|
|
|
Offers fragrances
|
Nighttime Obsession
Nancy tossed fitfully in her bed. Her labored breathing was interrupted by incoherent sounds of passion. Malcolm's hard body was framed by the twilight. He was close but somehow still beyond her grasp.
Her naked body strained against red silk bindings. She was captivated by the unfulfilled desires washing over her. She was immersed in a rushing river of complete arousal.
"Oh Malcolm...want you take me!" The strange and desperate words echoed through her mind as she strained to grasp the muscled object of her passion.
She felt the ache of lust deep within her center. The longing was so complete
that it made her cry out.
An anxious wail rose from her lips as she felt Malcolm's soft hand stroking her belly. She opened as her thighs rose up expressing her hunger for his touch. She followed his dark, muscled arms as he touched, then squeezed her body.
She felt a war for her character and values playing out even as she responded to his touch. Nancy loved her independence. She also enjoyed being in control. She heard a low guttural "no" issue forth from her lips even as she sucked in a breath of weighted down with ecstasy.
Her arousal in this open and prone position awakened feelings she had not known. She focused on his eyes, and the gaze of wanton desire etched on his face.
She wanted Malcolm to drain her of every ounce of passion. Her skin was charged with electricity. The soft strokes of his hand against her body telegraphed primal lust to her brain.
She was not a fashionable lobbyist now, she was an animal. She cooed as he softly stroked her naked body. She growled as he found raw nerves shocked alive by his attention. She hissed as she felt the touch of a skilled and capable lover worthy of her complete release.
The red silk bindings held her loosely. She somehow knew she could slip loose at any time. Nancy liked it here. She enjoyed the thought of relinquishing control. Whatever Malcolm wanted now was okay. She wanted him, she trusted him, she would have him. She was bound by her obsessive desire to possess this man tonight.
His touch and kisses lifted her. She seemed to float upon his voice at the mention of her name. "Nancy, baby you're so lovely," carried her beyond the edge. His full lips, found the soft, smoothness of her skin. His mouth swept lightly across her ribs as his large hands supported the chocolate orbs of her breasts tenderly. She felt the wispy hairs of his mustache sweeping across her moistened skin.
The scent of his hair filled her nostrils. She licked her lips and knew the taste of his shoulder as it seared deep into her mind. Nancy's rules were falling like fresh hewn timber. They were not coworkers tonight. They were lovers. In Nancy's mind a plan was taking shape to make sure they would be lovers from now on.
She worked her legs free from the silk scarves that held her ankles. She wrapped Malcolm's hard body within her tightest grip. They moved together as she felt wild waves of desire rumbling through her body. The passion soaked her spirit, like a rushing waterfall. It roared through in endless torrents of sensual arousal.
Each breath brought his essence deep within her body. Each touch bound their passions tightly together as one. Each lick of her lips was stained with the tastes of his focused desire.
Nancy knew that she was his, as her body opened up completely. Her hands squeezed tightly as she felt her nails digging into her palms. She moaned, and shuddered hard, and then reached out to run her fingers across his naked back. She rocked with increasing fervor as she felt her abs tighten and release. Heavy breathing, panting, hissing, the sounds tumbled from her body as beads of perspiration drenched her hairline. The words rose up despite her attempts to hold them back and she screamed. "Malcolm I ....."
The hard thump on the bed startled Nancy, she looked around to see Kashmir's body in the darkness of near dawn. The cat's eyes and cries expressed his concern over the events he had observed. Nancy was alone in her bed, as she hugged her pillow. She smiled and smoothed the hair away from her moist forehead knowing she would soon have Malcolm there.
|
|
|
|
|
Or tastes
|
Malcolm's Madness
Malcolm enjoyed good jazz. He had lugged his collection of albums around since college. His sentimental attachment to old vinyl made him an eccentric throwback to a bygone time.
He straightened "Night of Madness" on the wall. The broad canvas made an imposing statement over the kingsized bed that seemed to be more than a bachelor would need. He smiled at the irony as the old classic "Burning Spear" pumped its retro arrangements through the room.
He sipped lightly at his glass as he stepped back to enjoy the vivid images of "Night of Madness." The taste of Andajo warmed his lips as he remembered the chaos that inspired the scene.
