He sensed I didn’t want to waste much time, but let me swallow him deep a few times before he pushed forward onto the bed, flattening me in the process. The rest of our clothes were shed at that point, while I pulled a condom out of the side table drawer. I kicked off my socks while he put it on.. I wrapped my legs around his back and pulled him into me.
With every thrust I felt like sparks flew down to my toes and from the tips of my fingers. I thought again of junior high, a trip to the beach-baking in the sun for an hour and then running headlong down the sand and plunging into the cool water. An intensely pleasurable shock. A shockingly intense pleasure. And Jason gave it to me again and again.
I thrust my hips up to meet him, trying to match rhythm to get an almost violent crash of bodies. It’s hard to admit, but I wanted him to fuck me so hard that it would hurt. It was one of the reasons I liked picking up strangers-they were unlikely to worry much about whether I was in pain or not. Anonymous encounters tended to fuck with abandon. Of course, sometimes that meant that I would end up abandoned, if he’d come before me or if he couldn’t keep it up. But somehow Jason was hanging in there, giving it to me and giving it to me.
When I’m that wet and when I’ve wanted it for so long, I can fuck for a long time. I started to worry that he wouldn’t last, but I didn’t want to say anything. Just when my worrying began to distract me from the pleasure, he whispered, “It’s okay. I can do it.” And he began to dunk harder, and I lost myself.
The orgasm was coming-but if I followed my usual pattern, I would need a tad more clit stimulation. I tried to slide my hand along my stomach, but bumped into his hand, beating me to it. He had turned his long arm partway over and slid his thumb down over the very slippery, sensitive bump. The ripples in my midsection started that instant. My legs shook and my heels drummed on his back as I quaked with the power of coming. I wondered if this would make him go off, too, but when I settled back into the bed, he was still lodged deep in me, fucking me slowly and contentedly
Wash, rinse, repeat. After a while, he sped up, my muscles started to contract, he would rub my clit, and… insert sound effects like Fourth of July fireworks here. And again. And maybe again… I can’t do math when I’m like that. I kept thinking, oh, this time he’ll go off, too. But he didn’t. And then I started to feel like I’d had enough and I feared that he hadn’t, and I was going to end up having to go through the ordeal of letting him fuck me when I didn’t want to anymore. It would not be fair, after all, to get what I wanted and leave him unsatisfied.
Suddenly he pulled out, and lay back next to me, and smiled.
“You didn’t come,” I said.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes.” I put my hand on his chest and felt his heart beating hard. “I’m sure of it.”
“You’re right.”
“Do you want me to go down on you?” I could not move, at that point, as I lay there, thoroughly screwed, but I figured I’d be able to sit up in a few minutes.
“No, that’s okay,” he said, sounding sleepy, or maybe I was projecting my feelings onto him. “You just rest.”
We lay there in the semi-dark of the street light and after a short nap, my brain began to perk up. That’s when I realized that I had never told him where I lived, nor how to get there. He had been following me all evening, by his own admission. I didn’t think I would feel so comfortable snuggling up to a psycho. Did I have a stalker?
“No,” he said, stroking my hair. “I can read your mind.”
“What do you mean, you can read my mind?” I guess I thought it was some mushy romantic thing he was trying to say. But I was wrong. He meant it in the most literal sense.
“In the bookstore, you picked up that cookbook because you thought the cover image looked phallic.”
“Spring rolls and bananas.”
“Then you watched that clerk, the one with the nose ring, walk by, and decided you really didn’t like the way he smelled.” His voice was soothing in the dark. “That’s the smell of patchouli, by the way.”
“And what was I thinking about when we were in the train station?”
“The Man Who Came To Dinner.”
“Holy shit.” That was the play we’d done in drama club. That convinced me that he really could read my mind.. “So you were following me around all night, and knew how horny I was the whole time.”
“Yes.”
I propped myself up on an elbow and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s for making me wait so long.” Then I kissed him, long and deep, until we were both breathless.
He started to get up and I thought, aha, now he’ll want to come. But he made a quick trip to the bathroom, and when he returned, began to get dressed.
I asked him if he wanted to come and he smiled that sweet smile at me. “Yes, very much. But I’m going to wait.”
I wasn’t sure what to think about that. “Why?”
“You wanted me to experience the exquisite pain you had gone through. I figured I’d try it.” He leaned over me and kissed me on the lips, then on the forehead.
It struck me then that I couldn’t just let him walk away, like any other anonymous encounter. “Will you come back tomorrow?”
“If you want me to.”
“You have to.” I told him I wouldn’t feel complete until he came, too.
And he said: “I know.”
Good Girl by Sharazade
“Can you be a good girl, Shar?”
Of course, lover. I promised.
It’s Sunday-it should be a day to sleep in and then fool around in bed all morning, but the agreement was, we could go wild on Saturday if I promised you uninterrupted time to work on Sunday. We slept in just a bit, now we’ll have a leisurely breakfast and read the paper, and then you’ll do your work. I’ll be good. I have work to do myself, you know.
You look so handsome, darling! Fresh from the shower, wrapped in a flannel robe that you haven’t bothered to tie (in fact, I can almost see… but no, the table is in the way). I’m already dressed, in a sundress I know is just your type of thing: royal blue with white polka dots, a low cut scoop neckline, a short swishy skirt. Not that you’ve said anything about it yet, since you’re eating and half-glancing at the headlines in the paper, not really looking at me.
I’d never fish for a compliment, would never be that crass, but I might just brush by you (more tea, lover?)… ah, yes, an affectionate pat on my behind. If you slipped your hand up under my skirt, you’d notice I’m wearing one of your favorite pairs of panties, the oh-so-thin cream-colored ones. You might, in fact, want to lift my skirt, have a peek at the almost translucent fabric stretched over my ass? Instead: a light smack! “You bad girl!” And then your hand is picking up a tea cup, so no more pats, I guess. I can’t resist a bit of a flounce, though, as I return to my seat.
Bad girl. Naughty girl. I hear that a lot from you. Last night you pulled me onto your lap, facing you, my legs to either side, and you kissed me deeply; then pressed up against my breasts from the bottom of their demi-cups so that my nipples rose above, rubbing on the thin fabric of my shirt. You bit one, then the other, through the cloth, hard enough to make me gasp and squirm and rub myself against you. “Naughty girl, Shar,” I heard as I ground myself down on the bulge in your pants, and felt your hands tighten on my hips.
It’s funny, isn’t it, how words with opposite meanings can express such similar thoughts. A hot outfit can be cool. And a bad girl… well, if you like it, then that’s good, right? Yet it seems to me that I hear what a “bad creature” or “naughty thing” I am far more often than I hear “Good girl.” Not that I mind. Of course not. Whatever gets you hot, lover, that’s what I want too.
As I clear the table and wash up the few dishes we used, you carry the paper over to the sofa. Right. First the paper, then work. I know better than to hang around you while you’re working (last time that got me tied up for an hour… though come to think of it, that was not without its own rewards), but at least we can read the paper
