...John spoke with wit and charm, but did not talk endlessly about himself like so many men did on a first date. He never took his eyes off of Rosemary, but in a way that was flattering without being lecherous. In short, he did everything right.

Rosemary noticed other patrons of the restaurant stealing glances at them and knew she and John looked great together.

So, to recount, Rosemary glowed with radiant beauty from a variety of expensive treatments, was dressed to the nines, warmly intoxicated and panty-less. John was charming and looked absolutely delicious. Also a factor was the more than half a year since she’d been laid. Rosemary knew from the moment John picked up the check that her usual rule about no sex on the first date was doomed to be broken.

After the valet retrieved his car, John opened the door for her and sat in the driver’s seat. He leaned over to kiss her. He might have intended it to be a chaste first-date kind of kiss, but she returned it with a ravenous passion, and somehow their hands wound up all over one another. She slipped her fingers into his shirt, delighting in the feel of the soft hair on his toned chest. John touched her waist. Rosemary, on a devilish impulse, grabbed his wrist and guided his hand under her skirt. He tensed with surprise when he found her naked there, but his strong, confident hand knew exactly how to touch her. Rosemary came hard after about five seconds of skillful manipulation.

“Oh my fucking God,” they said in perfect unison, then laughed together at the synchronicity.

“Let’s go back to your place,” John said.

“Yes,” said Rosemary. Then she remembered. “No. We can’t. They’re painting my apartment. The smell makes me gag. Sorry, it’s just not my idea of romance.”

“Well, we can’t go back to my house,” John said.

“Why not?” said Rosemary, thinking, Here it comes. He’s married.

John brought the hand that had so expertly stroked her off up to his lips. He sucked Rosemary’s dewdrops from one finger. “Mmm, nothing,” he said. “Never mind. God, yes, let’s go to my house.”

They drove up into the hills above the city, Rosemary’s hand resting in John’s lap in what was probably an unsafe distraction. He sported a real railroad spike in there. Rosemary held it in her palm, enjoying its weight, anticipating it inside her.

He led her from the driveway into the darkened house, Rosemary too fevered with lust to check out his place. She didn’t care about any of it at that moment, except the bedroom. John led her there and sat her on the bed without even taking off her dress. He knelt before her and leaned in between her legs to kiss her where she wanted it most.

If he was an expert with his hands, he was an absolute genius with his lips and tongue. He kissed and nuzzled and licked and sucked, in exactly the right places. Rosemary flowed like a spring, and John gulped it all down. He found her clitoris twitching like a wild creature and tamed it with his lashing tongue.

It only made sense, she thought, that the orthodontist would be good at the oral.

He played her with an attentiveness that was almost telepathic, bringing her to the very cliff’s edge of orgasm, but pulling back just as Rosemary was about to be hurled screaming into the void. Over and over again he did this, until Rosemary was afraid she might lose consciousness when she finally did come.

And then things got strange.

At first, Rosemary was too overwhelmed by the wonderful things John was doing to her pussy to notice the sound, which seemed to be coming from behind the headboard. It started as a slight scratching noise, like fingernails dragged lightly over the plaster wall, but as the sound grew louder, it became recognizable as whispering. The words were too low to be understood, but Rosemary definitely heard a woman’s voice.

Still, she tried to block it out. It was a television on in another room, a neighbor walking past John’s bedroom window, a cell phone under her pillow, what the fuck ever, just please God don’t let him stop what he’s doing to me down there. But the whispering kept getting louder.

“What is that?” she said.

“Mumph.” John spoke with his mouth full. The vibration of his voice produced a new, undiscovered sensation, allowing Rosemary to ignore the whispering for a few more seconds. But the voice grew more insistent until Rosemary could make out a few words. She clearly heard it say, “He’s mine.”

A framed picture on the wall fell to the floor with a loud crash. Rosemary sat bolt upright, pushing John’s head away from her lap. The entire bed began to shake violently. Being a life-long California girl, Rosemary’s first thought was earthquake, but that did not explain the whispering or why the room had grown ten degrees colder all at once. A cloying smell of roses and an undeniable feeling of a presence filled the room.