Sex in the City - New York

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Her kiss became frantic. She sucked at my mouth as if she wanted to swallow me whole. Her teeth battered my lips. I tasted blood. I didn’t care. Whatever she wanted, I was ready to give.

  A breath of hot musk teased my nostrils. Groping, I discovered that she had spread her thighs. I rested my hand just above her knee, feeling her heat through the taut nylon. In my mind, I was trailing my fingers up the inside of her leg then sinking them into her wet centre. In the real world, I didn’t dare move.

  ‘Please,’ she moaned, finally breaking the kiss. ‘Touch me.’ She pulled my hand under her skirt. I had a confused impression of bare skin and damp satin. My thumb brushed over a ridge of elastic running down her thigh. She was wearing an old-fashioned garter belt. White? My dirty mind painted a picture of her standing over me, bare-breasted, a black tangle of curls framed by the band of pearly satin and the pale suspenders stretched over her ebony flesh.

  She pressed my palm against her soaked, satin-covered chucha. The wet heat shattered my image, bringing me back to the present. She opened to give me access. I stroked a fingertip along the crevice dividing her lower lips, scarcely daring to breathe. She squirmed under my touch. ‘More,’ she sighed. ‘Harder ...’

  I wriggled my hand under the elastic and burrowed through her pussy hair. Working blind, I found my way between her slick lips and finally, to the hard knot of her clit. She gasped and fell back onto the bench, eyes closed, shuddering each time I touched that magic bud.

  ‘Oh ... oh, yes ...’

  I pushed one finger into her cleft, rubbing her clit all the while with my thumb. She clenched her muscles, straining against me. I added a second finger and she arched up, forcing me deeper. My balls were tight and my cock ached, but I pushed those sensations away, wanting to concentrate on my lady’s pleasure. Her ripe lips were drawn back from her teeth. Her forehead gleamed with sweat. She clutched at her breasts through her blouse, pinching her nipples. Santos, I wanted to do that, too, but I was fully occupied with her pussy.

  It was awkward, sitting beside her. My arm was starting to cramp. Without removing my fingers from her sex, I slipped to the floor. Kneeling between her thighs, I used my free hand to force her skirt up. She raised her buttocks from the bench so that I could crumple the garment around her waist, out of the way. Now she could spread her legs wide. I could see her in all her glory.

  My dick leaped inside my shorts. My heart slammed against my ribs. Her lingerie was as snowy as I dreamed, but her panties, pulled to one side, were dark with her juices. Her untrimmed bush glistened with her juices. Peaking out from that wiry thicket, her cunt lips were a dusky rose, much lighter than her thighs. My own brown hand was busy among those folds. I grazed my thumb over her clit and watched her writhe.

  She smelled like the ocean back home. The rich, fertile aroma mingled with her floral perfume, light and dark together, driving me crazy. I had to taste her. When my fingers slipped out of her pussy, she cried out her frustration. I dove headfirst into her pussy, turning the cry into a moan.

  My woman in white grabbed my head and pulled me deeper into her crotch. I worked my tongue over her flesh, drowning in her scent. I was drunk on her juices. Giddy, I speared her hole then backed off to circle the hot little nob of her clit. She was so sensitive, the barest touch made her vibrate with pleasure. I flicked at it, teasing, then caught it between my lips. A tremor shook her frame.

  Her rough fingers dug into my scalp. My nose flatted against her pubic bone. I licked, probed, suckled, feeling her tension mount, reading her body like I’d known her for ever. Power raged through me. She was close. I knew I could make her come. I retreated just enough to get my fingers into her, then pressed my mouth back against her pussy, sucking hard.

  She arched up, grinding against me. I pumped three fingers in her clinging channel. Cradling her clit between my lips, I rocked it with my tongue. A stillness seized her, like the sea retreating before a tidal wave. I knew what she needed. I bared my teeth and nipped gently. The sea came roaring in.

  My beauty’s wail echoed through the marble vaults. Fresh moisture gushed from her. She thrashed underneath me as I continued to lick her sweet pussy. I was happier than I had been since I’d left home. Maybe happier than I’d ever been in my life.

