Life happens, so they say, so the next morning I had to return to my apartment in
the morning. I wished to stay with Paul, but we both had other plans, things that needed
doing and such.
So, we did not meet again until Wednesday. All the week I was walking on air; my
roommate, Ann, a woman of the new century, who chewed up men for breakfast and spit them
up for lunch, was very suspicious of me the whole time. I had to tell her all, since I had
not returned home on Saturday night.
“How can you fall for a guy like that? And twice your age too!” she chastised me.
There wasn’t much I could say in my defense, not without mentioning the sex, which
I eventually did.
“So there you were!” she snapped. “Like a little nude plaything for this male
chauvinist pig. Fifty years of women’s rights thrown out the window because you met a guy
who knows how to use his dick!”
I do believe she’s a closet lesbian. In any case, that statement was true. I could
not care less about equality, equal rights, abortion, or any of the feminist agenda items,
so long as I got to feel Paul inside me again, soon.
So when he called me on Tuesday to tell me to come to his place for dinner, a drink
and sex on Wednesday, I gleefully agreed before I realized that I should probably have
objected to making the third item so plain up front. I chastised myself for about twenty
seconds, before dashing out of the office to check out the La Perla store in the mall. I
wanted some new undies for Wednesday. In my mind, I could see Ann rolling her eyes when I
told her, as she did, when I did.
Wearing my new peach and white lace bra and matching tap panties over my newly
triangular trimmed bush; I flitted about the office like a schoolgirl with a crush on a
new hot boy. I think I completed my tasks for the day in record time, but still could not
understand why everyone kept rolling their eyes at me. I would not have time to go home
to change, so I changed in the office, I wore a thin silk blouse, that was just
translucent enough to show off the bra, but not quite, and a bouncy ruffle skirt, that
reached mid thigh. I left my regular clothes at the office, since I might not be able to
get home to change. A spritz of perfume and I was off!
The La Perla panties are gorgeous to look at but, I realized, a pain to wear if
your pussy is gushing every half an hour or so. I realized that the (tiny) crotch was
soaked before I left the office, and the lace around it does nothing to keep you dry. I
padded the crotch with Kleenex, and discreetly threw them away just before I got in the
elevator to Paul’s condo. When I knocked on his door, I was wet again.
The dining table was already set in the great room. The china was plain white; it
had the sheen of quality, but was bare of any decoration. The stemware was of the finest
lead crystal; it hummed at the least touch, but was also completely plain, without even an
etching of any kind. The aroma of food wafted in from the kitchen, although I could not
tell what he had prepared for dinner.
“Dinner is almost ready,” Paul said after he kissed me.
I flitted into the great room, and twirled a couple of times like an overexcited
girl. I realized I felt like I was a freshman in college and got to date the quarterback.
“Did you order out?” I asked, to make small talk, and to try to distract him from
the definitely musky aroma that wafted up from between my legs when I twirled.
“Of course not,” he said handing me a Cosmo. He already had a Manhattan in his
hand. “I cook myself quite often, you will see.”
And I saw. Dinner was a simple, yet extravagant experience. A lime soup, with
tortilla chips and avocado came first, followed by scallops sautéed in a jalapeno
cream sauce with baby tomatoes, and for dessert, a chocolate soufflé. He served
champagne throughout the dinner; Perrier Jouet, the one with the hand painted, flowered
bottle. By the time dinner was done we were halfway through the second bottle.
After leaving the dishes in the sink, he said his help would take care of them in
the morning, we proceeded to the couch. Sitting beside him, I was afraid he would again
notice my excitement, uncontained by the flimsy underwear. He touched my knee with one
finger, softly, like a cherry blossom falling, and my legs opened, of their own accord. I
felt suddenly breathless, hot; he just smiled. Then he spoke:
“Stand up and strip for me.”
He said it softly, naturally, as if it were the most common thing to ask your date,
before you even kiss her. “Darling, please strip for me” All my being rebelled against
that attitude; How dare he?
I stood up, a little dizzy from the champagne. There was soft jazz coming from the
stereo, and began a slow dance to the beat of the bass. I swung my body from side to side,
my skirt bouncing in step. Slowly I brought my hand up to my chest and began unbuttoning
my blouse. Every two buttons, I twirled and my musk spread on the air. Surely he could
smell it by now, indeed, I saw him breathing deep through his nose.
The music changed to a faster beat; Latin jazz of some kind, conga drums or bongos
perhaps, in a hypnotic rhythm. The track lights shone on me, making me dizzy. And the beat
went on. I kicked off my shoes, so I could step to the beat, barefoot. I twirled once more
and hurled my blouse off to the side. I then faced him, still swaying to the beat, my
breasts, clearly visible through the bra, their nipples erect, my chest covered in a sheen
of sweat.
The beat became slower, as I slowly coaxed my skirt down, off my legs. I stood now
clad only in my bra and panties. I was happy the panties were lacy everywhere but in the
crotch; otherwise he could have seen how wet they were.
