forearm.

I drag her. Not gently each step is a yank, her slip-on boots scraping on the concrete, her body stumbling to keep pace with the hand fisted in her hair. I kick the front door open. The hallway is dark. I don't bother with lights. I pull her down the corridor, past the living room, past the kitchen her feet catching on the edge of the carpet, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and all the while my grip is iron in her hair, pulling her head back so her throat is bared to the dark ceiling.

The bedroom door bangs against the wall. The yellow sheets on the queen bed catch the thin light from the hallway.

I spin her. My free hand finds the front of her blouse the light pink cotton, buttoned to the throat and I pull. The fabric parts. Buttons scatter plinking against the dark carpet, rolling under the bed, one pinging off the bedroom wall. The cotton rips down the centre seam, and Megan's chest heaves in the lolly-pink bra, her DD cups straining the lace.

I momentarily think I spent a good part of my police career working on these cases, well maybe a bit more extreme and Megan my beautiful chosen one wants this?

She opens her mouth to speak and I shove her to her knees.

The carpet is soft under her kneecaps. Her hands come up, reaching, grasping and find my belt. I've already unbuckled it in the hallway. Her fingers find the open zipper and yank my trousers and boxers down past my hips in one rough motion. My cock springs free still half-hard and thickening fast, the shaft dark with blood, the head flushed and thick. She can't see it, but her hands map it, the heat, the weight, the sticky residue of my earlier orgasm still clinging to the head.

"Open your mouth," I say, and my voice is a sound I barely recognise low, scraped raw, vibrating with something that is not grief.

Megan obedientially opens and I shove my cock between her lips. Not gently. Not slowly. The head hits the flat of her tongue and slides over it, hitting the back of her throat, and she gags, a wet, convulsive sound that echoes in the quiet bedroom. Her hands grip my hips, fingers digging into the muscle above my hipbones, and she holds on.

I fuck her mouth. My hand is still in her hair, fist tight, controlling the depth of each thrust. My hips snap forward, once, twice, three times and each time the head of my cock pushes past her soft palate and into the tight grip of her throat. She gags on every stroke, spit flooding her mouth, drool running down her chin and dripping onto the lolly-pink bra. Her eyes stream with water not tears. Her eyes water She makes a sound, glack, glack, glack that is wet and obscene and fills the dark room.

"That's it." I say my voice a growl, my free hand grips her jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge, holding her mouth wide.

"Take it. Cheap fucking whore." I grumble.

Megan's whole body shudders. A moan vibrates around my cock low, desperate and her hands slide from my hips to my arse, pulling me deeper. Her nails dig into the muscle of my cheeks. I pump three more strokes, each one bottoming out in her throat, and then I pull out.

She gasps. A thick string of spit connects her lower lip to the head of his cock, glistening in the thin light. Her chest heaves. The ripped blouse hangs off her shoulders. Her bra is soaked with drool. I pull her to her feet by the hair. Her knees wobble. I yank the ruined blouse off her shoulders and throw it to the floor. My fingers find the clasp of her bra fumbling for a second, then snapping it open, and the lolly-pink lace joins the blouse. Her breasts fall heavy and pale, the nipples already stiff, the areolas the colour of weak tea.

I undo her belt. The brown leather slides free of the loops with a hiss. I unbutton her jeans and shove them down over her hips along with the matching lolly-pink panties the fabric bunching at her thighs, her full ginger bush catching the faint light. She kicks off the slip-on boots and steps free of the jeans and panties, standing naked except for her jewellery the gold watch, the gold bracelet, the gold necklace, the diamond studs, the black glasses, the gold alligator clip barely holding her wrecked hair. I hold her hair with one hand and then slowly, very slowly, I strip. The suit jacket hits the floor. The tie follows. The white shirt and my chest is bare, the hair curling dark against my fair skin, my abdominal muscles clenching as I kick off my boots and shove my trousers off entirely. my cock stands rigid against my stomach, twelve inches of flushed, thick-veined flesh, the head slick with pre-cum and the residue of Megan's spit. My hand never leaves the messy mane of her hair.

Then while have hold of her by her hair I pull her to her feet and I push her onto the bed. The yellow sheets are cool against her bare back. She bounces once, her breasts swaying with the impact, her red hair fanning out across the pillow.

I stand over her on our bed.

"God look at you, you disgusting slut." I sneer at her. And I can swear Megan effects a small ever so small smile.

I climb over her. My knees bracket her hips. My hand finds her hair again, yanking her head to the side, exposing the long line of her throat and my mouth finds the pulse point below her ear. I bite. Not a love-nibble. A bite that leaves marks teeth pressing into the soft skin, tongue lapping at the indentation, the salt of her skin sharp on his taste buds. As I bite her Megan's back arches off the mattress.

