One Night Only

by Violet Blue

  “Okay.” I told him where I was staying, then sighed with relief as he stood and walked away, just as Sharon turned her attention back to me. “What was that all about?”

  “He’s a psychiatrist,” I lied smilingly. “We were comparing notes on how to quiet unruly patients.”

  “Fucking nerve,” she shrugged. “I’ll tell you who needs a psychiatrist. That smug shit who just spent the last ninety minutes boring us to death talking about his books. I tell you, if he could fuck like he can talk, I’d still have him chained to the bed right now.”

  “Instead?” I ventured.

  “Instead, I gave him a hand job in the lift, then went back to the bar and picked up the bellhop.” She smiled apologetically. “Yeah, well it sounded a lot more glamorous the other way ’round, didn’t it?”

  Robin—funny, I’ve never known a male Robin before, apart from Robin Hood, but apparently it’s common where he grew up—was there at seven on the dot. “I would have brought you flowers,” he said as I appeared in the lobby. “But I didn’t think you’d want to carry them around with you all evening.”

  I smiled. Actually, I’d rather he’d brought me a selection from his backlist—his company’s books aren’t cheap. “No worries. So where are we going?”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t sure, so I made reservations at my hotel restaurant. Which just happens to be your hotel restaurant as well. Small world, isn’t it?”

  “Very.” Damn, I was rather hoping we’d be off somewhere else. The last person I wanted to see tonight was Sharon, but there wasn’t much chance of avoiding her now. She’d already told me she was eating in this evening, in the hope of getting eaten out later.

  Clearly, however, I’d underestimated my escort. Yes, we were in the hotel restaurant. But who knew that they had semiprivate rooms, just two or three tables, well screened from other diners, and insulated, too, from the noise of the lobby and the muzak in the elevators? “You can even hire violinists to serenade you while you eat,” said Robin. “But I thought that might be pushing it a bit.”

  “Just a bit.” Shit, what was wrong with me tonight? I can normally talk up a charming storm, especially with someone as cute as Robin. Instead I was reduced to monosyllables and not especially entertaining ones at that. “So tell me about yourself?” I decided to let him do the talking for a while. It would probably be a lot safer that way—and so it proved, because by the time we’d finished dessert, neither of us was in any doubt of where we were heading next. The only question was, whose room was the bed in?

  Mine, It turned out. But not, I’m afraid, through choice. He paid the check, we finished our coffee, I stood, then stooped to pick up my purse—and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, alone in pitch darkness. I turned my head and the Indiglo numerals on the clock by my bed read 4:05. I sat up, reached for where I knew the bedside lamp was and switched it on. Yes, my room, my bed. Someone had thoughtfully decided to remove a few of my clothes, but my bra and panties were still in place, and a blanket had obviously been pulled across me at some point.

  Later, Robin told me that I’d blacked out in the restaurant; that the hotel doctor checked me out and declared it was probably a twenty-four-hour bug; then he and Robin carried me up to my room. “Best if she just sleeps it off,” said the doc, and Robin, the sweetheart, said he’d stay there with me in case I woke up in the night and felt worse. I knew that bit already, though, because he was the next thing I saw, stretched out on the couch at the far end of the room, a book on his chest and fast asleep.

  I sat watching him for a moment. The evening had been alive with promise…when he touched my hand, I swear I saw sparks, and when he took it and pressed it to his lips and murmured something that I only just heard (but I know the words “taste you” were in there somewhere), I almost wet myself there and then. In fact, now that I thought about it, the fact that I didn’t wet myself should have warned me right away that I wasn’t feeling quite right. Add that to my earlier inability to speak coherently, and maybe to the ease with which I fell asleep at the lecture, and the doctor was probably right. Maybe I did have a bug.

  But I felt fine now. Finer than fine. I climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Robin didn’t stir, and I smiled at the bare feet protruding from beneath his blanket; smiled, too, as I spotted his trousers neatly folded on the chair, and his shirt carefully hung on the back.

