Rhapsody in Qwerty Minor
The deliberate click of key to paper is a sonata of prickly pizzicato notes. Her siren’s song escapes through a half-opened upstairs window into the sticky summer afternoon. I hear the ding as the words break against the right margin, the slide of the carriage, the platen scroll.
I stand on the back stoop of the farmhouse on my tiptoes trying to see past the blue gingham curtain hanging in the kitchen window. The cloth does not stir. The air is heavy, thick with moisture. My apprehensive glance moves to the billowy gray sky.
A premature raindrop splats against the back stoop of the farmhouse.
The breeze sways the branches of the monster willow tree in the yard. The leaves shimmy.
I try the door again. Locked. Do we even have a key? We’ve been here a month and I’ve never thrown the bolt. For a city dweller like me, that’s living on the edge. “Elise?”
I imagine that the rhythm of the keys hesitates, but the melodic line is unbroken.
“Let me in.” I sound forlorn even to my ears. “It’s starting to rain.”
My brain darts through the past hours. Did I say something wrong? Was she angry when I went to town for groceries? No.
The can at the bottom of the fragrant brown paper grocery bag digs into my hand. I set both bags down. Another glance up past the third story of the house convinces me to move my car into the barn. Maybe today we’ll have a gullywasher. Yesterday’s storm was officially christened a squall by the locals in line at the market.
Keys are still in the ignition. How quickly I acclimate to country life. It pisses her off that I do that.
“Kids around here start driving tractors at age twelve. You’re just asking for trouble.”
In the village I wedge my keychain into the front pocket of my jeans. I haven’t gone completely small town yet. I’m enjoying the conversion though. Much more than I thought I would. Yet another experience Elise turned me onto. She’s expanding my horizons one comfortable step at a time.
I pull the car forward onto the stone floor of the barn. It isn’t supposed to be used as a garage. The farmer pens his sheep in the back half but I doubt that he’ll see my car before the rains come. I swear that I’ll move it out as soon as the daily thunderstorm passes.
Walking back to the house I examine my key ring. Car. Condo. Classroom. Office. Office. That one key I’ve had for years that I can’t figure out what it goes to but I’m scared to death to toss it ... No farmhouse key.
I stop on the gravel drive between the barn and the wispy edge of the lawn. The groceries are gone. So we’re playing a game. Is that it, Elise? I try the door again. Locked. My bulge swells in my jeans.
The typewriter stops. I hear the screech and slam of the screen door at the front of the house. No one goes to the front door. Everyone troops around back to stand on the chipped concrete stoop. They bang on the door and cup their hands over their eyes to peer into the window past the curtain so that we can’t pretend we’re not home. Sometimes they just open the door and walk right inside.
I go into full commando mode. Slinking under windows, I make my stealthy way around the white clapboard house. To throw her off, I go the long way. The grass on the far side of the house needs to be mowed. Sweet scents rise as the weeds crush under my feet.
The boards on the porch are piano keys that play a creaking, groaning tune with each step. I veer through the garden so I can dash up the three steps directly in front of the door. Nodding burgundy dahlias and towering white hollyhocks cover my progress across the front of the house. The rising wind lifts my hair. Sweat trickles down my temple. Insects buzz choral pieces in the muggy weather. More raindrops fall. They sizzle on the stepping stones in the front garden.
Elise types again. Do I detect a little laughter in that jaunty rhythm?
I try the front door. Also locked, but taped to one of the rectangular panes of glass is an index card. The edges of the thick paper are soft, like aged library books. The letters bend down to the right. If it hadn’t been for the faded aqua lines across the three by five card, I wouldn’t have noticed the words tilting.
Go to the barn and take off all your clothes.
My cock responds to that. It moves out of the faded denim outline that betrays its customary resting spot. Aiming for my hipbone, it is painfully impeded. Elise demands that I wear my jeans this tight. The seam down the back works its way between my ass cheeks and rubs my balls as I walk. I suck in what little gut I have, slip my hand under the waist band, and adjust my hard-on to a more comfortable angle.
As I jog around the house to the barn, the wind picks up. I can hear the sheep in the meadow beyond the barn. The first week we lived here I worried about the poor creatures when the daily thunderstorm passed through. They haven’t melted yet. I’m over it.
Inside the barn I try not to look too eager as I strip. My dick gives me away. On the ledge of the first stall I carefully place my clothes. Flip flops aligned, jeans folded, t-shirt turned right side out. I know the rules.
There is a message on the windshield of the car.
You will catch a glimpse of what you seek in the attic.
Only if I can get into the house.
I pick my way across the gravel drive in my bare feet. The renewed clack on her typewriter provides a soundtrack for my staccato progress. I feel like a heron hunting the shallows of a farm pond. Once on the grass, I wipe my feet to clear away the tiny stones that cling to my soles.
The knob turns for me.
I jog up both flights of stairs to the attic door, my cock leading the way like Teddy Roosevelt’s sword during the charge up San Juan Hill.
The attic door swings open. I’m hit by a wave of dusty, wood scented heat. I hear her typing one floor down. Clickety click. I’m torn between seeking her out and doing as I’m told. Ring, slide, roll. It’s a mambo of words. I’ll dance to her tune. I climb the attic stairs.
Our boxes are neatly stacked. A wall of cardboard bricks, six wide, five high, sits near the top of the stairs. A precise hand cataloged the contents. Books. Books. Even more books. Clothes – Elise. Clothes – Rich. Shoes – Elise. Shoes – Elise. Shoes – Elise. My spare shoes are probably packed in with books.
I don’t see another index card. I wonder if it fell. I drop to my knees. Mysterious furniture is draped in sheets printed in yellow roses.
