Atlantis, Chapter 2 [M/F] [less sexy and more plotty, but still fun I hope]

Lily was right. It must have been very nearly exactly ten minutes from her walking out the door of my cabin to the dinner-bell chiming softly throughout the whole ship. And now here I am, halfway down a long table with a crisp, clean napkin on my lap, and a crisp, clean plate in front of me. Here and now is my *body*, at least, alongside all the other passengers– but my mind?– my mind is back in my cabin, back in ten minutes ago, fifteen minutes ago– back inside Lily.

I spent most of the last ten minutes washing my hands, my fingers, over and over, scrubbing deep and rough, trying to get rid of her smell, and why?– I love her smell, I want to keep smelling her smell, and I washed well, I think, I can’t smell it anymore, or only barely, but I’m absolutely sure that everyone else at this table can smell it. All of them know, I’m absolutely sure. Jeffery is sitting across from me, our Head of Acquisitions, and we’re chatting half-mindedly about the latest novel from Georgia Yannis, coming out in June, and how much of the Romance market it’s going to grab.

“The book of the Summer,” he says, “I’ve got no doubt about it”– and I’ve got no doubt that he knows. His smile tells me, it says you’ve been fingering a stewardess, Martin, he knows, he knows, how could he not know?

“I haven’t had a chance to read it, yet,” I reply, and it feels somehow like I’m admitting to something just by opening my mouth.

“You should,” says Alice to my left, who oversees the editing staff, and she knows, too, she’s sitting on the side of me with the arm with the hand with the finger that was pulling back the hood of Lily’s clitoris, and that fact is radiating off of that finger like heat, like light, that finger is glowing in the ultraviolet with where it’s been and what it’s done. “It’s a fantastic book, it really is,” says Alice. “Very erotic”– she knows, she knows, why would she say that if she didn’t know?

The only person at the table who doesn’t know is Douglas, to my right– nevermind that he’s sitting on the side of me with the arm with the hand with the fingers that were actually inside Lily, her warmth, her wetness, her softness, her sweetness that I washed and washed and washed and washed before throwing on something resembling an outfit and shuffling here to the *Isabella*’s Grand Hall as the dinner-bell chimed; Douglas doesn’t know anything. Douglas is Mr. August’s nephew, and that’s the only reason he’s here– not just on this trip, but on this planet probably; being the nephew of the CEO of the largest publishing company in the world seems to be his only reason for ever being anywhere or doing anything. I’m not even sure what his title is.

“They’ve got some really hot chicks working this boat, don’t they?” he says, nudging me with his elbow, pointing with his chin towards the two waitresses coming down opposite spiral-staircases at the far end of the Hall, domed serving-platters in each arm– same short black skirts and white blouses as Lily, same tight buns holding in their hair– what happens when those buns are loosened, I wonder, will their hair come dancing out wild like Lily’s, just the same?– blonde on the left, brunette on the right, do they fall mad and free across pillows and bedsheets?– was that what they were doing before coming here to serve us the appetizer?

It hits me, it halts me, the question– Lily likes having sex with passengers, she said, she wouldn’t be here on the *Isabella* if she didn’t like having sex with passengers, she’d get her perfect letter of recommendation to some other job, and so wouldn’t these waitresses, too? Do they also like having sex with passengers? Were their short black pencil-skirts bunched up on the floors of other cabins fifteen minutes ago? Were their crisp white blouses tossed off into corners? Were they wearing the same pale lace bra as Lily?– did they take theirs off like her? Were they wearing the same simple, practical panties?– are they wearing those same panties right now?– did they take off their stockings or leave them on, like Lily did for me?

They reach the bottom of the staircases in perfect unison, perfect balance, and each of them comes strutting down along opposite sides of the table, setting down their platters one after the other. Fifteen minutes ago, were they gasping?– were they moaning? Fifteen minutes ago, did they have someone’s fingers inside them?– the thought is twisting and curling and pressing against my insides, my cock is starting to twist and curl and press again against the inside of my boxers, the fresh pair I threw on. Fifteen minutes ago, did they both have someone’s cock inside them?

Whose?

The waitress with the blonde hair sets down the last of her platters right between me and Jeffery, she leans down over the table to do it, and I get just a hint of her scent, and it’s not quite the same as Lily’s, not the same coconut and almond and tangerine of her skin, certainly not the same salty-sweet sting of her wetness, my fingers. Was someone at this table fucking her fifteen minutes ago?– I can’t get it out of my head, and I’m scared suddenly that the question is humming out from my ears at some hypersonic frequency, that everyone else is picking it up and now it’s not just that they all know I was fingering Lily, no, now they all know that I wasn’t fucking her, and somehow that’s worse.

