Niagra

{written in honor of The Hyperion Institute's Seventh Anniversary}



NIAGARA



Dinner goes perfectly.

The most romantic night of your life, you gush, flushed with the ambiance, the view, and maybe too much wine.

More romantic than the last night of our honeymoon, you insist, the luau on the beach on Maui. More romantic than our second anniversary; that restaurant on the 11th Floor of the Eiffel Tower, that time you surprised me by showing up in Paris when I was stuck in meetings and despaired I would miss our special day. Even more romantic than our fifth anniversary; the Russian Tea Room, after Phantom of the Opera, when you spotted Sophia Loren AND Sean Connery having dinner.

Now I know the grape has a hold of you.

But it is spectacular. Even through the three-inch glass we can hear the roar. We feel it beneath our feet, reverberating tremors that climb our legs, searching. It never goes away.

It's late. We are the last ones left, bill paid, lingering over that last glass of wine. No one notices me pull you into a side doorway and up onto the roof. The restaurant overlooks the Falls almost directly and up here the roar is deafening until you get used to it. The main lights have been turned off now, and only the moon illumines the water, crystal faeries dancing delightedly through the ever-present mist. You stop to look at your dress in the moonlight, as if not able to believe your good fortune. I was never one for high fashion, and you were astounded when I suddenly knew Couture names like Elsie Katz and Alberta Ferretti.

When I presented you with the Monique Lhuillier dress--no, Creation, you insist--I thought you would faint dead away. Even I have to admit it is absolutely gorgeous.

You say to call it a black dress would be an insult, which amused me, but for the price I paid I have to agree. Strapless, it shows your tapered neck and shoulders quite beautifully. And, I don't mind adding, your spectacular breasts. I picked the design because I know you actually like your neck and shoulders, but more so I would get to nibble on them, which you will soon discover.

Following the dress down your body it hugs to your curves in a way that makes me extremely jealous. The hem is one of those diagonals, on one leg cut just above the knee, on the other down to end of your calf. I love your calves. I love every part of your legs. I’d love to see more of your legs, but I will take what I can get.

Best of all is the sapphires on the chest. I have no idea what their cut is, but they sure have given me an excuse to stare at your breasts all night. If that wasn't enough to call attention to the girls there is the big sapphire necklace I gave you to wear tonight. I loved the way you eyes went all soft when you snapped open the black Cartier case. That softness held promise, and I plan to cash in.

Perhaps even more than the dress you love that I knew to get accessories. See? I'm learning. A small black leather handbag (what can you possibly fit in those things? I continually ask), with another sapphire on the clasp, and to complete the ensemble a royal blue pashmina. Three months ago I'd have said pashmina was a Hungarian stew.

Of course I can't have you decked to the nines and not keep up. A gentleman never tries to outshine his lady, but I did my best not to embarrass you. I bet you had no idea I'd even heard of “bespoke” or Savile Row, let alone stopped there on my last trip to London, where I picked up a Jasper Littman suit even I get a little weak in the knees over. Black with a charcoal pinstripe, cut so fine I'm glad I took that afternoon to let them do their fiddlings. The cream shirt is the softest I've ever worn, and the charcoal and blue tie is endless perfection. Yes, I picked the tie to compliment your outfit, and the sapphire cuff links just about sent you over the edge.

For once darling even I can see where the clothes make the man, where fashion actually adds an indefinable quality to an already sumptuous evening.


***


We walk around the rooftop, soaking it all in. Figurative and literally, as the mist is implacable. I'm worried you'll be upset your dress is getting damp, but you're so lost in the moment you don't seem to notice. I'm about to snatch you out of that reverie.

We move over to the ledge, well protected by the guardrail. You have no head for heights but come willingly if slowly, holding on to my arm snaked around your waist like it was a life preserver.

I wrap both my arms around you, crushing you gently to me. You're shaking a little; whether because of the cold or something else I do not know. I lower my head and take my liberty with your bare shoulders. The little bites and kisses are like electric shocks, and you tense, then relax in my arms. You slip your own arms inside my jacket and around my waist, holding on to me tightly; soft sounds of contentment more felt than heard over the Falls' roar.

My nuzzling vampire routine moves to your neck, to that special spot I know simply paralyzes you. Your hair whips in the wind, but I will have no detour or obstacle thwart my path tonight. I make it to your earlobe, biting it just a hair harder than you're expecting, and you shudder in my arms. Through the thin fine material of my fifteen hundred-dollar suit I feel wetness on your leg and I know: it didn't come from the Falls.

My mouth moves like a snake, striking without warning, taking kiss or bite—you never know which, you never know where. I feel your full-throated purr rumbling against my chest. My mouth finds yours and we come together, passion aroused. Teeth click and clack against each other, buffered by lips sure to be sore come the morning.

I’ve moved you around so my back is against the guardrail, and with this added protection you feel free to come alive. Your hands are everywhere, fingernails now teasing, now hard enough to almost draw blood. You lick at my cream shirt where my nipple would be, and suddenly you’re biting and sucking through the material; that will definitely leave a mark.

Two can play at that game.

Careful not to perform one of my patented bodice-ripping movements that usually drive you wild (I’m betting it would not here), I manage to pull the dress down enough to reveal the lace bra. I have no real eye for these things but instinct tells me the lingerie is expensive. After moving so delicately with the dress I’ll be damned if I don’t rip something.

One swift twisting jerk and the black strapless thing comes free. You gasp in surprise as I hold the bra over your head like a trophy. I expect an even larger gasp—and maybe a fist to my stomach—when I let the wind take the garment and carry it over the Falls, but you simply laugh with that wicked twinkle in your eye and resume your hands’ busy exploration of all parts Me.