Underneath I only see mouse turds.
On the outside chance that she’ll sneak up behind me, I make a great show of kneeling on all fours and peering low so that my ass is high in the air. No such luck.
Where’s the damn card? My skin itches and I’m sweating in the attic oven. I sleuth clues tracked in the dust on the floor. She went to the tiny window.
The card is propped on the sill. Beside the card lies a large, old-fashioned knife that’s been sharpened through the rust.
Some day you will weep for me.
Damn it Elise – I’m too horny to think. You have to use small words with me when all the blood drains out of my brain. What do you want?
The head of my cock is rose and beige. Veins like Blue Niles meander close to the surface of my skin.
She’s thoughtfully cleaned a swath of the grimed window. I can see the unvarnished barn. On a hill a quarter mile away a tractor works a field. Right below the window is that huge willow tree. The winds have picked up. The branches sway.
Weeping willow. I get it.
My balls give a protest squeeze. I like to fantasize about punishment. I love it when Elise plays domination games with me. One day I do hope to weep for her, but there are many steps between where we are and that day. She’s being very patient.
Distant thunder grumbles at me.
My cock bounds down the stairs. Like the handler of a bloodhound on the scent hanging onto the leash for dear life, I must follow. The click of keys is more urgent now. It has a military cadence, like a march.
The backdoor of the house slams behind me. Rain is falling faster. Fat drops explode like water balloons on the ground. I can hear the tractor purr in the distant field.
The afternoon thunderstorm is almost on us. At the leading edge of the front, the wind snaps. I carefully pick my barefoot way across the lawn to the tree.
I cup my hand over my balls as I move through the branches. The narrow, pale green leaves are damp. My skin is wet. I push through to the trunk. She stapled the next card to the trunk.
The letters bleed as only an inked ribbon can.
Don’t be caught under a tree during a storm. Hurry. Hurry! Bring me three switches. Make sure they’re thick, or I’ll send you out for more.
My cock feels her impatience. I dive back into the branches in search of thick ones. The wind slaps the whips against my thighs and backside. I curse and hop as wet leaves add to the sting. My skin is glowing pink.
As I cut the last switch I run for the house. Rain drops dive bomb me. I set the knife on the kitchen counter with a clatter. The typing has stopped.
She’s waiting.
I run back up the stairs to our room.
Turn out the lights. We’ll ride out the storm together.
I flick the switch. Although it’s only two in the afternoon, the clouds darken the sky. Rain falls in fast sheets now. Nearby thunder rattles the windows. The drops clinging to the glass lose cohesion and stream down. The barn is now an impressionist’s vision.
A soft glow comes from the bathroom. I follow the light.
She says nothing as she sits in the bath. Vanilla candles glow from the window sill, the far edge of the tub, and the sink. I kneel to hand her the willow branches.
I can hear the water drip from her elbow as she extends her hand. Outside, the rain hisses. Drops pelt the windows.
“Stand and turn a slow circle.”
I let her see the faint marks left by the tree. When I face her again I glance up shyly. My cock is bolder. It’s twitching for her.
She selects a willow branch and runs it across her palm.
My buttocks clench.
“Come closer.”
I shuffle forward.
“We both know that it’s time to take this to the next level,” she tells me softy. She kneels in the water. Water trickles from her warm skin. The willow branch is rolled from my knees to the small of my back and down again. She watches my face as it bumps over the curve of my buttocks.
Even my drawn breath betrays my excitement.
She conducts me to the edge of the tub. Wet heat engulfs me as she swallows me whole. Like a cellist with her bow, she slowly draws the willow across the fold where buttocks end and thighs begin. My body vibrates.
I watch the flopsy curls of her hair as her mouth glides up and down my cock. She slurps at the head. The sound turns me on as much as the slow draw of her tongue against my sensitive skin. Her hands knead my ass. She forces me deep into her throat.
She smacks my buttocks. It is more sound than fury.
I gasp as my balls pull tight against my body. Surging, rushing, erupting – my load pulses from me in exquisite harmonies with the melody she plays against my ass. The crescendo brings me up on my toes. I fight the urge to grasp her head.
She licks me clean.
After our bath, she puts me on the bed face down. She spreads my thighs wide and places a pillow under my hips to display me. The cream chenille bedspread cushions me in tufts. One willow branch balances across my bottom, the other two across the backs of my thighs.
“These will remain where I placed them.”
A thrill runs down my spine. The memory of her handprint is already fading from my buttocks.
“Think naughty thoughts, and call me when you’re rock hard.”
I nod.
“What was that?” Her voice is now stern.
“Yes Elise.”
“Hmmm.”
“Yes Mistress.” It is the first time I use that endearment. My cock stirs beneath me.
Satisfied, the diva pads down the hallway on bare feet. The rain is passing. The sky may yet clear.
Down the hallway I hear the scrape of a chair against a wood floor. The platen rolls.
Click. Click. Slide. Click. Roll. She types out a seductive tango. I grind my pelvis carefully to the music and await the end of intermission.
Copyright © 2004 by Kathleen Bradean. All rights reserved.
Kathleen Bradean is a Los Angeles based writer. A frequent contributor to the Erotica Readers and Writers Association website, her short stories appear in Best Women’s Erotica 2004, Eternally Erotic e-anthology, and upcoming print anthology Blood Surrender by Blue Moon. Writing as Jay Lygon, she contributed to the Myth e-anthology by Torquere Press.
If you enjoyed the story, why not let the author know? Type your message below and we’ll send the author email. Leave the from box empty to be anonymous, but include your email address if you want a reply.