Hope I


“Stop,” I commanded with an authority I’d never before exercised with her. She stopped and looked at me. I got up from the futon and walked past her to the door as she watched me, locking it when I got there. “Where do you think you’re going?” Hope smiled bashfully at me, a smile I’d seen only once before, but would see frequently in the days that followed.

I first met Hope in my English 101 class. I was thirty-four years old when I decided to go to college, and thirty-five when classes started. I’d later learn that she was twenty-one at that time. I noticed her first because she didn’t dress or act like a typical college-aged girl. She had class. She carried herself with a dignified demeanor, and when she spoke, which she only occasionally did, her words described thoughtful ideas. She was intelligent, and subtleties in her clothing indicated culture beyond Beyonce. She wasn’t too cheerful. She wasn’t a brooder, necessarily. Stoic would be accurate. Her face had an exotic appeal to it, and I couldn’t quite place her heritage. Regardless, she was beautiful, roughly half a foot shorter than me, and appeared to be in quite good health, though her manner of dress was never so vain or shallow as to indicate her precise shape.

I coveted her from the first time she spoke in class, but only in a daydream fashion. I was approaching middle age, balding, and on the skinny side of heavy. She was so far out of my league I almost felt unworthy of fantasizing about her. Her intellect got the better of me a few times, and we did exchange words on several occasions about class subject matter, usually discussing things that were too complex for the other minds to contemplate. Twice, we pirated the entirety of class discussion, openly exchanging ideas halfway across the room, the instructor only sporadically chiming in. She was an absolute joy, for sixty seconds at a time, a few times.

The term ended, and that was that. I’d met someone, sort of, and the segment of life that included her was now ended. I’d remember her, though not obsessively. We didn’t even offer each other good luck for our futures. After all, we barely knew each other.

Eleven months later, I was browsing an internet dating site. Page after page of tedious, mind-numbingly, shallow profiles for tedious, mind-numbingly, shallow girls. My standards were high, mind you. I’d “relationshipped” more than my fair share of hot, youthful women, thanks to my charisma, which far outweighed my mediocre looks. Now, as I was looking for companionship, I had the challenge of finding someone who could simultaneously stimulate my brain and my penis, and that was a tall order, to be sure.

Wait! I know her! I’d clicked on the next profile, and there she was. Hope appeared to me in an environment that did not include an Eastern Bloc, college architecture backdrop. I’d honestly not thought about her in several months, and before that only as many times as I could count on one hand.

It was a mild excitement, based solely on recognition. After all, she was still her, and I was still overweight, balding, and middle-aged. Her profile indicated that she had a boyfriend, and was “authorized” to be looking for playmates, primarily female playmates. I actually smiled to myself. Of course she was bisexual. I felt like such a dunce for not thinking of that, even though I’d had no reason to.

Without any expectations, other than summary dismissal, I messaged her. “Fancy meeting you here. How go things?” Thus began a sporadic exchange that lasted a couple of weeks, in which we got to know each other better. I was single, had been for a few years, and only recently was interested in dating again. She was in a non-monogamous relationship with her boyfriend, and was trying to enjoy the sexual freedom afforded her by her agreed-upon arrangement. Her description of herself and her life played out like it probably would have in my mind, had I bothered to contemplate such a thing. Again, she was so far out of reach that there would be no point. Then, the impossible happened.

“My beau is out of town. Do you want to come over?” It felt like every pint of blood in my veins had suddenly rushed into my head. I read and re-read her query, questioning every word to ensure that I could not be misunderstanding what I was reading. I couldn’t comprehend. As much as I struggled, I was unable to accept what I was seeing. There must’ve been some kind of mistake. It simply was not possible for Hope to invite me to her home in her beau’s absence, indeed because of her beau’s absence. I was dizzy, and had become an imbecile. I was a dizzy imbecile.

“Well, I work until eleven, so…” Somehow, all of my nightmarish tribulations had occurred in half a second, and completely on autopilot, I had managed a completely normal response. She messaged me her address.

Jesus Christ, that’s like three blocks from work! It kept repeating in my head. She was three blocks from where I sat at that desk at that very moment. I was a nervous fifteen year old, trying to keep my wits about me, trying to not explode in excitement all over the office floor. Somehow, I managed. “How does eleven fifteen sound?”

“Call me when you get here. I’ll come down and let you in.”

I had a date. I had an impossible dream date. No dinner. No movie. No drinks. Pass go, collect two-hundred dollars.

That night, we talked about everything important and meaningless. Relationships at the start evolved into sexual desires into deep sociological discussions into musical expression into… Some time, several hours later, I finally had to excuse myself, as my old bones had tired to the point of collapse. Except they weren’t old bones anymore. I was a man. I was important. I was relevant.

We touched each other not a single time that night.

We became the best of friends over the next several weeks. Best friends with benefits… Of sexual innuendo. We talked, and described, and joked about all that we craved in our sexual lives. Her boyfriend was all but utterly absent; his work took him away for weeks at a time, and he was absent more than present. In his absence, I became her go-to. We’d go to dinner (I joked to her, “So it’s just you and your daughter this evening, Mister Murphy?”), go out to movies, stay in for movies. She became such a fixture in my life that I gave her a key to my house and bought her a pair of house shoes. She could come and go without knocking, whenever she liked.

We never consummated the arrangement. Not once.