Maybe I’m the only person at this table who wasn’t fucking someone fifteen minutes ago.

Maybe Douglas didn’t freeze up, and neither did Jeffery, and neither did Alice, and neither did Mr. August or Mr. Thomson or anyone else, maybe I’m the only person who was too shy and awkward and hesitant and–

“Lily says not to overthink things, Mr. Hart,” whispers the blond-haired waitress as she straightens back up. “She wants you to enjoy your dinner, and your dessert as well”

For the hundredth time today, I’m completely off-balance– and before I even get a chance to catch myself, a hundred other things are already happening– at the far end of the Hall, on the balcony at the top of the spiral stairs, out steps a man and all eyes are upon him, and how can they not be?– the lights have dropped, just so, dimmed everywhere except him– the slight crackle of his breath echoes everywhere throughout the room from the microphone pinned to his lapel– he’s taken the moment, the moment is his.

“Ladies and gentleman,” he says from the walls, the ceiling, everywhere. His voice is the same speckled silver as his thick beard, his thinning hair, the same sun-crisp leather of his skin, his voice drips with the money that built this boat, and who knows what else? “My name is Philip French. You may have heard of me”

This is a joke. Everyone laughs. There’s no one alive who hasn’t heard of Philip French, or very nearly no one. The number of people who haven’t heard of Philip French is probably the same as the number of people who have actually met him, face to face. Very nearly no one has actually met Philip French, and now I’m one of those people, just like that. We’re all one of those people, now, we’ve all somehow managed to step into a legend.

“I would like to start by welcoming you to the *Isabella*. I would like also to start by apologizing to you for the meager accommodations”

This is also a joke, probably. Everyone laughs again, because the accommodations have been anything but meager, but maybe Philip French really means it; just look at him, look at what he’s wearing– is that gold-leaf on his suit?– of course it is, of course it is, and of course those are crocodile leather shoes, of course those are pure silk socks, of course those are diamonds on his cufflinks, of course his watch is solid platinum– look at his arm, look at how he has to work to hold it upright against the weight of its value– what isn’t “meager” to Philip French is beyond the understanding of anyone else.

“I assure you,” he says, and he means it, “I *assure* you that what you find arriving to Atlantis will make this simple boat fade forever into the very back of your memory. As well it should. My Atlantis deserves nothing less than the fullness of each of your minds, every last one of your thoughts– and each and every one of you deserves nothing less than my Atlantis”– he speaks with such love for that word, “Atlantis”, the word is a dream to him, we can hear it. And any moment now, he’ll tell us the truth of it. “I am sure all of you have been wondering”

Of course we have– we’re nodding to each other, to him, we’ve been wondering and wondering– every moment we haven’t spent with our fingers or our cocks in someone we’ve been wondering– or with someone’s fingers or cocks in us, what about Alice? What about Nia or Vanessa?– and I’m squirming in my seat, I’m writhing just a little bit, keeping my parts in check the best I can because *what about them*?– who might they have invited back to their cabins?– there are male crewmembers, too, aren’t there?– I’ve seen them, there are– or did they invite back women?– I don’t want to think that the thought of that makes me so much more aroused because I don’t like what that says about me if it does, but it does, it does, and before I can stuff down the image, Philip French has taken the moment again– he’s picked the left-hand staircase to descend along, the light follows him as he goes, his footsteps report through all the speakers hidden wherever they’re hidden.

“The truth is, I can’t tell you about Atlantis any more than any of my crew can”

A few of us raise eyebrows.

“I’ve signed the same non-disclosure as all of them, as all of you, and if I breathe even a word of it on this boat, my company will sue me for every last penny I have, and I’ll lose, I’ve made sure of it. That’s what this is worth. My Atlantis deserves nothing less, just like I’ve told you”

The way he says it, there’s something in the way he says it, that he might lose everything, every last penny, he says it like it’s a beautiful thing.

“And just like I’ve told you, you deserve nothing less than my Atlantis”– at the bottom of the stairs, Philip French holds out an arm towards Mr. August– the light snaps right along there with him– “My dear friend Harry– you all know Harry, you all work for Harry. You all understand Harry’s dream; *I* understand Harry’s dream. Harry August’s dream is not so different from my dream, after all. Harry August’s dream is *stories*”

He’s right, I think. Mr. August’s dream is stories. Why would he have started Calliope House otherwise, why would he have named it like he did? Why would I have come to work for him if his dream hadn’t been stories? Why would I have come to work for him if my dream hadn’t been stories, too? For just an instant I forget about fifteen minutes ago, and I think of five years ago instead, and the five years since then. For just an instant I think about all the stories I’ve been a part of making happen.

