L.A. Woman

by Cathy Yardley

  She leaned forward, brushing her cheek against his sweaty one, breathing in his ear, “Wanna go someplace private?”

  He nodded, like a teenage boy, and followed when she took him out into the hallway. It was quieter there—although part of that could be the muffled deafness that came from being exposed to loud music. Club disease, she thought with a slow smile. The guy was pretty good-looking, and sort of dweebish. Like a virgin. She loved corrupting people. That same cruel part of her heart warmed.

  “What did you want to talk about?” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “This,” she said, and leaned in for a slow, lingering kiss. What she did with her torso was nothing compared to what she could do with her tongue. He gasped, and suddenly was all over her, kissing her sloppily, hungrily, with a frantic, fumbling eagerness.

  When he gripped one of her breasts, she let herself smile. Smoothing her hand over his chest from where she’d been caressing the back of his neck (and trying to keep him from going completely spastic in his desire for her), she reached down and grabbed his dick.

  He yelped.

  “Want someplace to put that, baby?”

  He blinked. “This isn’t going to, er, cost me, is it?”

  She frowned. “Don’t look a gift horse, kid.”

  “Here?” His voice rose to a higher pitch. He quickly lowered it, glancing back at the dance floor where they had came from. “Right now?”

  “Well…” She debated going back to the house, but knowing that Sarah was going to be there with Raoul was a little too much. In her admittedly competitive nature, she’d probably fuck this poor guy to death. “Wait a second.”

  She took him by the hand again, leading him toward a back stairwell that Taylor had once shown her. It led up to an abandoned office, and to other various rooms…including the storage room. By luck, it was unlocked. “Manager’s going to be pissed,” she said, motioning him inside and shutting the door behind them.

  Before the door was shut all the way, he reached for her. Within five minutes, her panties were off and her skirt was lifted up—what little there was of it. He practically ripped his zipper off in his enthusiasm.

  “Condom?”

  He reached—and she was sort of charmed by this—for his wallet, producing a foil packet. Wonder how long that’s been in there? The little light there was, was not that great, and she could barely make out the heavy need on his face, and her frustration as he struggled with the packaging. She leaned back against some boxes and he stepped forward, toward her, fumbling to put it on. He pushed into her with a grimace and a loud groan, and she was right—he was plenty big.

  He wasn’t bad, either. He started to move, faster, and they were both pushing against each other, his pants around his ankles. A corner of a box dug into the small of her back, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to leverage herself up.

  “Unh…unh…” He was breathing in her ear, pressing so deep she thought he’d stab her heart.

  “Yeah. Fuck me. Like that.” She clawed at his oxford shirt, concentrating hard. She thought of Raoul, and grimaced, clenching tight enough to make him groan, part pleasure, part pain. She thought of the various guys that she’d fucked over the past…how many years? How many rooms, how many scenarios?

  This wasn’t helping.

  She closed her eyes, and thought of her favorite fantasy—the gladiator/slave girl one. Thankfully, she came almost immediately, and bit his neck to stifle the scream.

  “Ah… AH….” He pushed inside her. She pushed back against him, hard.

  He pulled out and turned away from her, taking care of himself, putting the condom back in its foil packaging without really letting her see. Cute, she thought, pulling her skirt down and noticing she was pretty damned wet. She’d need to go to the washroom at this rate. Or go home and shower, then maybe go back out. She was tired, she realized, so maybe she’d just go home and stay there. Oh, how far the mighty have fallen. She pulled her panties on, hating that they would probably be damp for the rest of the night.

  He turned to her. “So. Can I…did you want to give me your number?”

  She laughed, suddenly feeling much, much better. “Why not?”

  It was one in the morning, and Judith’s back was starting to get sore from sitting at the computer for so long, ergonomic chair or no. “Roger, I really have to go,” she typed.

  Roger: Sleepy?

  “Punch-drunk,” Judith replied. “Usually, I don’t stay up this late.”

  Roger: It’s 4 a.m. here.

  “Oh, my God. I’m sorry!” And she was. She’d been conversing with him for about…she frowned. Five hours. No, six. “I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”

  Roger: It’s no problem. I got to talk to a pretty lady for a while…and correct me if I’m wrong, but you needed it.

  Even though she knew he couldn’t see it, Judith blushed a little. “It’s been kind of bad these last few days,” she agreed. Not that it had been any harder than any other week—she just seemed more aware of it now. “Also, I’m a little afraid.” She thought about it. “Maybe not afraid. A little unnerved. I’m in the house alone.”

  Roger: You aren’t used to it?

  “You’d think I would be,” Judith answered, not quite sure why she couldn’t get to sleep tonight—why climbing into bed alone and closing her eyes seemed so daunting. “When David was on his internship with the circuit court, I barely saw him at all. It’s just tonight that I feel weird.”

  Roger: A little lonely, maybe? (wiggling eyebrows)

  Judith giggled, the sound echoing in the empty, late-night quiet. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Roger: I get it. Any port in a storm! :)

  “Well, as you’re three thousand miles away, you’re hardly a handy port,” Judith typed back, feeling strangely daring. It was really late, and she was alone. The conversation was hardly real. It was more like an extension of a dream.