"Jon!" Megan cries.

"Shut up." I say as I release her throat and move down. My mouth traces a line down her collarbone, over the swell of her breast, and closes over her left nipple. I suck hard drawing the pale flesh deep into his mouth, his tongue working the stiffened peak in fast circles. My teeth scrape. Megan's hips buck up off the mattress. My free hand finds her right breast and squeezes not caressing, but gripping--the flesh bulging between my fingers, the nipple pressing hard into my palm. I move down. My mouth trails down her stomach tongue dipping into her navel, teeth grazing the soft skin below and then lower. The ginger bush tickles my chin. The scent of her hits me, it is musky, sharp, wet and her thighs are trembling. Whether out of desire, lust, trepidation or fear I don't know.

My mouth opens over her cunt, my tongue plunging between her folds, licking flat and broad from the entrance to her clit in one long stroke. She is drenched her juices coating my chin, my lips, slicking my tongue. I find her clit and suck it into my mouth, nursing it between his lips while his tongue flicks the tip in rapid, hard little motions. Megan screams. The sound bounces off the bedroom walls. Her hands fly to my hair, gripping, pulling, her hips grinding up against his face. Her thighs clamp around my ears and then fall open, then clamp again, she can't decide, her body writhing in lust with each and every lick I give her.

My tongue drives into her hole. I fuck her with it, stiff, pointed, plunging in and out, lapping at the walls of her cunt. The sound is obscene slurp, slurp, slurp her wetness smearing across my cheeks, my chin, my nose. I pull back, and I blow a stream of cool air across her swollen clit, and her whole body jolts like she's been electrocuted.

"I'm going to fuck you now," I say against her thigh, his breath hot on her wet skin.

"Like the cheap whore you asked me to treat you like." I say tauntingly as I pull back from Megan.

"Yes, Yes, Yes." Megan says, her voice is wrecked a sob, a moan, a prayer

I flip her. My hand fists in her hair and wrenches her over, and she goes face-down on the yellow sheets, her arse in the air, her breasts pressed flat against the mattress. The position spreads her open her cunt glistening, the ginger hair matted with wet, the tight pink rosette of her arsehole above. I kneel over her my knees level with hers, her arse staring me at me.

I look down at it. I smile, and then I smack her on the arse. Megan gasps as my right hand slaps her right arse cheek, leaving a pink imprint on her arse.

"Such a pretty pussy, pity it's wasted on a burnt out cheap whore like you." I snarl then I grip her hips with both hands. The head of my cock nudges her entrance. I can feel the heat of her radiating against the tip. I thrusts.

The first stroke buries half my length inside her, her cunt stretches around me, the walls clenching and fluttering, and the sound she makes is not human, it is a long, broken wail that dissolves into a whimper. I pull back until just the head is inside, and then I slam forward again. This time i bottom out my hips cracking against her arse, my cock buried to the root in her slick, tight channel.

"Fuck, Fuck, you're tight " I say as I throw my head back.

I doesn't give her time to adjust. I fuck her, and each thrust into her quivering wet hole is hard, brutal, each thrust snapping my hips forward with a slap of skin on skin that cracks through the bedroom. The bed frame bangs against the wall. The sheets bunch under her knees. Her tits swing with every impact, the pale flesh rippling, her stiff nipples dragging against the cotton.

Megan's fingers claw at the sheets. Her face is pressed sideways into the pillow, her mouth open, drool soaking the cotton of the pillow case.

"Harder." Megan gasps, the word is muffled, half-swallowed.

"Hate me, fuck me like you hate me." Megan cries out, her voice almost begging, pleading.

My hand cracks against her arse. The slap echoes sharp, wet and the skin blooms red in the shape of my palm. She screams into the pillow. Her cunt clenches around me so hard I see stars.

I grab a fistful of her hair with my left hand, yanking her head back, arching her spine, and my right hand grips her hip. I pound into her each thrust driving the breath out of her lungs in a grunt, the wet squelch of her cunt around my cock filling the room. My balls swing forward and slap her clit on every stroke, 'thwack, thwack, thwack' and her thighs are shaking, her whole body vibrating.

"Cheap. Fucking. Whore." I taunt her Each word is a thrust, punctuated by the crack of my hips against her arse.

Megan's cunt spasms. Her back arches further impossibly arched, her breasts lifting off the mattress and she cums. The orgasm rips through her in waves, her cunt clenching and releasing around my cock in rapid pulses, her legs kicking out, her mouth open in a silent scream that finally breaks into a long, keening wail. Her juices flood my shaft, dripping down my balls, soaking the sheets beneath us.