  Her cries died away to whimpers and then to silence. She slumped against the wall, breathing heavily, her eyes closed. A satisfied smile played on her lips.

  I was panting, too. My knees felt bruised by the stone floor as I pulled myself to my feet. My face was smeared and sticky. I felt a silly grin stretching my cheeks. My lungs were full of helium.

  My dick strained against my fly, demanding my attention. I glanced around, fearful that her cries might have caught someone’s attention, but we still seemed to be alone. Tearing open my zipper, I freed my swollen cock. It throbbed in my fingers, hungry, angry at being ignored for so long.

  My companion was still sprawled on the bench with her legs spread wide, looking wanton and inviting. I could take her now, I thought, slide my cock into her wetness and ride her to another climax. We could come together, the way I’d dreamed, her pussy clutching at my rod as I burst inside her. It would be so easy.

  Something stopped me. For one thing, I didn’t have a condom. I felt like I knew her, but to her I was a stranger. It wouldn’t be right, to take her that way, rough and hurried, with no protection, pressed against the hard, cold marble. When I made love to my goddess, I wanted it to be perfect.

  Carajo! How I wanted her! It was like I’d never come before. Months’, no, years’ worth of come swelled my prick. I jerked my fist up and down, watching her face, until the pressure became unbearable. I let go at last.

  The come churned up my stalk and exploded into the air. Bursts of pleasure chained my spine like a string of firecrackers, one igniting the next. I must have closed my eyes. I saw wheels of colour spinning in the darkness, blooming with each spurt then fading away.

  I opened my eyes and stumbled against the wall. She stared at me, looking confused and a bit wary. I noticed that some of my spunk had landed on her blouse. My cheeks burned.

  ‘Oh ... perdóname ... I’m so sorry ...’ I took the handkerchief she’d used to wipe her tears and swabbed at the white puddles on the gray silk. Her nipples made visible peaks despite her bra. I started to get hard again.

  ‘Never mind.’ Her voice was cold. She pulled away from me. Standing, she hauled her skirt down and tried to brush away the wrinkles. ‘Forget it.’

  I stood there gaping at her like a clown, my half-erect dick hanging out of my pants. She picked up her purse and briefcase. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m really late.’

  ‘Wait! Por favor ...’ Desperate, I clutched at her sleeve. The silk slithered out of my grasp.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miguel.’ A thrill shot through me, just to hear her voice saying my name. She was not smiling, though. ‘I’m sorry for everything.’

  ‘Querida mia. Just a moment, please.’ But she was already gone, her heels clicking on the well-worn stone.

  I sat on the bench like some stupid turd, not believing, not understanding. Finally, I stuffed my bicho back into my pants and returned to my newspapers. A chill drizzle dampened the sidewalks. The pavement was a sea of black umbrellas. I put on my slicker then crouched on my milk crate, fishing out papers from under the tarp and handing them to customers like a robot.

  I’d touched my angel. I’d tasted her. I’d made her come. Something was wrong, though. I’d seen it in her face, once her pleasure faded. Worry wound itself around my throat, choking me.

  By the time evening came, I was feeling better. I dropped by El Malécon after my cleaning shift for the two beers I allowed myself and some conversation. I don’t drink anything harder; not any more. But the bit of alcohol made me more hopeful. Probably there was some misunderstanding. Or perhaps my lady was embarrassed by her randy behaviour. I would see her the next day
, and we could work it out. Maybe I could even take her for a coffee.

  I had to jack off twice before I could sleep. Images of my woman’s rosy pussy and sleek thighs filled my dreams.

  I wore my best jeans to work the next day, and an ironed shirt. I was excited as a school kid. But she didn’t show up. Thursday and Friday passed, endless, without any sign of her.

  Where was she? What had I done? Every day was torture. I was like the sinner who had been shown a glimpse of heaven then cast into hell.

  I couldn’t sleep. My fantasies kept me awake. Now that I’d seen my lady’s charms, the images were filthier than ever. I saw myself feeding her my cock, forcing it down her throat. At the last minute I’d yank it out and spray her face with my come. I saw her on her hands and knees, reaching behind to spread her plump butt cheeks. In that sultry voice, she’d beg me to ram my dick into her rear hole. I imagined how it would feel, the tightness gripping my cock. I imagined her whimpers as I exploded in her ass.

