By Dolores Whitt Becker

He rolled over and panted, short and sharp. Her breath was slower, deep and even, but her heart was racing just as hard. She was so controlled – it was one of the things he admired about her. He watched her magnificent chest rise and fall, basking in the aftershocks of this last round of athletic and imaginative sex. Oh, she was good. And he knew he was. Together, they were… well, unprecedented, even in his considerable experience. This one was a work of art.

He felt the moment coming, but it was hard to judge with precision. That was the most challenging part, timing for maximum effect. This one, especially, merited his best effort – she was head, shoulders and glorious breasts above her predecessors.

She would be his masterpiece.

He whispered her name, and it almost caught in his throat as the sweet, mad tension that preceded the coup-de-grace lit up his nerves. She turned her head slowly toward him. Her eyes were big and dark and moist, and he read in them an immeasurable satisfaction. She looked besotted, almost narcotized. Perfect. There would not be another moment like this.

“I must tell you something,” he whispered. She tilted her chin ever so slightly in response, in anticipation. He stroked her cheek, her throat, her collarbone, her sternum before drawing himself back to the matter at hand. He leaned forward until his cheek was brushing hers and his mouth was an inch from her ear.

“This isn’t real.” He straightened up enough to be able to watch her face as he continued. “I don’t love you, and I never will. This is the last time you will see me, and a month from now I will be with another woman, doing exactly what I have been doing with you.”

She made no visible reaction, and once again he smiled in appreciation of her control. There would be no screaming, no cursing, no hysterics from this one. But there would be tears, nonetheless. There were always tears. That was the point.

She drew in a long, slow breath, and he saw a change in her eyes. Something glittered; her mouth twitched. This was the real payoff – all the rest was prelude.

She raised herself in a smooth, graceful motion, and he saw that the light in her eyes was not, in fact, that of tears about to spill. It was harder and colder than that. The tremor in her mouth became a smile as she leaned towards his ear.

“Of course it wasn’t real,” she purred. “Do you think I’m stupid? You’re awfully, awfully good, though. Thank you.” She nipped his earlobe as his taut expectation gave way to an electric chill. He didn’t trust his voice to reply; he could only watch in stunned silence as she slid back into her clothes. She paused at the door. “Happy hunting, darling.”

“Wait!” But she was gone.

She had been perfect. And there were always tears.


Dolores Becker is a wandering Cheesehead currently living in Batavia. She has a considerable collection of unfinished and/or unpublished writings of various shapes and sizes.

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