Your wrists were crossed above your head, immobilized by the rope, while I ground against you, digging my finger nails into your chest.
You looked at me in a panic. I gave you a little smile, closed my eyes and kept twisting, feeling you fill me.
They banged again, and I got up naked and swung the door open. “On baise,” I stated in my best French.
The officers were blinded.
I held them like that with my body, revealed our innocence, let them know that they would never possess what we possess.
Shifting to the side, I exposed you powerless on the bed. “Perhaps you’re looking for him,” I asked?
They both shook their heads, muttered apologies.
“You get back to your work and we’ll get back to ours.” I turned my back and returned to you, leaving them to close the door.
This morning, you dressed me in the stockings.
You were down on your knees, gingerly rolling the silk up my calves to my thighs, attaching the suspender clasps from the garter belt.
I quietly watched you in this small act of devotion. “Do you still love me?” I asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
The police remained on the street as we exited the building. You had seen them from the apartment.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “the best place to hide is always in plain sight.”
In a minor token to anonymity, I was wearing a pair of Wayfarers. Salome was safe in the crook of my arm.
She was rolled in a poster tube from the Louvre between cheap prints of da Vinci’s ‘Mona Lisa’ and David’s ‘Coronation of Napoleon’.
You opened the door to the Porsche for me, and I slipped her behind the head rests.
You walked around the car and let out the signal whistle. I reached across the seat and unlocked your door.
You pulled the white queen from your pocket, a lanyard around her neck, and hanged her from the rear view mirror.
We coasted down hill, past the museum, its entry symbolically blocked by red & white police tape.
You turned right onto the Rue Saint Lazare, and it felt like we were entering an entirely new chapter.
“Where to next?” I asked.
“I want to take you to Chartres,” you replied. “To the Cathedral!”
“Is that your way of asking me to marry you?” I teased.
“No, no, no,” you scolded. “Not that.”
“Chartres. It’s like a great big book, carved in stone and etched in glass,” you said. “When it was built barely anyone could read.”
You described it lovingly, starting with it’s stained glass windows. Their details and symbolism, their narratives of biblical passion.
Then you added me in.
“I want to see you there,” you said, “want to see the color of those stories bathed on your face, want to kiss you beneath their light.”
Your talk was cheese-ball romantic, but it was making me horny. Heat was rising from between my legs.
I reached a hand beneath my skirt, pressed my knees together and drew a finger between my lips and onto my clit. “Go on.”
You spoke of the labyrinth, inlaid in black and white stone in the floor below the cathedral’s nave.
I brought a finger inside, felt my vagina clench involuntarily around it and electricity radiate outward across my body.
“I want you to stand at the labyrinth’s center,” you said, “enclosed by the six petals of a rose.”
“I will walk from the entry the winding path 800 paces until we are reunited.”
You looked over at me, down toward my hand.
I was making small circles on the tip of my clit then dipping back into my vagina. “Go on. Count the paces.”
“One.” You paused.
“Go on.” I was begging.
By three, I had already come.