I don't stop. I fuck her through the orgasm each thrust grinding against her convulsing walls and my own climax builds at the base of my spine. My rhythm falters. My thighs tremble. I bury myself deep I push into her deeper than before, the head of my cock kissing her cervix and I cum. The first pulse floods her cunt. I grind forward with each spurt, my cock jerking inside her, my cum mixing with her juices in a hot, slick mess that squeezes out around my shaft and drips down her thighs. I hold myself there buried, pulsing, my forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, until the last aftershock twitches through me. I pant I use my free hand to wipe my sweaty brow and then I pull out. My cock is wet glistening with cum and her's slick, hanging heavy and thick, still half-hard. Megan collapses forward onto the mattress, her breathing ragged, her thighs still trembling. Cum drips from her cunt onto the sheets.

My hand finds her hip. I roll her over, tears and drool streak her cheeks, her red hair a wild tangle around her head. Her chest heaves. Her nipples are still stiff. I'm not done.

My hand slides between her thighs my fingers slick with my own cum, sliding through the mess between her folds. I find her arsehole the tight pink pucker, already wet with the runoff from her cunt and I press. One finger sinks in to the first knuckle. Megan's breath catches. Her thighs clench.

"Every hole," I say, My voice is low and rough and hungry.

"You said every hole." I repeat as I start thrusting my in and out.

"Yes." Megan's voice is barely a whisper. Her hips tilt upward as if in an offering.

"What do you say? I reply teasingly.

"Please." Megan replies almost in a sob as my finger invades her arsehole deeper.

I retrieve the bottle of lubricant from the nightstand drawer. The cap clicks open. The cold gel hits my fingers, and I smear it over the head of my cock stroking myself back to full hardness, the shaft thickening and lengthening under my grip until I am rigid again, the head flushed dark. I press the tip against her arsehole. The ring of muscle resists then yields, opening around the thick head of my cock. Megan's mouth drops open. Her fingers grip the sheets. Her thighs tremble. I push in. Slowly at first the head sinking in, the ring of muscle clenching around the shaft just behind the crown. The lube eases the way, but the stretch is still enormous her arsehole gripping me like a fist, the walls tight and hot and slick.

"Take it. Take all of it." I snarl as my hands grip her thighs, pushing them wider.

I drive forward. Inch by inch, My cock disappears into her arse the walls parting around my girth, the ring of muscle stretching wide. Megan's back arches off the mattress. A sound comes out of her that is half-sob, half-moan, guttural, animal, dragged up from somewhere deep.

"OH FUCK! OH FUCK! OH FUCK!" She cries half sobbing, half begging. I bottom out. My hips press against her arse, my cock buried to the root in her tightest hole. I hold it there letting her feel the stretch, the fullness, the impossible depth and then I pull back and thrust.

The rhythm starts slow. Each thrust is a long, deep stroke pulling almost all the way out, then sinking back in to the hilt. The lube slicks the channel, and the sound is different now, wetter, thicker, ruder it is a deep squelching that echoes through the bedroom. Megan's fingers grip the sheets so hard the fabric tears.

"FASTER!" she gasps.

"HARDER!" She screams.

I give it to her. My hips snap forward the pace turning brutal, each thrust slamming into her arse with a crack that bounces off the walls. The bed frame slams the wall bang, bang, bang and the headboard leaves dents in the plaster. Her tits bounce with every impact, the pale flesh rippling, and her cock stuffed arse grips him so tight the friction burns.

"Cheap fucking arsehole," I growl through clenched teeth.

"Tightest whore's arse I've ever, fuck," I curse.

Megan's hand flies between her legs. Her fingers find her clit rubbing it in frantic circles, the pad of her middle finger grinding against the swollen nub. Her other hand grips her own breast, squeezing hard, pulling the nipple. Her mouth is open, sounds pouring out of her gasps, moans, broken syllables that might be my name.

"JONJONRIGHT THEREDON'T STOPDON'T YOU DARE FUCKING STOP" Megan cries half whimpering half shouting all her words merging into one.

I don't. I fuck her arse with everything I have each thrust driving the breath out of her lungs, the head of my cock plunging deep into her anal channel. The lube is turning to foam around her stretched ring, white and slick, and the sound of our fucking is a symphony of wet, slapping, grinding obscenity. Megan cums again. Her whole body seizes, back arching, thighs clamping around my hips, her arsehole clenching so hard around my cock that I can't move. She screams. The sound cracks in the middle, breaking into sobs. Her cunt gushes clear fluid spurting across her inner thighs, soaking the sheets, dripping down the crack of her arse and pooling around the base of my buried cock.