“You should be proud,” Philip French tells me, tells all of us, and we are proud. I am proud. “There is nothing more important than stories. Everything I do, I do for stories, and soon enough, you will see that for yourself– soon enough you will see that stories are at the very heart of my Atlantis, and so who better than you to come and drink it in, the height of everything I believe and cherish? And for everyone who has already come and drunk it, for all of the people who have made this journey on the *Isabella* before you, I am sure that there has been no one, no group of people who will be able to see, really see, my vision, like you will. There has been no one who will understand quite like you will understand, you who dream of stories”– the light is back on him, now, it stays with him all the way to the head of the table, where at last he sits– “But for now, let’s eat”

Yet again, everybody is laughing as the lights lift, as the Hall returns to normal, as Philip French’s mic cuts out, and we’re once again in the real world, or something like it– a private boat the size of a stadium, churning across the Pacific to somewhere no one can say anything about, that’s the realness of the world right now.

The two waitresses start back up the length of the table again, lifting the domes from the platters. The blonde waitress– her name is “Heather”, that’s what it says on her nametag, Heather doesn’t whisper anything else to me as she bends over again between me and Jeffery, she simply takes the cover from the platter and walks away, and Douglas watches her go.

“What an ass,” he says, and there’s something beautiful about him saying that, there’s something poetic.

He’s not entirely wrong, either. I’m watching the waitress go, too. What does that say about me?– I don’t know, I don’t care right now, I don’t have it in me to care. The most delicious smell is filling the room, and if there was any last bit of Lily I failed to get off of my fingers, it’s overshadowed entirely at this point– the air is ravioli, beef ravioli, and the next thirty minutes are beef ravioli, and it’s meaningless to try and talk about the food any more than that. Words can’t make sense of food like this, and no one even says anything about how good it is, nobody wants to be the one to say that and have Philip French shaking his head and saying he supposes that yes, it’s passable food if you’re in a pinch. Everyone talks about other things– Jeffery across from me is back onto Georgia Yannis’s latest book, “Between Her Toes”, and Vanessa sitting next to him who also hasn’t read it just like I haven’t read it is wondering if the title refers to sand or a foot-fetish, and Alice is nodding and saying “Yes” and now all three of them are laughing, and I’m laughing, too, I want to be one of the ones laughing, and if I don’t try and be part of that conversation, I’m going to wind up talking to Douglas instead.

“The title may need changing,” Alice admits. “I mean, I don’t want to go around shaming anyone for what they’re into, but…”

“But…” Jeffery echoes, nodding.

“Butts,” says Vanessa, “You don’t want to go around shaming people for being into butts”– and now everyone is laughing again.

“Have you read any of Yannis’s earlier works?” Jeffery asks me– he’s trying to pull me into this, bless him– Jeffery is a good man and a half– “I mean, Georgia definitely writes for more of a female audience–”

“Here, here,” toasts Alice.

“But it’s good stuff, either way”– Jeffery leans back against the ridiculously comfortable cushion of his seat– all these chairs are just ridiculously comfortable, red satin, I feel like I’m eating in a living-room– “Ever gotten the chance?”

I shrug– “Honestly… not so much. It’s not like I hate romance, I mean”– I don’t know why I feel the need to say that, but it feels like something I need to say, I don’t want to seem like I just hate the whole genre– “I’ve always been more of an adventure-guy myself. Action, suspense, mystery. I like plane-crashes, iced-over mountain caves full of secrets, you know?– that sort of thing”

Vanessa asks me if I’ve ever tried writing myself, and I’m laughing again, I’m the only one laughing, but it’s okay. I tell her no, and the world is a better place for it, and now they’re all laughing, too, even Vanessa is laughing as she’s shaking her head.

“Don’t go selling yourself short,” she says. “I mean, I’ve definitely tried writing a little, and it’s… I mean, it’s not Shakespeare, but it’s not terrible– and if *I* can do not-terrible, *anyone* can do not-terrible, believe me on that”

“Writing romance?”

“Something like romance”– Vanessa tosses Alice a knowing sort of smile, and Alice is smiling back, and of course the two of them have been trading dirty stories because that’s what people do but I’m not listening anymore because another group of waitresses are bringing out the next course, and there’s Lily, right at the head of the pack.