Malcolm Powell had planned to make foreign service his career. The collapses that followed the decline of Socialism had left him bitter. He'd seen the power vacuums sweep across east Africa. He sighed deeply as he settled back in his worn leather chair.
Marie Michaud was still there. The aid worker had made Doctors without Borders her mission. He'd tried to talk her into leaving after Somalia. The blood and butchery sickened his spirit as he thought about the policies the State Department had pursued.
They lost touch after he was reposted to Zaire. Samuel Mbadji had written him that he'd seen her in Rwanda. Now Mbadji's stark painting was bringing old feelings of their Motherland friendships back into focus.
Malcolm had decided never to get too close to coworkers again. He hid behind a mask of efficiency. He remembered how it had taken years to stop Marie's
Franco-Moroccan features from invading his dreams.
Powell sipped the warm amber rum as his mind flooded back into the present. The vision of Nancy Smith's thigh in the cab made him twitch in a nice but unsettling way. Her voicein his mind brought a smile to his face as he sat there listening to old jazz.
He was surprised to see her at the Gallery. He wondered why he'd invited her to see the painting hung in his place. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Still, they did work closely together. He wondered whether he'd ever follow up on the invitation.
Malcolm's fingers slid across the worn brown leather of the chair. He'd talked his brother out of it when he first moved back to the States. It had been his father's favorite. Sitting there on its thick worn cushions he felt a closeness to a past that hadn?t mattered much before.
Ahmad Jamal's signature "Poinciana" signaled the end of the vinyl L-P. Malcolm was in a keyboard mood. He popped in a Bob James C-D and lit up a forbidden smoke. He smiled as he thought about his former State Department colleagues. Malcolm Powell had developed a passion for fine-rolled Cubans in his last months in Zaire.
Enjoying his third glass of rum, his bare belly was exposed in the Burmese silk robe that covered his body. He had tried to make the most of his many special assignments. The visits to far-flung cities had afforded him chances to sample the beauty of five continents. He sucked in a long drag of the pungent tobacco. Its taste complimented the Jamaican spirits that helped set his mood.
Malcolm thought about his past. He remembered the painful good-byes to Marie Michaud. He considered the small cracks that were slowly forming in his mask of efficiency. He focused on Nancy Smith. Her voice, her face, the attraction of her form as he undressed her with his eyes.
He felt a hardness in his lap, as his empty hand wandered. Perhaps she could see 'Night of Madness', and he could be more flexible about his rules.
|
|
|
|
|
To set the mood
|
Beach Dreams
Sleep sometimes brought it all back much too vividly. Fourteen years had not dulled the horror of that day. Malcolm was still in the Corps at the time. He remembered how his unit felt so out of place in Beirut. This was not a place for Marine Corps Special Ops.
The SEALS liked it even less. They spent their nights desperately searching for missing Americans. They'd sleep days in the low-rise office building the Army had claimed for its own. Malcolm never got used to sleeping near the airport. He preferred the freedom of the beach instead.
The memories would flood back. Aging Non-Coms who remembered Tet were watching their careers wind down. They'd hoot and roar as the New Jersey's 16' slammed shells deep into the Shoof. The incoming shells roared in like the Volkswagon Beetles they equaled in weight.
Malcolm wondered about it, really. The shells slamming into Arab villages couldn't possibly be tools of peace. It was only a matter of time before shattered glass and crumbled brick made somebody mad.
Naji Bari warned that his militiamen would only take so much. The grunts understood what the officers never quite seemed to get. Gemayal's death meant nobody was in charge.
British, French and Americans disappeared. The guy the Brits sent in to negotiate just faded out of sight. A G-I who fancied history talked about the "slippery slope." President Reagan said we would not negotiate with terrorists. Israel pushed the Palestinians hard against the backs of Lebanese villages. Civil war raged in Beirut.
Gunships strafed villages and refugee camps. Armed Palestinians gobbled up portions of Lebanon for the own. An Arab rocket fired at the sea brought A-six airstrikes or fiery blasts from the Jersey's sweet-16's.
Malcolm dozed in the warm April sand of Beirut's Mediterraenean beach. There was no incoming roar, but the sound of the explosion shook the earth.
Malcolm ran back toward the smoking structure where Marines and SEALS he knew were sleeping. The "New Jersey's" guns were silent. Two hundred forty-one Marines were dead, and Beirut's peaceful beaches were no longer safe.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
