She grabbed my hand and repeated, “Do nothing except what you’re told. You wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of the first touch, would you? I won’t make you wait much longer.”
My desire to give in to her wishes intensified because I couldn’t touch her.
With one hand she unbuttoned my skirt and tossed it aside. When my naked skin contacted the mattress I realized the sheets were satin—cool, sensual satin. A light musky fragrance from the sheets mingled with the scent of my sex, releasing the urge to devour this woman. I clawed my fingernails into the material to contain my craving.
She reached for my clenched fists and released their grip, kissing each of my fingers as she uncurled it. With the speed that foretold lust, she undressed herself and straddled my buttocks. I squirmed feverishly against the silky covers, desperate for contact. She brought my hands back, placed them firmly on her strong thighs, and urged me to hold on tightly.
I knew if she didn’t touch me soon that I would come where I sat.
Finally the delicate softness of skin against skin rippled my body with waves of pleasure. She gyrated back and forth on my buttocks—first slowly, then faster—until the warmth of her juices trickled down my backside and between the trembling cheeks of my ass.
This was the only indication that my captor experienced any sensation at all. I wanted to gloat, to challenge her to fuck me without feeling anything. Just as I started to speak, her hand slid between us. She stroked herself and transferred the ample lubrication across my butt. Shifting to a kneeling position, she guided me to all fours in front of her and slid her hand between my legs. When she grabbed a fistful of bush and lips and squeezed, my surprised yell was suffocated by moans of joy. She pulled and massaged the sore lips, capturing my pulsing clitoris between them.
“Tell me you love this,” she commanded and gave another yank. I tried to speak, but my mouth opened and closed in soundless, spasmodic gapes.
She finally plunged a finger inside my soaking cunt. Her roughened fingers stroked in and out of my receptive body. I pumped backward against her hand to increase the tempo, but she wrapped her other arm around my waist and controlled the pace.
She slowly inserted another finger into my eager orifice and dug deep inside me. I bucked and humped to meet her thrusts. She pumped harder and the tension inside my body neared explosion. Just as I felt myself preparing to let go, she withdrew, leaving me a frustrated heap of raw emotion.
“Please,” I begged, “I want more, please don’t stop!”
“Would it be all right if I use my toy on you?” she asked sheepishly.
“Anything, just don’t leave me like this!” I pleaded again.
“You have to promise you won’t look until I say it’s okay. Promise.”
Further speech was interrupted by the rustling of a paper bag. I was tempted to satisfy my curiosity by stealing a quick peek but was instructed to roll over on my back.
“You can look now.”
My throat tightened as I opened my eyes. “Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt—much.”
Two narrow strips of leather around her hips secured a wide piece of black leather between her legs. A large, flesh-colored dildo jutted from a hole in the front panel directly over her pubic mound. She knelt before me, legs parted, beckoning me to touch it. I’d never seen a woman wearing a strap-on so proudly.
I tentatively extended a hand to examine it. The soft, pliable texture was a contrast to the hard rubber rod I expected. It closely resembled a real penis in appearance and touch. Seeing it extended from a body so obviously female was a major turn-on.
“You’ll enjoy this,” she assured me as she removed a tube of K-Y Jelly from the bag.
She positioned herself between my legs and gently touched the dildo to my aching clitoris. At this point I didn’t really care what she probed me with, as long as it was fast and continuous. She squeezed some of the lubricant onto her hands and rubbed them together. With an obvious reverence, she massaged the K-Y onto the pink protrusion with delicate, loving strokes. The care and diligence with which she conducted this ritual couldn’t have been more authentic had the attachment been her own flesh.
My body pounded its urgent need as I watched her. The respect with which she admired this thing made me feel jealous and a little helpless. For the first time I realized that I not only wanted to play this game, I craved it. I hungered for the domination and control this stranger held over me. She seemed to know everything about my sexual tastes without allowing me to say a word.