  Roger: Ah, but I could be…even from here. (SERIOUS eyebrow wiggling!)

  Now Judith laughed. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  Roger: That’s because you’ve never kissed me. I’m told I’m quite good.

  “Oh, there’s a threat,” she shot back. This was just silly. Little kid silly. “What, you’re some kind of Don Juan, is that it?”

  Roger: Put it this way. Remember Bull Durham, when he talks about believing in slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days?

  Judith felt a very teeny tingle at the words. She’d always loved that part. “Yeah, so?”

  Roger: I’m not that hasty.

  Judith was still laughing, but she felt a little warmer…and the laughter was just a bit more breathless. “So you believe in slow kisses. I’ve had slow kisses.”

  Roger: And not just on your mouth.

  Judith wasn’t sure she was reading that correctly at first. Then, as she put what he was saying together, the blush intensified. “You’re bad,” she typed back, albeit a little unsteadily. She was getting tired. She ought to wrap this up…

  Roger: I just believe in being thorough. There’s a lot a man can do with two lips and a tongue, believe me.

  She suddenly got an image…God, she couldn’t…she’d never. But for some reason, alone in her house, typing to a stranger, it sounded good. Hell. Sounded great. “Yeah, yeah,” she replied, trying to get the light tone back and not let on how unsettling she was finding his messages. “All men think they’re hell on wheels. For all I know, you’ve had a lot of women who were really good at faking it! :)”

  Roger: Wouldn’t know till you tried, huh?

  Judith was very, very warm. She shifted her weight nervously in the seat. She was getting a little—oh, hell. She was getting really turned on, which defined ridiculous. “Well, again, you’re three thousand miles away,” she typed in. And even if you weren’t…

  Roger: Well, I could walk you through it. :)

  It was just the Internet, she reasoned. It wasn’t real.

  No one would know.r />
  “Give me an example,” she typed. She was almost shivering now, staring at the screen.

  Roger: First of all, kissing is really important. Say, about an hour of kissing. Deep, slow kissing. I’d start taking your clothes off, and you’d start taking my clothes off, but the kissing would be the important part. That, and touching. I’d learn every inch of you. I mean EVERY inch.

  Judith couldn’t believe she was reading this. Still, she didn’t want him to stop, either. When was the last time I kissed David for longer than the ten minutes it took to get him hard? And when had taking off her clothes been anything other than a means to an end? His touch had stopped doing anything for her for longer than she could remember. She just hadn’t really thought about it until just now, as a stranger typed sweet, graphic nothings on her screen.

  Roger: Then, when you’re naked and I’m naked, I’d put you on the bed. And then I’d move the kissing lower. Your breasts—they’d deserve attention, but I’d definitely take my cues from you. Would you like me to pay attention to them?

  Judith hadn’t thought about it. “Yes…but not too long,” she answered back.

  She was playing along.

  There was a pause, and Judith wondered if she’d shocked him—or if he were really just joking. Or if he’d fallen asleep.

  Before she could think about what she was doing, or be embarrassed, the message came across:

  Roger: Am I shocking you? Because if I’m not, there might be something you might want to try.

  Was he shocking her? No. She felt an ache in the pit of her stomach. She was horny, ridiculously so. She wanted sex, really wanted it. And good sex, at that. “What did you have in mind?”

  Roger: If you’re feeling…if you want, I think I can make you feel a whole lot better. You’re going to have to help me out, though.

  “How? What do you want me to do?”

  Roger: Use your hands the way I’m describing. Pretend they’re my mouth, my lips.

  She felt warm, shockingly so. She glanced around, as if somebody could see. The window shade was drawn, the house was empty. Feeling the tiniest bit guilty—and excited—she slowly pulled her nightgown up, and put her left hand inside her panties. It felt strange. Naughty, she supposed. She tickled herself. “Now what?” she typed awkwardly with just her right hand.

  Roger: If I were with you, I’d put you down on the bed, stroking your thighs…your inner thighs. Press kisses on you, until I got to your sex. Then I’d slowly open you, just a little, and dip my tongue in, tracing around…

  Judith felt like she was in a trance. Both hands down her panties, one leg up on the desk, she did as instructed, reading the messages hypnotically through half-lidded eyes. Her fingers traced, dipped, caressed. Then they started pushing, getting faster. Her breathing shallowed. His words kept coming, faster, and she was arching her back off the ergonomic chair. She couldn’t get enough of herself.

  “Oh…oh… OH,” she yelled, as she hadn’t with David in years…not for real. The orgasm hit her like a fist, almost causing her to fall to the floor.

  When she came to—no pun intended—she didn’t know how long the messages had been going—nor did she realize when they’d stopped.

  Oh, my God.

  She wasn’t sure what she had let happen. She felt light-headed. Guilty.

  She wanted…

  “What else would you do to me?”

  Sarah walked into the darkened apartment with Raoul just behind her. They’d danced close there at the party, the DJ’s mix wrapping around them like chain mail, drawing them roughly closer, giving them a beat to grind to. He wanted her…she could feel that much. She wanted him—wanted what he represented. He was gorgeous, she didn’t know him, barely knew his name. With any luck, he was a dim bulb who barely knew his own name. He represented everything she now stood for—style rather than substance, enjoying the now rather than wondering if they had a future.