The clench of her arsehole milks me. I slam forward one final time I bury myself to the root and cum. The second orgasm tears through me my cock jerking inside her, pulse after pulse of hot cum flooding her arse. I grind forward with each spurt, my hips rolling, my hands gripping her thighs so hard the skin goes white under my fingers. I hold himself there until the trembling stops. Then I pull out, slowly, inch by inch and her arsehole gapes for a moment before clenching shut. Cum drips from the loosened ring, sliding down to join the mess on the sheets.

I collapse beside her. My chest heaves. Sweat runs down my temples, and drips from the end of my nose onto the pillow. My cock lies against my thigh softening, slick with lube and cum, twitching with aftershocks.

Megan hasn't moved. She lies on her back, legs spread, her body marked with the evidence of everything I have done to her, bite marks on her throat, handprints on her arse, cum dripping from her cunt and her arse, her hair a wild tangle across the pillow. A smile curves her lips.

"Not yet. One more " Megan says, her voice is a whisper. Hoarse. Wrecked.

I turn my head. I look at her.

"Megan?" I say.

"Three times. You cum three times. I said every hole. You still owe me one." Megan says.

Her hand finds my thigh. Her fingers are trembling. My cock twitches. I watch it this impossible, greedy organ that has already spilled twice tonight stirring against my thigh, thickening at the sound of her wrecked voice asking for more.

"On your knees," I say.

Megan rolls over. Her body shakes with exhaustion, her arms trembling as she pushes herself up onto her hands and knees. Her breasts hang heavy, swaying. Her thighs are slick with cum and lube and her own juices.

I move behind her. My hand wraps around my cock, stroking, pulling, coaxing it back to full hardness. The shaft fills, thickens, rises, veins engorging, the head swelling dark and flushed. It is sore and sensitive and it doesn't care.

"My mouth. I want it in my mouth." Megan says as she moves into a kneel. She licks her lips

I straddle her standing in front of her, my knees on either side of her head. She reaches up, takes my cock in both hands her gold bracelet catching the light and guides it to her mouth. She sucks the head, her tongue swirling, tasting her own cunt and arse on my shaft. I push deeper. She gags but doesn't pull back. I fuck her mouth again slower now, long, deliberate strokes, each one hitting the back of her throat. Somewhere between a blowjob and a mouth fuck.

I'm close. The third orgasm builds slower, deeper, a heavy pressure at the base of my spine. She works her mouth, sucking, her hands pumping the base of my cock in twisting strokes.

"I'm going to." I cry out.

I pull out of her mouth at the last moment. The first rope hits her chin. The second hits her lower lip. The third, weaker, dribbles across her cheek. She opens her mouth, catches the last spurts on her tongue, and swallows. She licks her lips, then takes the head of my cock back in her mouth, sucking the final drops clean.

I collapse beside her. The sheets are soaked sweat, cum, spit, her arousal. The room smells of sex. I'm breathing so hard my chest hurts. My cock lies against my thigh, finally softening. Megan's hand finds my chest, her fingers curling in the hair. We lie in the dark. The ceiling fan clicks overhead. I can hear her breathing slow, the rise and fall of her chest evening out. Her head turns toward me.

"Jon. Thank you." She says, her voice is quiet, barely a whisper. As her fingers trace a path through the hair on my chest.

I turn my head. Her face is a mess mascara tracks, dried cum on her chin and cheek, her lips swollen. And yet she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Thank you?" I say back.

Her hand stills on my chest.

"Thank you for fulfilling a fantasy of mine.". "I've wanted that. For a long time. Someone who'd just, take me like that." Megan admits.

I don't say anything. I reach over, find the gold alligator clip half-dangling from her hair, and remove it gently, setting it on the nightstand. I smooth the tangled red hair away from her face. Her lips curve.

"Jon play me something nice, soft and hold me. Something that has some meaning for you." Megan says and I find a song which is soft and gentle. And has meaning for me.

And I find it. I find two. I press play on my cell phone.

The songs play and to my surprise Megan likes both of them. The songs are, K-Ci and Jojo, All my life and Boyz II Men, I'll make love to you. Two slow jams that hold meaning for me. Megan even suggesting that we play K-Ci and Jojo at the wedding.

We move closer together and cuddle.

I kiss her forehead.

"Are you sure aren't Black?" Megan asks me echoing her teasing from when we went to Rotorua.

"Yes I'm sure. And I'll have back to the counselling centre again tomorrow." I reply back

"Why?" Megan asks running her hand through my chest hair.

"Why? You left your glasses there." I say reminding Megan.

"Thank you love." Megan says and kisses me.

The playlist of slow jams plays for another half an hour and then we fall asleep like that. The sheets tangled around our legs, the dark carpet soft beneath the bed, the house quiet around us. And we sleep.