Obviously pleased with her efforts, she guided the greased toy to the mouth of my vagina. A look of utter joy mixed with dark mischief crept across her face as she savored the sight before her. She lovingly cradled her projectile, ready to thrust it into my body.
As she stared into my eyes, I felt the force of penetration as she introduced her adopted extremity into my apprehensive insides. An initial moment of discomfort gave way to a feeling of acceptance as I was alternately filled and emptied by the expertly methodical motions. The friction created by the leather harness against my clit left me breathless with every stroke. My mouth dried as I screamed and clawed at her back.
I opened my eyes to memorize the face of the person who caused such conflict between my mind and body. Looming over me in the dim light was someone I’d never seen before. A glassy-eyed stare emitted a look of absolute power and control. This woman was on the verge of orgasm, and it had nothing to do with making love. She responded to her dominance over me and her control of the situation.
Her eyes darkened as the thrusts of her pelvis intensified. She wanted, needed to bring me to orgasm. I wanted to deny her but I didn’t want to deny myself. Passion grew with each frantic movement. Her unspoken desire magnified my own cravings, and I clung to her. I mentally resisted her attempts to bring me to climax, but my body betrayed me with every breath.
I felt myself floating in the euphoria of absolute resignation. It didn’t matter now if she was a complete stranger, if I’d ever see her again or if she was a mass murderer. I only knew I couldn’t stop her or myself. I was too near the edge.
Faster and harder she drove her fake phallus into my body, and I took her. She prodded me toward the edge. Her body suddenly stiffened. She grabbed my arms in an unyielding grip. My body quivered and jerked. Waves of pleasure tingled through my toes, up through the core of my body, leaving me dizzy and satisfied. The release of months of pent-up frustration and anxiety poured from my body onto hers. She collapsed on top of me and I lay there, astonished by my response.
“I knew you’d be into it.” She smiled from atop my body. “If you’re game for another round, I’d love to demonstrate my rear-entry technique.”
“What’re you asking me for? You’re in charge.” I heard myself say.
Sometime before daybreak, she kissed me awake and pointed to my clothes in a neat stack beside the back door of the van. “I’ve had a great time, but you need to get going. Security comes through around six for their morning check.”
I slowly replaced clothes onto my overly sensitive body and climbed from the back of the van. “Will I see you again?”
“Not likely, I don’t like to strike twice in the same spot.” She grinned, licked her fingers, and closed the van door.
When I reached my car, I turned to wave good-bye, but the vehicle and its wild rider had vanished.
Atropine
Nell Stark
Everyone assumed they would get married. Including her. But I knew better—or at least, I thought I did. Even from a distance, through a crowd, there was…something. I like to call it a vibe. It has many names. But it was definitely there, and not just because she was beautiful.
She was, of course—long red hair highlighted by a few streaks of gold framing a tanned, freckled face, her smile bursting all over the room as she laughed out loud at a joke. Toned quads and calves leading to bare feet with no toenail polish. Just a bit shorter than me, and slightly thinner. Definitely a few years you
nger. She caught my eye immediately, and I was rarely wrong.
Still, I thought I’d misjudged when I first saw her with him. They were a striking couple. Only a few months ago, they’d taken first in one of the regattas, moving in perfect synchrony as they roll-tacked their small boat back and forth across the eye of the wind. Watching them, I’d felt at first like I was intruding on something private.
And yet, after the shock wore off at seeing them so fluid, so together…well, that nagging feeling was back. They were the best sailors our club had to offer the competition. But that’s all they were. I was sure of it.
She realized it too when he called things off just a few weeks into the summer season. She’d been planning to follow him, come the fall—to help him through medical school. Probably to have his 2.5 children. When I heard the news—through another sailing instructor who lived in the same apartment complex—my first reaction was gratitude. But when I saw her a few hours later, trying hard to teach a lesson without looking at him (and failing) as he rigged up a scow nearby, I got angry. When your heart’s been broken repeatedly, you forget how hard it is, that first time. Until something reminds you. And she reminded me, with her rigid stance and clenched jaw and fierce, too-bright eyes.
