by Sasha Pearl
I can’t help but grind on her hand, my body wants to go faster than we are going, it wants to race to the end and cum all over her face.
She looks up at me and shakes her head then goes back down right in the middle and so lightly -- oh my GOD how can anyone do this so lightly and patiently? -- she licks my clit.
At first I can hardly feel it, I’m so delighted by her two fingers going up and around and wishing they were harder, faster, but now my clit is throbbing and burning and I think she might be sucking it a little now.
And now a little more.
You are controlling her.
Every time you move into her, she sucks me just a little, pushes her fingers into me just a tiny bit more firmly and no one is playing with my tits and then I realize I’m holding my tits and I don’t want to cum but if I pinch my nipples just a little bit harder I might and I don’t want to cum so I reach down and pinch her nipples. In response she stops sucking my clit and moves her face lower and now she is tongue fucking me and I love this so much it’s enough but she gives me more and her wet slippery soft delicate fingers are on my clit first so lightly and then harder and finally you move faster in her and she moves a little faster on me and that’s when I’m absolutely sure she came for the first time.
ESCAPE
I know she’s coming in the way her pushing against me changes, softens, then tires. She’s done.
I can tell you’re done too. I missed it, I’m two seconds behind and I feel like if this – “this” being my orgasm -- everyone dropped the ball and sat down on the sidelines and gulped Gatorade. Game over.
That’s fine. Just fine. I try to slip away for a minute. I need to write this, to write all of this, right now, in great detail before I forget and mess up the Rule #3. This is serious. I need to record this all like the chess game it has been.
I slip away and you two sink into your communal relief. Back at the table I make a quick list of things. Dryer. Two fingers, up and around. Flavored Syrups.
The coffeeshop is so quiet and still. I stare at the painting of one face that is two faces that is also one. It isn’t worth the $1950 on the tag, but it is art because it makes me feel something, makes me sense and connect with the moment someone else felt.
Two faces, one face. My mind drifts to tonight’s number, three. A coffeepot springs across my mind. Not an electric American pot but the kind my relatives used on the stove to make strong dark coffee.
It’s three separate pieces. The bottom fills with water. The middle holds the coffee, and the top is where the coffee bubbles up into and the steam pours out of. I think of a three some, of three parts. And write that down, too.
Which is as far as I got before what came next, the part where the coffee boils up and steam comes out the top.
But first we all had coffee.
And after that, more was done.
For the recored, there was the delicate balancing on the sofa, her leaning over with her tight ass exposed.
There was the part on the counter (thank you!) followed by the fat armchair
that sits too close to that window. Thank goodness the awnings were closed.
Dawn is close. It’s been good, it’s been great, its been enough.
She goes to finish her work on the register, filling the deposit bag to take to the bank first thing in the morning. I’m packing my backpack, you’re fiddling with a chair we had that knocked off balance and now is wobbly.
I’m ready to go. You’re ready to go. She’s ready to go.
She says goodbye to you, and you to her.
She says goodbye to me and whispers, “Thank you for bringing him to me, he was awesome, how did you find us a total stranger?! Nevermind. I can’t wait for Rule #3.”
This catches your attention.
You’re a smart man. Smart enough to not ask her what Rule #1 is, because you already know.
And you know I twisted it enough, stretched it until it was so thin maybe it disappeared. I did that with Rule #2, that you had to let me pick. Of course I know her, I’m not going to be all over some complete stranger, that’s crazy.
And slutty. And dangerous.
And anyway how would I find a oerfect random person on this night – YOUR BIRTHDAY – this easily? I’m charmed, but I don’t push my luck. I plan.
For the record, now in print, real Rule #1 – the one that I live by - is to have stories worth writing, worth savoring and remembering.
STORY #2
Hello,
I hope this letter finds you happy and well, wherever you are.
I was just thinking about this adventure the other day and I wonder if you remember it as well.
When I arrived at the hotel in Chicago that Labor Day weekend at a conference they always have on Labor Day weekend I had already had a very long day.
Our paths didn’t cross that day when we both changed planes in Charlotte at the same time, but they maybe almost did which in my world made it a “banner day.”
Thinking back on it, you probably couldn’t find me because I had panties on.
That probably makes me invisible to you, and therefore I’ve made it a habit since then to ditch them as possible, to keep the shimmer of possibility lit.
Right now, writing this at my desk I have no panties on, just in case.
My friend, the one I wanted to discuss with you, wasn’t in the room when I arrived. She was off doing something with someone and that’s fine with me because I didn't need any of her attention.
I checked in under her name and they gave me a key to our suite. We didn’t have to share a room but we figured we could get one awesome room instead of two mediocre rooms. It was up on the posh high floors, right by the suite where they have cokes and wine and little pieces of hot food to each while staring out at the skyline.
She had ordered a folding bed for me, but that was awkward. The front room was too pretty; a TV, a sofa, a huge window facing Lake Michigan.