She wanted to submit to me, and I wanted to dominate her. We talked ad-neuseam about fantasies, experiences, desires, desires for one another. I described, in detail, things I wanted to do to her. I wanted to chain her in my basement. I wanted to fondle her to orgasm in a restaurant. I wanted to expose her in public. I even remarked to her once, before we both egressed from my car, “We’ve established a level of trust. In fact, I’m relatively certain that I could do anything I wanted to you and you’d let me.” She smiled hopefully at me, and somehow I wasted the moment, again.

A week later, Hope and I were camped on my futon, she on one side, I on the other. She’d brought another Guy Ritchie movie over for me to be introduced. We were talking about something relatively meaningful in her life, prior to starting the movie. She had started making a statement, then paused, trying to find the right words. Her mind and my own were often synchronized, and I often finished her sentences. This time I tried, and failed.

She half-heartedly frowned at me. “That is not at all what I was going to say.” She then got up, and started to pass me before making her way to the door. She looked me in the eye, smiling, “You know, I’ll put a lot of things in my mouth. Other people’s words is not one of them.” Then she moved toward the door.

With that final suggestion, and all the stored sexual energy exchanged with her over the previous few months, I finally succumbed to the pressure.

“Stop,” I commanded with an authority I’d never before exercised with her. She stopped and looked at me. I got up from the futon and walked past her to the door as she watched me, locking it when I got there. Ever so calmly, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” This was the moment.

She just stood there, half-smiling at me. I could see in her smile both hope and apprehension, but nothing less than excitement. Now that I’d spoken, she’d comply, and there was a relief expressed on her face. “It’s getting late, and I’m going home,” never betraying her smile.

“Not yet, you’re not.” I had emerged. I didn’t think about why it had taken me so long. I didn’t think about anything, really, except that I was going to get what I wanted now, and she would give it to me with gratitude.

“No,” she playfully questioned.

“No. And you should fucking know better.” I paused to gauge her reaction. I was in the clear. “Take of your shirt.”

She showed no sign of objection, smile still in place, and paused only briefly before she unbuttoned her blouse, then shrugged it off her shoulders. I was already rock hard before giving the command, and I ridiculously hoped that somehow she could not see my excitement. Once she had finished shedding the garment, she dropped it on the floor next to her.

“No,” I barked softly, but firmly. “Pick it up.” She began to kneel when I stopped her again. “No.” She stood upright to face me. “Turn to it, bend at the waist, and pick it up.” She smiled her understanding. Her skirt was mid-thigh, and as she bent, the hemline rose to the bottom of her bum. She moved slowly, understanding the purpose of the exercise, bending with astonishing grace as she reached for the cloth. She moved past it, her hands fully open, palms facing the floor. Her open hands pressed the cloth firmly to the floor before rising slightly and closing her fingers around the fabric. She wanted me to know how flexible she was, that she could go all the way down, and I observed, outwardly cool, and inwardly shaken.

Once she had slowly returned upright, her upper form was revealed to me for the first time. She was toned, but not muscular. Lean, but not malnourished. Her form was perfect. Her skin was uniformly fair, without scar, without blemish. I had only imagined, but she was all that I’d imagined she’d be.

After several moments, I commanded, “Fold it, and give it to me.” She handed it to me without a moment’s hesitation. “Take off your house shoes and socks and skirt.” She didn’t waste a single moment. Without displaying a sense of urgency, she calmly obeyed my instructions, removing the shoes and socks without spectacle. Then, she turned turned away from me, anticipating what I would want, and bent at the waist only as she slid the cloth of her skirt carefully all the way down to her heels before raising her feet to allow it clearance. I watched in awe as the rest of her body was revealed, her perfect form displayed before me, hands holding the recently removed garments. Her bra and panties matched, in black mesh and lace, and I wondered if she wore similar every time we were together, in hopes that I would see them. My knees were somehow motionless, but weakening by the moment.

I tried not to hesitate or stutter. “Put your socks inside your house shoes, and give them to me. Then fold your skirt and give it to me.” She was beginning to understand what I wanted, and how I wanted it, and needed no more correction. She handed me the shoes, then the skirt, then stood patiently awaiting my next words.

I wanted to stretch the moment as long as possible. “Turn around.” She swiftly, and with grace, obeyed. Now, with her back to me, “Take off your bra.” Her hands moved to the front of her chest, out of my view, and I wondered if she’d worn a front clasp just in case this was the night we’d both been waiting for. She moved her shoulders slightly behind herself, and she was rid of the garment.

“Cover your breasts with one arm, and hold your bra in that hand.” I wanted to confuse her, throw her off-balance by insisting on a false display of modesty. It appeared to work, because her body shifted ever so slightly, and she hesitated for several moments before shifting the bra to her right hand, then moving that arm to cover her breasts. She looked down, likely to ensure that her nipples were appropriately hidden. Once she’d settled, I continued. “Now, with your left hand, take off your panties.”

Watching her with this task was a treat. The beginning was easy enough. She moved her left hand from left to right and back again, legs barely more than slightly parted, inching the black lace fabric down her perfectly proportioned waist and hips. Once the band had cleared her hips, however, her actions became increasingly comical. She knew I wanted her to bend at the waist, and she did her best to oblige, but it was clear that the farther down she went, the more she had to focus to balance her weight as she shifted her one arm to and fro, left and right.