  I cleaned my teeth, peed, then stepped back into the room. He hadn’t moved since I last passed, and I wondered about something: he’d left my underwear in place—what about his? I tiptoed to his side, crouched and lifted one corner of the blanket: long legs, hairy and muscular, and a pair of cotton briefs, good old-fashioned Y-fronts. Well, that answered that.

  The thing is, there’s a lot you can do with a pair of Y-fronts, especially if, like these, they’re a little loose. For instance, using the tip of one finger, you can lift up one of the flaps and who knows what you’ll find in there, all curled up and sleeping, just like its owner? And, if you’re really careful, and you make sure to use your finger to gently roll it, rather than using your nail to hook it out, you can maneuver that something till it’s just peeking out, still warm and unsuspecting. Then you can lean forward a little and stretch out your tongue…careful, don’t jog him with your chin, just let him sleep on…and you just circle around that little slit with the tiniest tip of your tongue.

  A story came to mind, one I’d read online a few nights before, about a girl who awakened her husband by sucking gently on his cock. What a wonderful way to greet a new day that must be. And it must be pretty good for the guy as well. I leaned forward a little closer and licked again. The taste on my tongue was tart but tantalizing as I danced lightly around that one closed eye, and this time I was rewarded with the merest hint of movement.

  I glanced up at Robin’s sleeping face. He lay impassive, completely unaware. But his dick knew something was going on, and as I ran my tongue once more across him, I could see it unfurling beneath the fabric of his briefs, thickening and strengthening, and pushing through the flap.

  Boldly, I dragged my tongue across his helmet, then down onto the shaft. He wasn’t fully erect yet—at best, he was semisoft. But, even in the dim light cast by my bedside lamp, he was an impressive-looking fellow. I concentrated for a moment on that supersensitive spot, right where the helmet meets the shaft, and this time I got a twitch. And another one. That’s it, my beauty, just keep on hardening, and I’ll do the rest.

  Flat on his back, Robin slept on. Was he dreaming, I wondered? And, if he was, was the state of his cock playing any part in it? I worked up a little spit and dribbled it onto his helmet. I blew gently. Another twitch and at last, his cock made its first attempt to rise, to reach out to whatever was teasing it so. A little more spit, a little more air, and this time…gotcha. His helmet was in my mouth, and I shuffled forward a little to inch my lips down his now rigid shaft.

  I placed a finger between my legs and pressed against my panties, lightly stroking myself. For the first time, I thought about shaking him, but no. If Robin was going to awaken, then so be it. I wasn’t going to give him any more help than I already was.

  I sucked, gently and tentatively. He was still thickening; I could feel my jaw being pushed farther apart to accommodate his growing girth. I clamped my finger and thumb around the base of his shaft, holding him steady as I leaned in farther, feeling him sinking into my mouth, tapping the roof, nudging my throat. Then I moved back and forth, fucking him slowly, while my tongue lay flat on the bottom of my mouth, sending soft waves of motion against his flesh.

  I had a rhythm, in my mouth and in my pussy—my finger was inside me now, stroking up toward my clitoris, circling around and then flitting away. I didn’t want to come, not yet, and not like that. But I wanted to be ready for that moment when he did, and though I was sure that he was still asleep, I also knew that I would not be waiting long.

  His hips were moving with me now, not violently or forcefully, but en
ough to let me know that more of his body was joining the party. My pinkie brushed his tight balls. They were huge, too, and I pictured myself trying to suck on them. It would have to be one at a time, but that was no hardship. It just gave me twice as much fun.

  Precome on my tongue: I could taste it leaking now, sharp and maybe just a little too bitter. Well, it’s not a trip to Baskin-Robbins . Robin, Robbins. I smiled at the synchronicity, but closed my mind to the rest of that thought. There’s no law that says I have to swallow…hell, there’s not even one that says he has to come in my mouth.

  But isn’t that half the fun of it? The salty shock, the liquid heat, the look in his eyes as I gulp down his muck…eyes I was suddenly conscious of, gazing down in shock and awe as my head bobbed down along his straining, stretching monster. And then he was pulling back, trying to draw away, and the faint moan that was escaping his lips was now stammering in panic: “Shit, Chrissie, I’m coming…oh, god, here it comes!”