I didn’t need a folding bed, I ended up in bed with her, but we’re not to that piece of the story. Yet.
Before even changing out of what I wore to the airport, to the flights, to my adventure, I opened my laptop and got right to work, trying to figure out where the was.
I found you in email; I found you in a missed call, I found you, or at least, the trail you left.
She had left apples for me on the table, like I would think fruit is a good idea. No, I didn't want fruit, what I was thinking about was something much much different, something that couldn't be bagged and sold and eaten.
Later, Deb returned to the room, our room, excited like a puppy and wanting to catch up on every minute she missed of my life.
Most of the rest of that first evening was nothing worth reporting. There was A Dinner.
There were conventioning people Dressed Wrong.
Some wanted to go out, to soak up music, bars, whatever.
Not me. I'd had enough of That Day, the day that Nothing Happened, I wanted it over already.
Deb had called for the folding bed to be taken away so the front room was more open. I watched TV while she showered and babbled. I think I gave the apples a dirty look. I do that to fruit sometimes, just annoyed at how fresh and ripe and happy and wholesome they are.
Fuck off apples, I think, then change the channel to something about a fire, then something about something else.
She keeps talking and talking and asking and talking. Looking back on it I know she will be cheating on her husband months after this; within a year they will be divorced. But this was then, and I didn't know yet what I would later learn.
Life is kind like that, letting us see only peeps of things at a time, just as much as we can handle.
So back to the peep show.
She's finished from her shower and comes out in a towel that barely covers her mid-section. She's much tanner than me naturally, with dark brown eyes and dark straight Indian-like hair. Don't ask me what she said (really it was like "he doesn't love me, why doesn't he
love me, he hates me, why does he hate me, what did I do, I gave him 20 years, have I shown you the bruise where....")
At that point I was online, typing something, writing something (I think it's still here on this site; I think it's saved as a draft, invisible and silent) while she rubbed her legs her arms and her boobs.
I told her that her nipples were crazy gorgeous dark and she laughed (and in reality responded with a wailing proclamation interrogative "why doesn't he love my boobs?", then she let me watch while she played with them).
Then I got up and left her at my computer at which point she quieted down and looked at my awesome porn.
Sasha, she called me (or something like that, she makes my name Russian, and I think that's hot. I'd like to be confused with a zexy Russian woman), where do you GET this stuff?
I write it, I tell her, and she stays shut up, sitting there in just a towel, while I took of my dress, my bra, my panties and slipped into the sheets first that night.
The sheets were white, the bed was large and faced the TV.
She was still in her towel, barely half covered, gawking at my porn.
I was in whatever short soft silk thing I brought with me. All I had packed was nude thongs; so I was wearing that.
Or if I wasn't wearing anything, that's what I wasn't wearing.
Remember the nude thong; we're coming back to that -- or rather, not wearing that -- later in the story.
Sasha, she proclaimed (no, no she didn't say that, she said my name and made it Russian and that's so hot) and showed me pictures of what she'd like, what she'd not like, and read me passages that she loved.
I remember distinctly dictating something for her to write and I ended up on her back, rubbing her back. She pushed the laptop closed and turned head to relax.
I rubbed her brown, soft skin in long strokes up and down, stopping in the tense spots, and adjusting as she moaned ugghhh oooh and Tatissskkka myyyy goooddddddd ohhhhh.
In order to keep my hands strong I leaned up on her like a jockey on a horse.
This felt good on my pussy, pushing against her ass, leaning on it moving back and then forth.
If you'd seen it you would have called it sexual.
If you had been there it WOULD have been sexual.
Her towel only covered her ass . Barely.
I remember moving my hands up and down her neck then sliding down her back to the sides some and then back up. I did this just enough to see if I could touch her tits, and I did, with the back of my hands, soft, grazing her back, her sides, the sides of her tits.
This was enough for me.
I wasn't going to get what I wanted and I wasn't about to get tangled with something I didn't want so I rolled over and she got up to get a tshirt.
I laid there with my pussy throbbing entirely unwilling to take care of it myself. Instead I just kept my hands up under my pillow and felt it grow wetter and, I think, cry a little bit.
Was it the next day that I went where I wasn't supposed to go and ended up at Notre Dame?
If not it was the day after that, the day I almost got hit by a bus. I won't be doing that again, being where I'm not supposed to be. Let that be known.
Back at the hotel somehow contact with you was made, but after all this time I can’t remember if you called or if I called or if the computers arranged it for us.
I remember chasing Deb out of the room, out of the front room and into the bedroom and commanded her to lock the door and not listen. I didn't know if there would be dirty talk but I certainly made room for it, just in case.
This is what I remember, more than anything. You, The , had instructions.
Do something for me, you said and I said yes yes, anything. No panties. And shave it all gone. I said yes, even though I had no idea how to make it work.
This was the post 9/11 world; I didn't pack a razor on this trip. I found one in the hotel gift shop for $2.50.
