Vienna, a weekly meeting in a café on Mariahilfer Straße. Explicit pornographic short story. 18+.
We met Wednesdays at four in the afternoon at Café Goldegg, because Café Goldegg wasn’t a café where anyone would know us. It was two tram stops from my gallery, one tram stop from her workshop on Lerchenfelder Straße, and the waiter knew us by now, but he knew us as a couple that ordered two Melange once a week and talked quietly. He didn’t know we weren’t together. No one knew that, except us. And no one knew what we did after the coffee — how we undressed in a cheap hotel room on Berggasse, how I sat on the edge of the bed and Henrik knelt between my legs, how he pushed my thighs apart and dipped his tongue into my wet, hot cunt until I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
Henrik was a restorer. He restored Old Masters that passed through our gallery, and that’s how we’d met — over a Cranach that had a crack, which he treated in a way that had amazed me more than a year and a half ago. We’d talked about pigments, then about Vienna, then about the fact that he was married, I wasn’t, and that we’d have coffee on Wednesdays.
It was a coffee that became a habit, and a habit that became an affair. We’d been going to hotels for eight months. Always the same hotel, on Berggasse, because it was small, because the doorman was discreet, because the room on the second floor had a window facing a courtyard. In that room, I’d learned how Henrik moaned when I took his cock so deep in my mouth that my lips touched his balls. In that room, I’d felt him come inside me, his cum spilling hot and thick into my cunt, how he’d lie on top of me afterward, his forehead against my shoulder, his breath shallow and uneven.
That Wednesday in March, I sat across from him in the booth. It was a clear day, the light came from the left, fell on his temple and revealed the white thread in his beard that I hadn’t seen on the first Wednesday. Under the table, I pressed my thighs together because I was already wet. I was always wet when I saw him. It started the moment I entered the café, a tug in my belly, a heat between my legs that only subsided when he was inside me.
“You look tired,” he said.
“So do you.”
“Opening last night?”
“Opening last night.”
He nodded. He took my hand under the table, just briefly, then let it go again. We never touched in the café for longer than three seconds. It was one of our rules, never spoken but respected. But today, today his touch burned on my skin, and I had to force myself not to take his fingers and guide them between my legs, so he could feel how wet I was for him.
“What are we doing today?” he asked.
“You ask me that every Wednesday.”
“Because every Wednesday I hope the answer isn’t ‘the hotel.'”
I looked at him. I looked at him in a way I’d never looked at him before, not in the café, not in the hotel either. A mix of worry and recognition.
“Henrik.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want it to be?”
He set down his cup. He leaned back. In the café, two customers passed our table, and we waited until they were gone.
“I want to tell her.”
“Sure?”
“For three months.”
I nodded. I nodded because I’d known it for three months without him saying it, without me asking him. He was a man who didn’t lie well, and his silence about home had grown heavier over the past few weeks than his talking would have been.
“When?” I asked.
“Tonight.”
“Should I know that?”
“You should know it now, because I don’t want you to go to the hotel with me today if I’m telling her tonight.”
I considered that, very slowly. I considered what Henrik was doing — he was giving up something that was our habit, because he didn’t want to evade the dignity of the moment. It was a very Henrik-like gesture, precise like his brushwork on a Cranach.
“Come anyway,” I said.
“To the hotel?”
“To my apartment.”
He looked at me without blinking.
“Have you ever invited me to your apartment?”
“No.”
“Why today?”
“Because after tonight, we won’t need the hotel anymore.”
He stood up. He went to the register, paid for both of us, came back, and waited until I’d put on my coat. We walked down Mariahilfer Straße without touching, as always, and at the corner of Stiftgasse, we got on the 13A. I lived in Neubau, in an old building on the third floor, with a window facing a chestnut tree.
Henrik entered my apartment like someone who’d been waiting a year and a half for permission to enter it. He looked around, very carefully, almost professionally — he saw the paintings, the books, the piano I’d inherited from my grandmother. He said nothing. He went to the window, looked out at the chestnut tree, turned around.
“Is this the real Sophia?”
I stood in the doorway to the living room, my coat still over my arm. Slowly, I laid it over the back of a chair, my fingers trembling. “What do you mean?”
“In the hotel, when I’m inside you, when you come — I don’t know if that’s the real Sophia or one who’s hiding.”
I stepped closer. Two steps. Three. Then I stood before him, so close I could smell him — linseed oil, turpentine, something metallic. “Which one do you want today?”
“Both.”
Henrik’s hands found my waist, pulled me against his body. His lips met my neck, soft and demanding at once. I felt his cock through his pants, hard and thick against my belly, and I knew we wouldn’t stop today until we were both completely spent.
“Then show me how you want me,” I whispered, my hand sliding down, pressing his arousal through the fabric. “Here, in my apartment, on my bed. No more hotel, Henrik. Just us.”
He grabbed me hard, nearly tearing the buttons off my blouse. “I want you on the floor,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I want to fuck you on the floor, Sophia, the way I’ve wanted to for so long. Hard. Deep. Without mercy.”
He pulled my blouse over my head, my bra followed in the same moment. His hands found my breasts, squeezed t
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