She stopped coming to the weekly meetings and social events. Despite it being summer, she grew paler and paler as the weeks went by. And she started drinking. Heavily. Never before teaching, of course—she was too responsible for that. But immediately after her lesson finished, I’d watch her walk slowly—lethargically—toward the outdoor bar on the edge of the beach and order up a tall paper cup of beer. She’d sip it while looking out at the water, the boats, their sails. And if she saw him, she’d down the whole thing in a few sharp swallows before spinning on one heel and leaving.
One day, I followed her. This day, it’s not quite as hot as it has been—around seventy-five degrees, with a steady north breeze and wisps of cirrus clouds salting the sky. Perfect sailing conditions, but he’s out on the water in a Laser, and she still can’t be anywhere near him. I don’t know where she’s going, but she’s only wearing a white, slightly wrinkled oxford shirt over khaki shorts, and I’m pretty confident that my black tank top and washed-out jeans will fit in. So I shadow her, south a few blocks and then west, to a hole-in-the-wall bar on Spring Street. As far as I can tell, the bouncer doesn’t make her pay cover, but I don’t even hesitate to shove a crumpled five into his hand. I take the stairs down slowly, to be sure she doesn’t see me. For now, anyway.
Once inside, I loiter near the door, watching as she makes her way over to the bar and orders up another beer before commandeering a pool table in the back corner. The felt is stained and its frame marked up with glass-rings and etched graffiti, but she doesn’t seem to care. Just reaches into her front left pocket, slips a few quarters into the slot, and racks.
She’s good at pool, which surprises me. I sidle over to the bar as she makes her way methodically around the table, punching in stripes and solids with short, sharp shots. At one point, she has to rest her left hip up on the raised ledge in order to lean forward and sink the five ball. From my vantage point, I can see down her shirt to the top edge of the gray sports bra that hugs her breasts. My body stirs, warmth pulsing low and deep. I take a long swallow off my beer and close my eyes, exulting in the sensation, realizing that this is what she needs, so much more than I. To feel alive.
But when I open my eyes, she’s staring at me. So I go to her. Slowly.
“Who sent you?” she asks. Her voice is quiet and flat, but the hand that clutches the pool cue is visibly shaking. And I realize she’s angry. Naive enough, still, to believe her friends would intervene. Her friends are his friends—all caught in the crossfire.
“No one sent me,” I reply. Voice even. “I came on my own.”
“Why?”
I ignore the question, because she isn’t ready for the answer. Instead, I close the few feet that remain between us, fish in one pocket for some change, and deposit more quarters into the table. I rack up efficiently, feeling her eyes on my back; or maybe she’s watching the ripple of my tanned shoulders against the tank top. Maybe.
“Break,” I tell her, reaching for my own cue.
There’s the ghost of a bitter smile on her lips as she sets up and shoots. And then we’re moving around each other, circling the table in tandem. I hold my own, but she still wins quickly. And frowns. Thinking I let her.
“You’re good,” I say, returning my cue to its slot on the wall. “Want another beer?”
She’s still watching me, her expression wary. Once upon a time, she was cheerful and gregarious and talkative, but now—now she’s curled in on herself. Fetal position. Protect the head, protect the heart. Everyone’s out to get you.
“What are you drinking?” I ask again, steadily.
She names her beer, and I head for the bar. When I return, she’s found us a table for two in the dimly lit corner. My knees brush hers as I sit, and I feel the brief contact arc through me like a small electrical shock. I wonder what she feels.
“Where’d you learn to shoot pool like that?” I ask, my eyes never leaving the delicate column of her throat as she takes a swallow.
“Older brother.” Almost immediately, her fingers begin to peel back the label on the bottle. They’re long fingers, and slender, but rough with calluses. I can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like, tying me in knots as surely as she ties a bowline. I look away and take a quick sip, then another.