Deb rolled her eyes, $2.50? Sheesh! I could've lent you mine!
No, for where this razor was going I wanted it to be sharp and fresh. I tucked it into my purse and joined the crowd gathering to get on a bus and be shipped to a "famous place" for dinner.
Hours later, back in the hotel room, I excuse myself for a Very Long Hot Shower.
Deb knows what I'm doing in there and offers help.
No, no thank you I tell her, and take my time sudsing, shaving, and then savoring the feeling down there. Delicious.
But that wasn't enough. The razor was only part of it.
You'd asked to see IT, and I didn't have a clue on how do THAT short of renting a car to get some privacy, driving around the block and coming back.
Or maybe slipping into the family restroom and locking the door.
Never in my life did I imagine showing my lady parts; now I had to figure out how to do it gracefully and appropriately.
I put on the dress I planned to wear the next day for my Big Presentation. Oh, that's right, did I mention I was there to Work? Don't ask me what I presented or who was there, that got washed down the drain of my memory along with other mundane things that aren't worth holding on to.
Situating myself a chair in front of the full length mirror, I scooted forward to the edge of the chair and opened my knees just a little.
That wasn't going to work. Somehow the dress had to move up a little, let light in.
I tried it like this. Then like that.
And again turned a little until I figured out exactly how I was going to do what I was going to do.
The more I practiced, the wetter I got.
Enough, enough, I took off my dress, went back into the bathtub and took my time appreciating my smooth crevices under the bubbly water, imagining vividly just how good just the gaze of your eyes would feel down there.
The next day I slipped my thong on and gave my presentation then headed straight for the airport. Before my flight could land I slipped to the bathroom, touched up my makeup and then tucked my thong into my computer case.
An hour later, your eyes went down there. After that, more of you, softly, then harder, sliding in and out and making me see stars.
That was how many years ago – 10? 12? 4? – and I still can’t slip my panties on or off without wishing for your gaze and your hands.
And that’s how I am.
How are you?
STORY #3
She follows me upstairs from the dark cheesy Karaoke place they have downstairs, the one that neither of us belonged at, which is how we found each other.
I push the button for my floor.
She smiles – same floor? I nod.
From the elevators, we follow the narrow hall to the left, listening for sex noises or even some fighting, but hearing nothing.
“Thick doors” she points out, and I nod, hoping I’ll need that thick door later to cover up for me some when I get a little –or alot – of your thick dick.
She arrives at her door – 1029. I am next door.
We let ourselves in, then, when she knocks, I open the adjoining door so she can bring over some concoction with raspberry lemonade and vodka.
It tastes sweet and friendly and we sit on the large bed – sprawl,really -- , discussing the value of pantyhose (I’d pay $20 for good ones; she says there are no good ones), good books (she hated Great Gatsby but loves Nicholas Sparks, I don’t even argue with her), favorite TV shows (we both like shows with lots of tits), and radio (actually, we both listen to the Playboy station on XM radio).
On our second – third? – lemonade, she stands up, holding her glass like a microphone, pinching her round tit with the other hand.
You could be a Playboy Playmate, I tell her, and she smiles brightly at my compliment then disappears across the half-open threshold into her quiet empty room, then reappears in a short babydoll red outfit that I doubt she packed to sleep in.
As she walked back in, she announced, let’s play CENTERFOLD PHOTOSHOOT!
I get off the bed and stand with my arms crossed
while she fluffs herself on the bed, spreading her long silky caramel hair across the pillows.
She licks her lips, then smiles like she’s taking her third grade school picture for the library club.
Nice, I say. Sweet! And pretend to take pictures with my imaginary camera.
After she twisted and turned and smiled herself giddy, I lean over towards her, pretending to change my film.
I tell her, quietly and seriously, “Honey, good start… but if you want to be a centerfold, you’re going to have to put your tits out there and make them say “I'm offering these up for you to PLEASE suck...."
She kept looking right at me with her coffee bean eyes, leaning into my words so closely I thought she might pull up and kiss me but no, this wasn’t exactly a kissing moment – not lip and mouth kissing, at least.
I took two steps back, looked around the room, then checked my watch, a less than kind gesture of impatience.
Her face turned as red as a pussy about to cum as she slid the narrow red straps off her arms, unbuttoned the top of her red lacy short dress, and looked up at me.
Again, I pretended to take pictures, but her heavy tits kept pulling themselves down, down low so the dark nipples kept hiding under her lace, shy and reticent.
I put the invisible camera down and got on top of the bed.
“They need my help,” I said, reaching down and pulling each of her heavy tits up and out of the dress. Standing so close to her, I thought briefly to push up a little more so I could rub my already hard nipples up against the warm softness of her white tits, but instead I asked her if I could kiss them, and she said yes, sliding back down into the pillows while I sucked and licked and played with them until her back arched up and her shyness burned away.