I swear to God, it’s like another big speech is about to start– it’s like all the lights have dropped again, except for on her, and it’s like there’s a mic pinned to her blouse, we can all hear her heels on the marble and her calm, level, breathing, and how the hell is her blouse so neat and crisp anyways?– it looks as though nothing had happened, her hair is in the same neat bun as all the other waitresses’ her skirt is just as smooth and sprim and perfect, she’s indistinguishable from the first moment I met her, like nothing had happened, like I never happened, like I’ve been rewound over.

But I know. I know she’s wearing a pale coral bra under there, lacy. I know she’s wearing practical black cotton panties, I know that. I know that her labia stick peek out, poke out, from the rest of her, and I know how easily they spread, and I know how easily she gets wet, she gets so wet, and I know the scent and the feel of her wetness, and I know the feeling of her clitoris on the tips of my fingers, like a tiny jewel, smooth and polished, I know the warmth inside her, and the softness– I know that, and she knows that, and no one else knows that, just the two of us. Nevermind what Douglas or Jeffery or Vanessa or Alice or Mr. August or Mr. Thomson were doing fifteen minutes before dinner, none of them know what Lily and I know. It belongs to us.

I watch her as she walks, a tray on each arm, and I keep expecting her to glance my way, meet my eye, and the calm of her face will melt into a smile or something else, soft and subtle, drowning in me like I’m drowning in her, any moment now she’ll glance my way– but she doesn’t.

Not really.

Her eyes pass over my end of the table, they hit me, they meet me, and they carry on like nothing. She looks at me at like she looks at Alice to my left, like she looks at Douglas to my right. I’m “Mr. Hart”, that’s how she looks at me, I’m not “Martin”– I’m a passenger. She likes to have sex with passengers. She’s had sex with lots of passengers, and passengers are passengers whether she has sex with them or not. She sets down her two trays, she turns, she marches with all the other waitresses back towards the little door below the bend of the right-hand staircase that they came pouring out from a minute ago, and she’s gone, and the door’s shut behind her– out of my cabin, into the hallway, she’s gone with the door shut behind her, out of the Hall and back into the kitchen, she’s gone with the door shut behind her, like she was never here, but really it’s more like I was never here.

Jeffery and Alice and Vanessa are taking big happy slurps of their cream-of-mushroom soup, and they’re talking about something else, now, I don’t know what they’re talking about. I make sure to laugh when they laugh, and besides that I don’t listen. I take sips of my soup, too, little sips, that’s what you do at the table– I’m not really hungry. It’s very good soup. It’s as good as the ravioli. I’m sure Philip French is disappointed in it. I’m sure he’s up at the head of the table right now apologizing the Mr. August and promising that the food in his Atlantis will be much more impressive. Or maybe there isn’t food in Atlantis. Maybe Atlantis isn’t a place, but a drug, maybe Atlantis is getting far enough into International Waters that no one is going to come cause any problems when we all start snorting Atlantis and hearing colors– or maybe Atlantis is all of us getting tossed overboard to sharks as Philip French watches, masturbating furiously– Atlantis is all about stories, isn’t it?– that was what he said, wasn’t it?– that would certainly be a story, wouldn’t it?

Maybe Atlantis has already happened. Maybe Atlantis was Lily, an hour ago now, maybe that was Atlantis– maybe we all got a visit like that, and maybe they all went the same way, the way that made us feel stuttering, patchwork, unfinished, maybe we were all trying to get someone to catch our eye as the waitresses came marching out and maybe all of us failed, and now all of us are feeling this feeling, like no other feeling, and not a single one of us will ever be able to tell anyone about it because we all signed those papers; hell of a thing.

I think maybe I want it to be that. I want not to be the only one. Fuck.

Soon enough, everyone is done with their soup. Even I’m done with my soup– nevermind how slowly I was sipping it, nevermind how small my sips were, nevermind how not hungry I was, it was very good soup, and I finished it just the same as everyone else, and now another gaggle of waitresses is coming out to clear the table, and maybe Lily is one of them and maybe she isn’t, I don’t bother looking, I don’t want to look for her, and look at her, and have her not look at me– but no, that’s bullshit, my eyes are rising from my empty bowl whether I want them to or not, they’re scanning the Hall whether I want them to or not, and no, Lily hasn’t come out again, or if she has I’ve missed her, I haven’t found her yet– it’s a male waiter now leaning over the table beside me, clearing away my bowl and my plates, and my silverware– he’s taking all of it, why is he taking all of it?– even my napkin, he’s taking my napkin.

