Made For Sex

by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  I had to be inside of her. My cock was so hard it almost hurt and only her pussy could relieve the pain. I climbed onto the sofa and knelt between her spread thighs. “Would you touch me?” I asked, not knowing exactly where that request had come from.

  She wrapped her hand around my marble-hard dick and squeezed. Then she placed the tip of my cock against her opening and I rammed it home. I wanted to be patient, to make it last for her, but I was incoherent with lust. I pounded my cock into her slick passage over and over. I reached between us and rubbed her clit until I felt the spasms return to her pussy. The clenching of her internal muscles was too much and, with two more deep thrusts, I came. As I did, she screamed, her orgasm joining mine in a frenzy of lust.

  It was several minutes before I was sane enough to speak. “I hope that was as good for you as it was for me,” I said.

  “Oh yes, it was.” She was silent for a moment, then said, softly, “It always is.”

  “Always is what?” I asked.

  “It always is good. I make it that way.”

  I was a bit taken aback. I was used to gushing praise for my prowess as a lover. She seemed to take it all for granted. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, I seem to be able to put lustful thoughts into a guy’s mind. It’s like I can push thoughts of fucking and need into a man. Like when you asked me to hold your cock. I put that thought there. Once I’ve put in a few ideas, I just let nature take its course and it’s always great.”

  “But you said no? I thought you didn’t want to at first.”

  “I always do that, but I know I don’t have to worry about the guy leaving. I just push such lustful thoughts into his mind that he wouldn’t even consider going home.”

  “You push thoughts?”

  “It’s hard for someone who can’t do it to understand. Actually you were more difficult to urge on. You wanted to go slowly even when I was in a hurry. But don’t get me wrong, it was great.”

  I was flabbergasted. She had been pushing thoughts into my mind as I had been pulsing hers. I thought about her responses. Her body was in a hurry but her mind was enjoying the slightly slower trip. “I was pulsing you, too,” I admitted.

  “I was making you tell me exactly how you wanted to proceed.”

  “You were? Is that why I told you I wanted you to fingerfuck me?”

  “Yes.”

  She snuggled more deeply into my arms. “Wow. Wow.”

  I wanted to think more about the implications of all this, but I was too sleepy. So together we fell asleep on the sofa. As I dropped off, all I could think about was what I wanted to do with Amanda when I awoke.

  Fran closed her laptop and climbed into bed. She was asleep almost instantly.

  Chapter

  7

  Saturday morning Fran lay in bed for a long time, thinking over the events of the past week. She had arrived in New York as Fran Caputo, sexually unsophisticated, Midwestern writer. Now she felt like she was mostly Nicki St. Michelle, sexual free spirit. And it was fantastic.

  She realized that she was a bit disappointed with O’Malley. On their first date he had been charming, interested in everything and a great dinner companion. Last evening he had just wanted to fuck. And that was what it had been, no love involved, just hot sweaty sex. And it had been sensational, but it was one-dimensional.

  Tonight she had a second date with Clark. She thought about his slight shyness, his boyish good looks and the adorable dimples that appeared in his cheeks when he smiled. He’s so cute, she thought. Since he wasn’t due to pick her up until seven, she had the entire day to herself.

  She finally climbed out of bed after nine, showered and dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a mint-green man-tailored shirt. She flipped on the radio and listened to the weather report. It was to be a mild afternoon so she added a sleeveless camel-colored sweater vest and pulled on her trench coat.

  She found a trendy little restaurant on the east Fifties, had a sumptuous brunch of eggs Benedict, and eyeball flirted with a man at a nearby table. Although they never spoke, it was obvious that he found her attractive. Her. Fran Caputo. She blossomed. After brunch, she wandered through midtown, peering into the windows of all the trendy shops. Since most of them had no prices on the items in the windows, she knew she couldn’t afford them, but Nicki might have been given some trinket by some Middle Eastern sheik so she looked carefully. She wandered into a few stores and looked over their jewelry with an eye toward her new hairdo and Nicki’s lifestyle. The collection of little bags and receipts in her large purse grew as the day progressed.

