Gentle Persuasion, a short story by StevenHunley. Date added: 2010-09-26. Times viewed: 5014.
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- Intro: A man puts a woman to bed
I’ve been out of town and arrive late. She said she’d stay up and she tries but she’s fallen asleep on the couch, her head resting on a brocaded pillow. I notice her there when I walk in the door.
She’s small, she’s always been small. The fact that she’s small makes me feel more like a man somehow. Her waist is only 23 inches or so around.
I still have a chapter to do so I tip-toe around and make coffee.
I pour it and sit at the coffee table. I use a coaster. She always makes you use a coaster. I like how her crafts table, the one she uses for art projects, is wasted by her carelessness and has been so for some time. She says she’s going to refinish it. Careless and careful at the same time, that’s why she’s an enigma, a woman, same thing.
Halfway through the cup I turn to regard her. Her form is magnificent, a piece of white Carrara marble sculpture lying in repose on her sensuous red-cushioned couch. Looking at her form fuels my heat and my heart. If only to myself, I admit it.
She’s in shape and works at it. She runs every day. Her eyes can’t be seen, but are coconut brown, inherited from Portuguese stock. They’re the kind of eyes that can’t be denied, and kill your resistance with seductively gentle persuasion.
I still have work to do but can’t stand seeing her there anymore. I step over and bend down and scoop her up in my arms. Half-conscious, she wraps her arms around my neck and sighs. I like it when she sighs, it reminds me of when she makes love. Making love is something she’s good at. I carry her into the bedroom and place her on her pillow-top mattress with care.
Removing her clothes is no hassle. I always like removing her clothes. Her skin is soft and the color of porcelain on her thighs and her breasts where it hasn’t been kissed by the sun. There’s a slight imprint of a flower on her cheek from the brocade. I examine it closely because I’ll never see it again, it fades as I watch. Lucky for me her beauty won’t.
She slides between sheets of Egyptian cotton and I cover her up and make her comfortable with a kiss.
I go to her office and try to work on a chapter but all I can concentrate on is the fragrance of her wild dark hair. I give up, turn off the light and go back. I’m good at going back to her, in fact I enjoy it. She’s an enjoyable piece of work, and in future I know she’ll be even more enjoyable. That’s why I’m stuck with her. She’s a marvelous work in progress, a work that will never be finished.
I love work that’s unfinished. There’s something about it.
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