“Your older brother’s better than mine,” I reply, when I’m sure I can speak again. For just a moment, the trace of another faint smile plays across her lips before she raises her beer once more.
There’s a minute or two of silence, then, as we drink and pretend to watch the two couples who have taken over at billiards. “What’s grad school like?” she asks suddenly, settling her empty bottle back down with a dull clink. She’s leaning forward on her elbows now, eyes flicking over my face. It feels good, and also intense. Like being out on the ocean at noon without sunscreen.
“Complicated,” I answer, rocking my chair back on two legs. “Lots to do…classes, reading, research, teaching.” I lift the bottle to my lips again, let the beer swirl around my mouth before swallowing. She’s frowning, a little—focused. “Are you thinking of going?”
Her left shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Maybe.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.” The label is almost entirely gone, now—curling up under her fingers in one smooth piece. She works the rest of it off before raising her eyes back to mine. “Why did you come here tonight?”
I glance away before I even realize it, because something about the way she asks makes me want to answer, this time. Honestly. So I take a breath and force myself to meet her curious gaze.
“I’ve been worried about you,” I say. She frowns and sighs and looks down, but I’m not finished—so I reach out with two fingers and gently press up on the base of her chin. “And I want you,” I add, softly.
Her gaze, so slippery a moment before, freezes. I let my hand drop away, reluctantly. Moment of truth.
“Why?” she asks, yet again. It’s almost a whisper. She doesn’t believe me—can’t believe me—and it’s his fault. I have never been angrier with him than at this moment.
I stand up, suddenly, and drain the rest of my beer. “Let’s walk on the beach.” I don’t look back as I thread my way through the tables, out the door, and up the stairs, but as I turn east down the nearest side street, I can feel her beside me. We walk silently until the pavement gives way to sand. I bend down to remove my sandals, transferring them both to my right hand, and find her right with my left.
I’m sailing without telltales here—purely on instinct—knowing the wind could die any second. When she startles a little at the contact, I can’t help holding my breath…but as the seconds pass without a reaction, I exhale softly. Her grip is light, but firm. We begin to walk again, my thumb tracing circles ar
ound her palm as we move.
“I like your hands,” I tell her. “They’re beautiful, and strong.” I let my fingertips brush against the calluses just above her knuckle line. “Working hands.”
My peripheral vision catches the slight movement as she turns her head to look at me, but I keep my eyes facing forward. The sand is cool under my feet. In the patchy light of the half-moon, I watch small crabs scuttle periodically out of our way. My thumb shifts to brush across her wrist, and our pulses blend for just an instant.
“What’s your favorite movie?” I ask after a few quiet minutes. She laughs at the random question, and for a moment, I see her old smile resurface. We talk about film for a while, then music, as the constellations gradually shift overhead, pinwheeling slowly around the North Star. Our progress is leisurely. The bells of sailboats moored in the bay come to us intermittently on a warm breeze. I like the way it ruffles her hair.
“Where are we going?” she asks, finally. Her tone is mildly curious—relaxed. Our linked hands swing in gentle arcs between us.
“My apartment.” I keep my voice light, like hers.
“Ah.” The faint half smile doesn’t leave her face.
“I like the way your hair looks in the moonlight,” I tell her as we reach the outer door. I slip my key into the lock and watch her while I turn it. “It shimmers.”
She laughs and leans into me a little, one shoulder and hipbone pressing against mine. Another jolt. I smile back before leading her up the stairs to the door across from the second-floor landing. Once inside my apartment, she doesn’t wait for a tour but moves around herself, taking in the bedroom, the small office, the den. Traces the base of one of my old swimming trophies with an errant index finger. I smile at the sight of her, head turning back and forth as she absorbs the reality of my living space. She feels right here. Like the room has been waiting for her to fill it. Somehow.
Lessons in Love Page 7