  I was holding on fast, though, and I wasn’t about to be cheated. Feeling his release and tasting it too—not so bad, after all, and a double scoop at least. I swallowed hard, feeling it thick and slick in my throat, and my own tensions were bursting in a wave that rushed up from the pit of my stomach to mix with the magic that was racing down from my throat. And I was still sucking, draining down the last drops, until I had to let go and fall flat on his lap, my breath hot and salty, my taste buds still dancing.

  His hand was on my head. “Chrissie. That…you…were marvelous. Nobody’s ever done that before. Not like that.”

  I couldn’t resist a light tease. “Really? What did I do that was different?”

  “You didn’t stop.” Hmmm, did I detect a faint stutter?

  “Well, of course not. Should I have?”

  “Other girls…” This was hard for him, and I silently chastised myself for making him spit it out. Or not. “Other girls say they don’t like it.”

  “But how do they know if they’ve never done it with you?”

  He was silent for a moment. “They tried it before, I guess.”

  “Well, they obviously did it wrong.” I don’t know, I’ve never understood those girls who’ll go through life avoiding something, just because they didn’t like it the first time. And then make a virtue out of it to a later lover, as though he really needs to know that he can’t have what he wants, because some other guy got it first. Make up a lie, invent an excuse, tell him you want to save it for a special treat. But don’t tell him that he cannot come in your mouth…or up your ass, or across your tits, or wherever else he might ask if he can do it…just because someone else did it first. That’s not just rude, it’s spiteful too, like him telling you he won’t eat your cooking because his ex-wife’s potatoes were hotter.

  “Hey, what are you thinking about?” Robin’s question burst into my mind.

  “Oh, sorry.” I shook my head. “Something a friend of mine was saying, about how more lovers lie about what we just did, than just about any other act there is.”

  Robin chuckled and ruffled my hair. “‘I promise I won’t come in your mouth.’”

  I kissed his softness, felt it stir and raised it with a gentle fist. “Good,” I said. “I’m glad to hear that.” I lowered my head to suck on his helmet, then stopped and looked back up at him. “Oh, and yes, I’m feeling a lot better now. Thank you for asking.”

  “I kind of figured that out for myself,” he said slowly. “And now, in the spirit of the absolute honesty with which we have apparently sworn to abide, please carry on with what you were just doing, or this time, I promise, I really won’t come in your mouth.”

  I raised one hand and saluted smartly. “In that case, maybe I’ll come in yours.” And he was already reaching for my hips before I’d even finished my sentence.

  HOLE IN YOUR POCKET

  Donna George Storey

  Does every woman have a man like this in her life?

  You step into the classroom on the first day of your first seminar, and your eyes are immediately drawn to him. You hear a little Oh, my in your head and spend the rest of the afternoon shooting quick glances in his direction. He grins at you, and your stomach does a flip. After a few collegial chats in the history department’s student lounge, however, you learn he’s engaged to someone back home, not that you’re ready to settle down with anyone yourself. Not even a slim young man with honey hair, sapphire eyes and a smile like the first day of summer vacation.

  You quickly become “friends.” The two of you take long walks around campus as veils of orange and pink and violet trail across the western sky. You always feel smarter and prettier around him. You talk about everything, even things you don’t tell your new boyfriend who just wouldn’t understand. Sometimes he tells you about his fiancée, and you always do your best to sound respectful, even in awe, of their beautiful relationship. You notice he doesn’t smile quite as much when you talk about your boyfriend, unless you’re complaining a little, then he hints, diplomatically, that you deserve the best in life and should never settle for less.

  In all that time you never do anything more than hug, hugs that never last long enough because you want to float in the heat of his arms and take all sustenance solely from his delicious scent of cumin and shampoo. Even the bristle of his five o’clock shadow on your cheek feels like the finest velvet. You’re dreading his wedding, but you go anyway because he’d be hurt if you didn’t. His wife is prettier than you are by all common measures—her hair is blonder, her breasts are bigger, her legs are longer—but somehow you sense the marriage won’t last. You tell yourself it’s your own jealousy and vow to stop lusting after a married man.