  Midafternoon, after a genuine New York bagel with cream cheese, onions and lox, she found a large bookstore and spent over an hour roaming, checking out the shelves. She found several copies of The Love Flower on the romance shelf and carried them to the manager, as Eileen had suggested she do. “I’m Nichole St. Michelle,” she told the amazed woman, “and I wondered whether you’d like me to autograph them.” The manager, whose name tag said Tiffany and who looked about fifteen, was delighted and, after Fran signed Nichole St. Micbelle with a flourish, she put stickers on the covers stating, Personally Autographed. Nicki then wandered through the Romance Novel section, then browsed through the General Fiction area, looking at covers and titles, hoping for the germ of an idea for another book. Nothing jelled.

  It was almost five when she arrived back at the apartment. There was a message from Carla, hoping that she had had a wonderful day and saying that she would call the following afternoon, just to check in. There was a similar message from Eileen. Nice to have friends, Fran thought, who were worried about her being lonely. Lonely, indeed. She was blissful.

  By seven she was dressed in a rose silk blouse, a short black skirt, and her black leather vest. She wore chunky gold earrings, a heavy gold necklace and a pearl ring she had picked up that afternoon in a tiny boutique. Admitting that she hoped the evening would end up in bed, she put a few condoms she had bought at a neighborhood drugstore in her pocketbook, shaking her head at her bravery as she did so. She had just finished spraying on a bit of Opium when the doorbell rang.

  Clark looked wonderful in a gray tweed sports jacket and navy slacks, with a white turtleneck. He stood in the hallway, staring at her. “You look fabulous,” he said. “Very New York.” She stepped back and let him walk in. As he passed he said, “I love that scent. Opium, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got a great nose,” Fran said, taking his coat.

  “It’s a classic and it was my mother’s scent. It brings back wonderful memories.”

  “Thanks,” Fran said a bit dubiously.

  Clark looked chagrined. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s wonderful. Really.”

  She placed her hand on his sleeve. “Relax and don’t worry about it. You’re right, it is a classic and it’s the only scent I wear.” Together they walked into the living room.

  When Clark saw the statue, he gasped. “That could really give a guy an inferiority complex.” He walked over to the half-clothed man and looked him over. “That looks like some of AnneMarie Devlin’s work. Don’t tell me this is the famous secret statue of her husband.”

  “You’re wonderfully knowledgeable. It certainly is. I’m borrowing her apartment for a few weeks while she’s in Europe.”

  “I’m a bit of an art buff. I haunt the museums and I’ve taken several courses. I’ve always wanted to go back to school and become a fine-arts major.”

  “Do you paint?”

  “Actually I sculpt, but I’m really just a dabbler.” He continued to stare at the statue. “Nothing like her. I love it but I get almost no time.”

  “So why don’t you do more of it?”

  “I guess I’m just part of the corporate rat race and I’m stuck.”

  “No you’re not. That’s your choice. I’ve been thinking a lot about choices lately and I’m becoming a believer in, ‘If not now, when?’ You’re not married anymore and you told me that your children were well provid
ed for, so what the hell.”

  “If not now, when? An interesting philosophy for a girl from Omaha.”

  “More interesting than you might imagine.”

  Clark wandered around the living room gazing at the smaller bits of bronze on the shelves of the wall unit. Fran realized that she hadn’t even taken the time to explore. Together they gazed at several beautiful pieces and three sketches of larger works, framed on the wall.

  “How do you know her?” Clark asked.

  “She’s the friend of a friend.”

  “Well, you have some very famous and talented friends.” He sat on the sofa. “I never expected anything like this from the way you talked about yourself when we first met. You sounded so, I don’t know, so small town. Not like you weren’t sophisticated, but more like you didn’t think of yourself that way.”