You’re welcome to do what you will because I have breasts to play with, and I am happy. Even now, seven years after our wedding and the first time I’d seen them (well, that’s the story, anyway), your breasts leave me little short of awe.

My hands find them—one to a customer—and at first I simply engulf the orbs to warm you up. The whipping wind has tightened your nipples to a rock-hard level, and I know they must be ultra-sensitive. In light of such facts it would be downright mean to apply any added pressure.

Sometimes I can be downright mean.

Your torso convulses with the first twist, and you cry out in pain. Were it anyone else I might stop, but you only lean into me and growl “harder.” I know what you like. For your part your hands have found the zipper of my pants, and I have little doubt that my tortuous ways will soon be punished and then some.

Before I let you dig your daggered fingers into hardening flesh I make a sudden end move, dropping one of my hands to your thighs. Pulling your dress up roughly I force my hand in between your legs to the matching panties of that lingerie. It was as I previously expected: total wetness.

Normally I like to tease you on the outside of the fabric until you can hardly stand it, but the howling winds and our rising lust allow no time for such luxuries. My hand slips up inside the crotch of those panties, but makes no move to further invade, instead holding the back of my hand against flushed lips swollen with blood.

You moan at the touch, and perhaps frustration that I stayed my hand from further conquest, but I simply hold there, enough for you to feel my presence, but nothing further. My lips find yours again, and a slow count of ten while you try to suck my tongue out of my mouth in vexation.

Then, ever sudden and without warning, I close my hand into a fist, around the material of the sodden panties, and I rip with ferocious force. Your panties rip and you bite my lip hard enough to make it bleed. I don’t care how much you paid for the set: I know you love that I did that.

But there’s one more surprise to this night, darling, before you get what you so ravenously crave.

We move against each other in symbiotic writhing dance, your fingers deftly bringing out all I have to give and then some, my thumb seeking hooded treasures that simply beg for caress. We spend a few moments in this state, but we mustn’t tarry too long: it’s simply unbearable.

The ballet of our bodies entwined has returned your back to the guardrail, something you seem not to have noticed in your current condition. It is here I pull my biggest surprise of the evening, bigger than the clothes, bigger than the roof, bigger than the entire trip; which was planned entirely for this moment.

Without giving you time to think, to let your fears overtake and overwhelm you, I trade on your befogged lust and lift you easily until you sit perched upon the top guardrail. The level is such that we are at perfect height for what we are about to do. What we both want—no, need—so badly.

I manage to wrap your legs around my waist. Your ankles lock involuntarily, as panic starts to compete with desire. I have no trouble getting your arms around my neck, your fingers similarly entwined. My own hands are firmly on your hips, and I lean into you, whispering, “I will not let go, I will not let anything happen to you.”

You start to protest, unable to find words, fear and continued lust choking your throat. I give you no time to fight that battle. Lifting you slightly I pull you to me, and enter you at an angle. This is no slow luxuriating entrance, designed to maximize pleasure and anticipation. I enter you in one hard thrust; every last ounce and inch of me.

Your eyes roll back into your head and your fingers tighten around my neck to such a degree that in the back of my mind I begin to wonder if you might not asphyxiate me before we’re done.

It is a chance I will have to take.

Caught in the dance now, our bodies match rhythm with practiced ease, the memory of many times before mixed with the newness that is always there with us. In seven years, darling, it has never once been stale, never once the “same old same old.” You are ever a mystery to me, one I cannot wait to dive in and devour.

Your fear is palpable still, but crashes against your desire like two waves hitting shore, doubling and trebling each other, driving you to a level I have never seen, never dreamed was even possible. I endeavor to match the pounding current of the Falls as it rushes over the side, pushing myself and our union further and further to the abyss, to that cliff we will both fall over in a rush and never return.

It is then you pull a surprise of your own. You are forever an enigma to me, even after all this time, but this one goes in the record books. Our bodies are locked, my hands protecting you as surely as those glorious calf muscles of yours are, when suddenly the pressure of your hands abates.

You let go.

More than that, you begin to lean back. Your breasts, freed and alive, heave with your breathing. Your hair flails like a kite fighting the wind. You continue to lean back, a wordless roar of fear, anger, lust, ecstasy and maybe even something else escaping your throat all in a rush to get out. You scream as if to challenge the fury of the Falls itself.

You lean further and further until you are parallel to the night sky and the water below. I simply cannot believe you. My passion for you, at heights I’d not known, rises another notch, and I fuck you like I’m trying to kill you.

At this pace, at this level it cannot last but a few moments, but somehow it does. Our bodies increase tempo to a level we have never tried before, spurred on by the night, by us, by your jaw-dropping courage. Faster and faster, harder and harder, until I feel it begin to build in both of us.

Sensing the end close at end we both enter that final stretch with almost suicidal abandon, gyrating to such a level that any sane people would be seriously worried your calves could not hold, nor my hands upon you.

It doesn’t matter. We are in this now, caught in the moment, and we ride it for all it’s worth. Over the Falls we go. The final moment is simultaneous and beyond any words I’ve ever learned to describe…anything. It’s the Dark One’s own luck we don’t both pass out.

The thrusts continue, aftershocks of the quake. Slowly we come back to this reality, to where we are, to what we did, what we continue to do, and I pull you to me. Out of your reverie finally, you come to me willingly, and cling to me like you never have in your life. Our beating hearts touch through skin and clothes; their still rapid pulse the only leftover evidence that for a brief moment we matched the relentless ferocity of the Falls.

No words are spoken. No words are needed.

Happy anniversary darling. Can’t wait for next year.


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