  He moves to D.C. to take a job teaching modern European history at Georgetown, and you lose touch for a while. But then, a couple of years later, you run into each other at a conference. You stay up until three in the morning in an Irish bar drinking and talking like the years have melted away. You begin to email regularly—chatty notes about work, politics, the meaning of history. It’s all very safe and intellectual, but your pulse still jumps when you see his name in your in-box.

  The next time you “happen” to be drinking into the wee hours at a conference, he admits things haven’t been going well with his wife for some time, and they’ve decided to separate. You feel sad for him even if you get to be right.

  When he finds out he didn’t get tenure, you’re the first person he calls. He claims it’s a gift. I’ve spent my whole fucking life doing what other people told me to do and now I’m done with it. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

  You think, with a smile, that you wish he’d put you on the list of things to fuck, too. That night you masturbate to your usual fantasy about him. You’re in a tiny room together, the size of a small closet. Inside it’s dark and humid, but you can hear the chatter and music of a fancy party right outside the door. He pins you to the wall and makes love to you right there, his dick skewering you so hard you’re forced up on your toes. You can’t make a sound to show your pleasure or you’ll be caught, humiliated, shamed before the respectable people outside. You bite back your cries in real life, too, and the orgasm is so intense, tears of pleasure roll down your cheeks. Then you lick your salty fingers and imagine it’s his come.

  In June he calls and says he’s taking a whole year off just to figure out his life. He’s always wanted to travel to Asia, in no small part because of your interest in the area. It just so happens he’ll be spending one night in San Francisco on his way to Tokyo. He asks if you’ll be around, and without thinking, you insist he stay at your place.

  But then you reconsider. It’s a dangerous combination, the two of you alone in your apartment, both of you free. One glass of wine and you’ll probably make a fool of yourself, confess your sick “imprisoned in the closet” fantasy, or brush your lips tellingly against his cheek when you give him a “friendly” hug good night. And then he’ll know what you’ve been dreaming of all along. He’ll pity you for it.

  You curl up on
your guest room futon, where he’ll be sleeping in one short week, and give yourself a good pep talk. You imagine a golden veil around his whole body, a barrier that will protect the purity of your friendship forever. Because part of the pleasure of your secret lust is that you have never fucked him and never will. That’s why your relationship is so perfect.

  Confident in your motives, you clean every inch of your apartment and prepare your signature “scattered sushi” platter and homemade green-tea ice cream. He always praised your offerings at the department potlucks back in the old days.

  The doorbell rings.

  Your heart is hammering, but you force yourself to glide to the door like a queen.

  The sight of him in your doorway is like a punch to the solar plexus. He is thinner than when you last saw him, and his cheeks show a day’s growth of travel-weary blond beard. But he is so gleamingly gorgeous in the summer dusk, the words of friendly greeting catch in your throat.

  He steps forward and wraps you in his arms.

  You are totally enveloped in his warm, muscular embrace, his dizzying male scent. He doesn’t pull away. You immediately understand this is not the usual hug.

  Yes.

  You could be the one to pull back but you tighten your arms around him instead, and he moans, a faintly mournful sound. He squeezes you harder still as if he’ll crush you. You think of that hot little room in your brain where he fucks and fucks and fucks you up against the wall until your knees turn to hot butterscotch.

  Your legs are already melting.

  You aren’t exactly surprised when his lips find yours. His whiskers scrape your chin and cheeks, but the punishment excites you. You immediately open your mouth to his tongue, sucking him deep inside like a cock.

  Yes.

  You kiss like teenagers, tongues twirling and sparring, as if you’re afraid you’ll be forced to stop. This isn’t supposed to be happening, and yet how absurdly easy it is to slip over the line. It’s like the time you found a hole in the pocket of your jeans at a party. Your finger slipped right through, and you couldn’t help but take advantage of the secret entrance to tickle the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh with your fingertip. You pulled your hand out guiltily, but soon found an excuse to go to the powder room where you forced open the entire pocket with your fist then masturbated and watched yourself come in the vanity mirror.