  How would Martika put it?

  She wanted to fuck the daylights out of Raoul, the Underwear Model. Tonight.

  Martika. She felt a teeny bit guilty, but somehow felt that Tika would probably be proud of her initiative tonight. She’d harangued her enough about her obsession with Benjamin and “picket fence syndrome,” chastising her for her Fairfield Farm Girl values. Well, now she was Sarah in the City, as it were. She could do this.

  It would help if she didn’t feel so nervous.

  She’d dated Benjamin for about six months before she’d finally slept with him, after having several dates, after knowing him in social circles for approximately a year. Her first boyfriend had been her high school sweetheart, someone she’d lost her virginity to. This was going to be…

  Nerve-racking. She took a deep breath as she locked the door behind them.

  “Nice apartment,” he said. She wondered if he felt nervous at all. Did guys get nervous? she wondered.

  “Thanks.” She cleared her throat. “My room is over there.” She pointed. “My bedroom, I mean.”

  He smiled, and it seemed like a knowing smile. Of course it was knowing. They’d been on the dance floor, and she’d asked him if he wanted to see her apartment. She’d basically meant to say “Would you sleep with me?” but didn’t know how she would get the words past her lips. Then, like now, she didn’t need to. He knew what was going on.

  He led the way. She prayed her room wasn’t too much of a mess. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference to him—after all, he was getting sex out of this—but it would have definitely added to the edge she was already enduring. Thankfully, the room was fairly tidy. At least the dirty clothes were piled semi-neatly on her wing chair. She threw a sheet over them, then looked at him nervously.

  He led the way again, reaching for her, kissing her. She kissed him back, feeling the first twinges of arousal battling back the nerves. Pretty soon they were both breathing heavily. She tugged at his shirt. He pulled it over his head.

  Suddenly, things were happening. She tried kicking off her platforms, but that wasn’t working. She tore at her shoes, falling onto her pile of dirty clothes. He kicked off his shoes successfully, reaching for the fly of his slacks and stripping down to his, well, trademark underwear. He stood there for a moment, staring at her, a small smile.

  Wow. I’ve got a living, breathing underwear ad in my bedroom.

  Then he took off the underwear, and she stopped tugging off her boots to stare. “Well, okay,” she breathed.

  He started to reach for her. She still had panties and her strapless bra thingy on. She kissed him, felt him reach around and unclasp the top, disengaging long enough to gently tug the thing away from her. So now there was just panties between them.

  He started to guide her to the bed, totally in control. Problem, she thought. “Do you have a condom?”

  He frowned. “Well, no.”

  She blinked at that. “You weren’t expecting to have sex without one, were you?”

  “Do you have one?” he answered instead.

  She frowned. “Honestly. You could be carrying all sorts of…you could risk exposure to all sorts of diseases without one!”

  He sighed, leaning back on the bed, his body looking like a statue…his erection looking very much like a flesh-colored flagpole. “I thought we were here for sex, not a service announcement.” He paused. “Sometimes passion affects me this way.”

  Dim Bulb, she thought disparagingly, feeling the flame of her passion douse a bit.

  He reached for her, tugging her down, kissing her neck, her breasts. She was taken aback by the suddenness of it. To her surprise, her breathing sped up again. She could feel his dick pushing at her.

  “Wait a second. Wait a second.” She managed to tear herself away from him, and made a naked dash for Martika’s room, praying she wasn’t there. The room was a mess—bed unmade, clothes strewn around, bra on a lampshade…she wasn’t even going to question how that got there. She went to one of the bedside tables and opened the drawer. She was greeted with what looked l
ike a diary and what looked like a vibrator. Okay it was a vibrator. She winced, closing the drawer, then went to the other table.

  Paydirt. She grabbed a couple of condoms—the drawer was full of them.

  She rushed back to her room and almost slammed the door. Okay, the flagpole was still there, ready to go. She handed him a condom. He gave her a sweet, patronizing sort of smile, then ripped into the foil, grumbling slightly as the thing managed to negotiate his size.

  Sarah was really feeling pretty proud of herself as she pulled her panties off, leaving them on the floor by her bed. “Um, did you want the light on or off?”

  He thought about it. “Doesn’t matter. Whichever you like.”

  “Under the covers, I suppose?”

  “Sure.”

  She bit her lip, pulling back the blankets and reaching to shut off the light. “You didn’t want music, did you? I could put on some…mmmrph.”

  He’d silenced her with kisses. He seemed to have grown three extra sets of hands. He was touching her all over. His kisses left a trail all over her face, neck, torso. He was everywhere at once. She wasn’t being made love to—she was somehow being assimilated.

  “Erp.” She tried to protest, but there was suddenly tongue, and not hers, in her mouth. She concentrated on kissing and breathing so she wouldn’t pass out and miss anything.

  She felt sort of turned on, she supposed. It would be easier to tell if she could figure out where her body ended and his started….