  It all left me unsatisfied.

  I began spending the money I should have been saving on girly magazines. Stretched out on my cot with a flashlight, I’d leaf through the pages, searching for big, black women with melon tits and come-hither smiles. None of them looked much like my woman in white; they were coarse and common by comparison. Even sprawled on that bench, limp and sticky, with her thighs splayed and her coño exposed to any passer-by, my lady was special. I longed for her grace almost as much as I craved her scent and her taste.

  Little by little, I gave up hope. I’d never see her again. I tried to recapture my old attitude of acceptance, my silent worship of her image, without success. A touch of reality had soured the fantasy.

  I started to think about going home despite the risk. I had nearly enough for a ticket. The thing was, everything about the city reminded me of her. The click of a woman’s heels on the sidewalk. The scent of gardenia trailing from a florist’s shop. Especially, the false heavens of Grand Central, arching over me as I pushed my mop. I’d glance over at the brass clock and think that I saw her there, waiting for me. I couldn’t bear to clean the side passage where we’d touched. I traded assignments with one of the other guy, even though that gave me both the basement and ground floor toilets.

  Returning to Santa Domingo might mean jail. But I felt like I was already in prison.

  November came. I bundled up in the morning, stamping my feet and breathing on my hands as I distributed the papers. I dreamed of Dominica’s warm breezes. The memory of my woman in white had grown as cold and brittle as the city.

  I was swabbing the floor in the main concourse, around six p.m. Something made me look up. I scanned the blue vault, looking for that old sense of peace. All I felt was weariness.

  As my eyes returned to my work, a figure on the Metrazur balcony caught my attention: a woman in a white dress.

  Ignore it, I told myself. Don’t give in. I moved closer, though, pushing my mop in front of me. The commuters flowed around me as if I didn’t exist. I stood at the foot of the winding stairs that led up to the bar, no more than twenty feet from her.

  Her back was to me. She rested against the railing, a martini glass poised in her elegant black fingers. A man stood beside her, some papi shampoo white guy wearing an expensive suit. He leaned toward her, laughing, a hand on her shoulder. As if he owned her.

  Her jet hair was coiled on top of her head. Her neck was slender and strong. Her arms as she gestured were unerringly grateful.

  She turned to look out over the concourse, and my heart turned over in my chest.

  After all this time.

  She was as gorgeous as ever. Her pale dress flowed around her when she moved like an angel’s robe. I could almost see her smile; the one she gave her companion.

  I gripped the mop handle until my knuckles hurt. At last! I wanted to rush up the stairs, take her in my arms, cover her with kisses. I needed to fall to my knees and beg her forgiveness for whatever I’d done that day to drive her away.

  Instead, I stood completely still for the next half hour while the rush-hour crowd thinned, watching her incline her head toward the other man, laugh at his jokes, touch his face with obvious affection. You’d think that someone would have noticed, a man dressed in fluorescent orange coveralls frozen in the middle of the concourse, staring like a maniac. But people like me are invisible.

  I didn’t move until she picked up her coat and took the arm of her companion to help her down the stairs. They headed across the concourse toward the Lexington exit. Without thinking, I dropped the mop and hurried after them.

  It was easy to keep them in sight. Her white coat shone like a beacon in the November gloom. I expected they’d flag a cab but instead they crossed 42nd Street and strolled down Lex, stopping to gaze into the shop windows in the Chanin Building. Most of the people on the sidewalk scurried by, collars up against the bitter wind, but she and her partner didn’t seem to feel the cold. They were in a different world. They walked slowly, his arm around her shoulders. Every now and then they’d stop for a quick kiss. Jealousy burned in my gut like hot acid. The heat distracted me from the wind, which sliced through the nylon of my uniform as though it was paper.

  I followed them for a few blocks, forcing myself to stay far enough back that they wouldn’t notice. I didn’t know why. I had no plan. I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing sight of her.

  At 38th they crossed Lexington and walked down to Third. Waiting for the light on the corner, I right stood behind them, close enough that I could smell her perfume. She didn’t turn around.