  Fran sat beside Clark and tucked her leg beneath her. “You know that’s how I felt then. I was fresh off the plane and I felt really out of place. Now I guess I feel more like I belong here.” She remembered her manners. “I’ve got a bottle of white wine chilling. Can I get you a glass?”

  “That would be lovely. Let me help.”

  Together they walked into the kitchen and Fran retrieved a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the refrigerator. “You know,” she said, remembering some of what Carla had told her. “Americans think that Chardonnay is the only white wine, but I really prefer something crisper.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more.” He took the corkscrew from her and deftly removed the cork from the bottle, then poured two glasses. He touched the rim of his glass to Fran’s. “To a wonderful evening,” he said.

  “To a wonderful evening.”

  They sipped two glasses of wine, then traveled across town to Bali Nusa Indah. They shared a wonderful assortment of tiny spicy dishes called a rijstaffel, then, since the restaurant wasn’t full, they sat for a long time over tea. “So how did you manage to get three weeks off from your job?” Clark asked.

  “I had lots of vacation saved up and I just decided to do it.”

  “The offer of Ms. Devlin’s apartment must have made it easier.”

  “It did, but there’s another reason I’m here, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, what you don’t know about me is that I’m also a writer.”

  “Really?” Clark’s eyes widened appreciatively. “What do you write?”

  “I’ve written a romance novel and it’s up for an award.”

  “Congratulations,” he said seeming genuinely pleased. “That’s sensational. I know very little about writing romance novels. Tell me all about it.”

  Fran talked for a while about the book and about the Madison Writers’ Conference and Prize.

  “I’m sure you’ll win,” Clark said, squeezing her hand across the table.

  “Actually I’m just as sure I won’t.”

  “Why in heavens not? If you write half as well as you speak, the book must be very good.”

  “There’s more to it than that.” Fran dropped her voice and said, “It’s not really just a romance novel and it’s related to the rest of the things I write.” She lowered her eyes and stared at her hands.

  “Hmm. More hidden qualities about this woman. Layers beneath layers. Tell me, mystery woman.”

  “I write erotic short stories. I’ve had quite a few published and The Love Flower, the book that got the nomination, is really much more explicit than the average romance. That’s why I’m really sure it won’t win.”

  “You write erotica?” Clark looked stunned.

  “I do.”

  Fran watched Clark’s face as he considered her revelation. “Well. That’s very interesting.”

  Shit, Fran thought. That’s it. This is a really conservative guy. He’s shocked. So now he’s going to get up, pay the check and take me home. I knew I shouldn’t have told him. Me and my big goddamn mouth. “I’m afraid I’ve shocked you.”

  “It’s not shock. If I can be frank, I was thinking of our next date or the one after that, you know, the one where you invite me into your place and we end up in the bedroom. It’s kind of like being in a sculpture class with AnneMarie Devlin.”

  Fran burst out laughing. “You have no idea.” She spent the next few minutes giving Clark an expurgated version of what she had been like until her arrival in New York. “I’ve had some experiences this week that have opened my eyes. But until last Saturday I was little Fran Caputo, divorced and all but celibate.”

  “I thought your name was Nicki. It’s Fran?”

  Fran explained her need to become Nicki, at least for the conference and the award ceremony. “I’m sure you can’t possibly understand.”

  “I can, but it sounds like something out of a novel itself. You know, innocent little Fran Caputo gets big city education from various men.”

  Holy shit. That’s just what Carla said and they’re both right. The pieces suddenly jelled. It is a novel. Nichole St. Michelle’s next novel. “You’re brilliant. It certainly is.” She leaned across the table and kissed him.

  “I must come up with brilliant ideas more often.”

  Fran looked at her watch. “It’s almost eleven. How about coming back to my apartment and we can work on the rest of the Sauvignon Blanc?”

  “Me and the famous erotic writer? Despite all you’ve told me, you’ve still got me a bit intimidated.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I’m enjoying the evening so much and I don’t want it to end. But these chairs aren’t meant to spend hours beneath my behind.”