I took my bra off, in a fiery twirl and cast it off, against the window. I
realized, suddenly that the window was open, that it was dark outside, and that anyone on
the nearby buildings had just had witnessed a great strip show. For a moment I stopped my
dance. Then he said:
“Continue.”
What more did he want, I twirled again, opening my knees and squatting down, only
to raise myself up again. Offering the price only to hide it from view once more.
Finally, my back to him I bent down, legs straight, and began pulling my panties down.
“Throw them to me,” he said.
Standing back up, still my back to him; I tossed the soppy wet piece of cotton and
lace to his waiting hands. When I turned, he was touching the fabric at the crotch. I
blushed.
I had just given a man a strip show, on what was my third date with him, and I was
blushing because he could feel the wetness in my panties. How ironic.
He approached me, my wet panties in his hand. I watched him, breathless. He
embraced me and kissed me, hard. I responded, my open mouth sucking at him as I tried to
wrap myself around his body, feeling the rough fabric of his trousers against the soft
skin of my inner thighs, the smooth coolness of his shirt drying the sweat of my chest. He
broke the kiss but not our embrace, I could feel his hardness between us; he brought up my
panties, close to my face, and nose. I smelled the aroma of my own love oils, getting
more aroused and embarrassed at the same time. His hand grabbed my ass, hard, almost
painfully so, excited, I did not notice, or rather, it was something extra, an added tone
of excitement, which pushed me higher. I held on to him harder; I would never let him go.
The drums kept beating. The room, high up in a civilized city, melted away, there
was no city, there was no room. There were stars in the sky, and there was night. And
there were two animals, two predators circling each other. One was male, one was female.
The female was in heat. Her head thrashed from side to side, spreading her musk for the
male to smell, and to follow, and so to find her.
The female is vulnerable, for the male is much larger than her. He approaches her
and takes her into his arms. She struggles, but not to get free. Her need is such that she
cannot stay quiet, she cannot control her body, her limbs; she thrashes curving herself,
wrapping herself around the male. Her pheromones surround him, blotting out all other
smells. His organ, rigid, probes at her back. He throws her on their bed, and stands back.
She regards him, nude, sweaty, her hair wet, her body wet, her sex, dripping juices on the
sheets. She turns this way and that; her juice falls on her thighs and on the bed. Her
smell fills the room. The female is aware of nothing other than her burning need to be
sated, of her fires to be quenched, and the presence of the male that circles her, erect,
his own need apparent.
He darts on to her and they wrestle; above them, stars revolve around them, as each
grabs, tests, bites and sucks at each other. Then she, on hands and knees, is taken. Her
spine stretches, rigid, her organs writhe, spasm, clutch at the male organ that is now
embedded in the centre of her being. She screams as she releases her energy, as she sucks
his seed high up into her womb.
I regain my senses, lying on my side, his member still inside me, semi hard. I try
to leave but he holds my waist against him and does not release me. He pinches my nipples
and bites at my shoulder. He is not finished with me and, after a few seconds, my guts
writhe again to tell me that I, also, am not finished yet. No; one wrenching orgasm is not
enough to sate me. I start moving, and he gets hard again.
He grabs me tighter and swings on his back. I am now kneeling on his pelvis, my
legs, on each side of him, facing the window. The lights are on, and anyone on the next
building can see me riding him. He doesn’t care; neither do I.
I start riding him, bending forward, to bring my clitoris to bear; leaning back, so
his dick hits my sweet spot. I ride, and I ride. And I reach higher and higher, until the
muscles of my pelvis spasm on him, grabbing him; my release but seconds away.
Then he spanks me, hard.
“Yeooow!” I yell. “That hurts.” but I do not stop riding him.
Splat! He spanks me yet again. “Yeooow!” I yell again. “Stop that.” but, on the
edge of my release, I do not stop riding.
Splat! He spanks my left cheek now. His left hand can hit as hard as his right.
“Stop that!” I demand. “It hurts”
“It’s meant to.” he says and spanks me again, on the right cheek.
“Stop,” I demand once again, still trying to reach my orgasm.
“You can make it stop,” He says, “simply get off.” And he spanks me again, harder.
“Yeooow! I don’t want to get off, I want to come,” I am still riding him.
“Then I’ll spank you until you come,” He says.
And before I can say anything he resumes spanking my ass, hard; first one cheek
then the other, then the same side two or three times. Unpredictably.
Inside me, short spasms keep announcing my orgasm, but the spanks distract me, and
I cannot come while I argue with him. Finally I decide to concentrate, or I am forced to
concentrate, and I ride him harder, forward, to grind my clitoris; spank, spasm, spank!
Then I lean back and his dick hits my sweet spot, spasm. And again, and again, until the
screams of my release mix with the screams from his spanking and I no longer know which is
which.
After I came, he stopped spanking me. He kissed me and helped me up. He guided me
to the full length mirror on the wall and turned me around so I could see my ass. It was
bright red, in contrast with my white skin. Tears on my eyes, I had been crying and coming
at the same time.
I hold him close. I do not understand.
“Why?” I asked.
“I wanted to,” he answers and, after a pause he adds:
“And so did you.”
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