  They entered a high rise building halfway down the block. I was close enough behind to hear the doorman greet her, in a heavy Russian accent. ‘Good evening, Miss Abernathy.’ My heart danced. Now I knew her last name, at least. My heavenly Miss Abernathy.

  The elevator faced the street. I watched the floor numbers rise, then stop at seven. My lucky number. I peered through the glass at the burly doorman. His attention was focused on a portable TV, but I knew there was no way I’d get past him, especially dressed in my day-glo coveralls.

  On the other side of the building, further down 38th, an iron gate protected the trash bins. It was open. I let myself in. I stripped off the uniform, stuffing it into the prickly hedge that ran on either side of the gate. Underneath I wore my usual jeans. It was colder than ever without the extra layer.

  A narrow path smelling of garbage led to the back of the building. There it was, a steel-clad service door not visible from the street. Let it be unlocked, I prayed. I didn’t really expect an answer. When I pulled, though, the door opened onto a concrete passage that led me down into the basement. From there I found the fire stairs. I climbed the eight flights. My heart pounded in my ears, from excitement, not exertion.

  A window in the fire door let me survey the empty corridor. There were six apartments on her floor. The fire door was at one end of the hall, the elevator at the other, so I had a clear view. I slumped against the door, sweating from my climb, and waited.

  My mind was empty of every thought but her. My old memories of her smell and taste, came rushing back, given new life by the sight of her. She was in there with him, her boss, that pinchero who had made her cry. I hated the thought of him touching her, but my dick got hard anyway when I imagined them together. I wanted to break down her door, to rush in and pull him off her. I could feel the rage simmering underneath my lust. It was lucky that I didn’t know which door was hers.

  I waited, supported by some strange faith. She was meant to be mine. That was my only certainty. I would find a way.

  I don’t know how long I stood there in the stairwell, gazing out through that square of glass, daydreaming about my lady. A stir in the hall grabbed my attention. That pendejo slipped out the door directly to my right, closing it behind him. My angel was nowhere to be seen. I waited for my rival to disappear into the elevator, then rushed out a
nd tried her door. Locked, as any sensible door in the city should be. But perhaps not double-locked.

  I rummaged in my wallet and found the promotional calendar card I had picked up from Hudson News. I’d learned a few things from Julio’s friends. I slipped it into the crack between door and frame and wiggled. The soft click made me smile.

  The hinges were silent. I shut the door behind me, throwing the deadbolt. Her living room was empty. The polished wood floor was scattered with discarded clothing, marking a trail to her bedroom. I picked up a piece of peach-coloured silk – her bra – and held it to my face for a moment. Her scent swam around me, gardenia and musk intermingled. It made me dizzy. I stuffed the garment into my pocket and followed the path she had left.

  The bedroom reeked of sex. Like a dark comma, she curled naked on the pale, rumpled sheets. I marvelled at the pure expanse of her back, split by the march of her vertebrae down to her swelling rump. Her knees were drawn to her chest. From where I stood, I couldn’t see her breasts, but the flowing line of her raised hip filled me with awe.

  I had the urge to sink to my knees but actually the only part of me that moved was my dick. It pulsed and strained inside my shorts, protesting its confinement. I caught the sound of her breathing, low and regular. Was she asleep? I took a careful step closer to the bed, then another. Now I could see her forearms crossed over her luscious breasts and a few dark curls peeking out from between her clenched thighs. Her eyes were closed. Thick lashes caressed her cheekbones. Her velvet skin was damp with tears.

  Pain arced through me, followed by a thunderclap of desire. My poor darling. I would soothe her sorrow with my joy. I was convinced that I had been brought to her bedside in order to love her. The power of my adoration had overcome all obstacles.

  As quietly as I could, I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled off my jeans. I would stretch out beside her and wake her with a kiss. Then I would slide my cock into her welcoming pussy, and we would finally be whole.

  Despite my care, my belt buckle gave a soft clank as it hit the floor. My angel’s eyes flew open. I saw fear in their depths, not the welcome I had imagined. Her scream drove my naked body away from the bed like a physical blow.