“What’s for dessert?” I ask him– what’s the sort of desert you don’t even need a napkin for?

The waiter shakes his head– “Kyle”, that’s his name– “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Hart, I’m afraid we won’t be serving dessert here tonight,” Kyle tells me, and he really is sorry, his sorry-ness about this sings to me, Kyle hates disappointing passengers– “Mr. French is a man with many things, nearly everything, even, but what he does not have is a sweet-tooth. Dessert is never served with dinner aboard the *Isabella*, not when he is eating. The mere scent of sugar upsets his stomach– but I would be perfectly happy to have the kitchen prepare some chocolate cake, perhaps?– we have all the ingredients as a matter of course, Mr. Hart– we can send you ice-cream as well, if you’d like, or perhaps a tiramisu to your cabin?”– he hates disappointing passengers, he really does, Kyle is listing off every dessert he can think of, promising me the moon and the stars delivered straight to my door, anything not to disappoint me, but I’m not disappointed at all, he doesn’t have to worry. No dessert is the best news I’ve heard all night– the best news I’ve heard in my life, why not?– it’s exactly what I wanted to hear and I didn’t even know I wanted it.

I thank Kyle, and I tell him no thank you, thank you but it’s quite alright, I don’t need any sweets sent to my cabin. “It’s not a problem, I’m perfectly happy going without,” I tell him, because I know that I will not be going without.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “It’s really no trouble, Mr. Hart”

“I’m sure,” I answer, and he’s right, it’s no trouble. I give him a reassuring smile as he finally turns and walks away– he’s reassured, and I am reassured.

“What an ass,” says Douglas, watching Kyle go, and I’m not sure if he’s joking, and I don’t really know what the joke is if he *is* joking. I don’t really care.

“Mhmm,” I say back, and I wait very patiently along with everyone else for Philip French to rise from his seat at the head of the table– we all rise with him, like he’s a king, or an emperor.

“I can only apologize again for the meal,” he tells us, and we’re all shaking our heads, holding up our hands to say no, no, we’ve never eaten quite like that, there’s nothing to apologize for, this will all have been worth it just for that meal, but Philip French is having none of it– “I swear to you all, from the very bottom of my heart, just as I swore before, that my Atlantis will push all of this trip to the back of your memory, this trip and all the rest of your life up until now”

I clap along with the rest of the table, and I nod with everyone else like I’m accepting his promise, but I’m not– Philip French is wrong, completely wrong, there’s nothing in all the world that’ll be able to push tonight out of my memory, who cares what his Atlantis might be? The blonde waitress passed me a message from Lily telling me not to overthink things, to just enjoy my dinner and my dessert, and I’ve just finished enjoying my dinner, and Kyle has just finished telling me that there’s not going to *be* any dessert, and so what am I going to enjoy next?

Lily is my dessert. I’m going to enjoy Lily next. I clap again along with everyone else as Philip French wishes us goodnight and starts back towards the stairways to his own world above, and I shuffle out of the Hall along with everyone else, I say goodnight to Jeffery and Alice and Vanessa and Douglas, even– I say goodnight to Mr. August, even, as we pass each other, and it is, it’s going to be, this is going to be a very good night. Lily is waiting for me in my cabin. Lily is my dessert, delivered straight to my door, and the whole way to my door, I’m smiling to myself, a little grin, a big grin, I can’t stuff down my grin into anything smaller than my entire face, down the two-and-a-half lavishly finished corridors between the lavishly finished Grand Hall and my lavishly finished cabin, I’m grinning like a madman, and maybe I am a madman– feel the pounding of my heart, like a battering ram, like the bam-bam-bam striking of a meteorite shower into the Earth, feel the sweat down my back, under my arms– my legs are sweating, my feet are sweating, my palms are sweating– the insides of my eyeballs are sweating, every last part of me is tingling, I’m an absolute madman and why shouldn’t I be? Lily is waiting for me in my cabin, and now here I am at my cabin, right at the door, and I’m sliding my card, there’s the beep, and I’m opening the door, and there she is on the bed, sitting right on the edge of the bed, there she is.

The blonde waitress. Heather.

“Ah, hello, Mr. Hart,” she says, glancing up at me. Smiling, not quite like I’m smiling– I’m not smiling, not anymore. She rises from the bed as the door swings shut behind me, blotting away the light of the hallway. “Are you ready to get started?”

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/mxo4ut/atlantis_chapter_2_mf_less_sexy_and_more_plotty