  Laughing, Clark paid the check and together they returned to Fran’s apartment. Again sitting in the living room with glasses of wine, Clark looked at the statue wistfully. “I find him just as intimidating as I find sitting here with a writer of erotic fiction.”

  “You really needn’t be. What I write are fantasies.” She pointed to the statue. “And even if he’s based on her husband, he’s a fantasy too, a sexy idea of what turns women on.”

  “And, of course, fantasies aren’t reality.”

  “I’m not sure where fantasy ends and reality begins, certainly not after what I’ve been through this week,” Fran said. “I have a friend who says that everyone has a fantasy. Do you?”

  Clark looked a bit nervous. “Am I to be grist for the writer’s mill?”

  “Maybe. You told me that my experience should be a book and I think you’re right. I’m just thinking about my characters. You might even be the hero.”

  Clark spoke in an exaggerated southern accent. “Shucks, Miss Scarlett, I’m not the hero type.”

  “Maybe you are more than you know. But you haven’t answered my question. Do you think that every man has a fantasy?”

  Clark considered the question. “Yes, I guess most men do.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Ouch. A really personal question from the writer?”

  Fran answered quickly, “I’m really sorry. You’re right, it is a very personal question and I do apologize.”

  “No need. Do you have one?”

  “I have dozens, and I’ve written most of them down. Actually several are in print in magazines even now.”

  “You really write from your own fantasies?”

  “Until this week I had no other basis for my writing.”

  “I’ll bet it’s been some week.”

  Fran raised one eyebrow. “It’s been an education.”

  Clark sipped his wine and Fran remained silent, sensing that he was making a decision. “Actually I do have a fantasy, but it’s really difficult to talk about.”

  “I can understand that. I can write about mine in the privacy of my bedroom-office, but to say it out loud?” She made a face.

  Clark turned and stared off into space. “I’ve always wanted to seduce a virgin.”

  “I’ve read lots of stories about that. Can you explain why that excites you?”

  “Wow, you sure do ask difficult questions.”

  “Sorry again.
They just slip out. I guess I’ve had a bit too much wine.” She put her glass on the side table. “Let’s change the subject.”

  “No. It’s an honest question so let me try to give you an honest answer.” Clark leaned back, let his head rest on the back of the sofa, and stared at the ceiling. “I want a girl who’s never had anyone else, someone who I can watch enjoy sex for the first time. And, of course, someone who has no one to compare me to.”

  “Interesting.” She thought about Carla’s little pink dress with the black Mary Janes. “Would she be a child?”

  “I guess she’d be about fourteen, with a small body just becoming a woman.” He turned and stared at her. “I would never actually do that, you understand.”

  Fran spoke immediately. “Of course not. We’re talking about fantasies.” She understood her own dreams, but she was now really interested in what illusions men created so she pressed on. “In the fantasy she’s in school, I guess.”

  “Right. And she’s wearing a uniform, green and blue plaid skirt, and a white blouse.”

  As Clark returned his gaze to the ceiling, Fran rested her head beside his and reached out to take his hand. Then she let her mind float. “And how did you meet her?”

  “She walks home from school every day, just as I’m getting home from work. We say hello and I ask her about her school-work and she asks me about my office work. It’s become something of a joke.” He let out a long breath. “I don’t believe I’m telling you this.”

  “And why not? It’s not unlike fantasies of mine.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t ever think you’re the only one.” Fran wanted to explore more, so she encouraged him to continue by picking up the story. “If I were writing this, one afternoon, she would tell you that her parents aren’t going to be home until very late and she’s really upset that she’s forgotten her key. She’s not sure she can get into the house.”

  “Right,” Clark said, his grip on her hand tightening.

  “You could invite her into your house,” Fran suggested.

  “I could. Should I?”

  “Why not?” Fran said. Sharing erotic stories was so much better than writing them alone in her room.