Quickie • the Second Sex

The Second Sex
A Quickie by Redbud


He rounded the corner like he always did.

And she was there, like clockwork. He jogged this same stretch of road for two years, through two girlfriends – no, three – and another jogger was the most dependable woman in his life. Sometimes he reached the straight stretch first, sometimes she did. The stretch of road was kept on both sides by neat lawns, hedged sidewalks and perfect, clapboarded ranches tucked one next to the other. They would run down the road, onto another and then another until, after two miles, she turned right and he turned left.

He liked following her – slim and athletic. He liked how her hips moved, her narrow waist, sleek legs and narrow shoulders.

They never spoke.

Sometimes he would pass her. Sometimes she passed him. She had Asian features. He guessed she was half Asian. He liked that. He himself was from a mixed family – Mexican and American.  Her long black hair was braided and cinched with a bright red tie.

He’d been told she was a researcher; had been dating a doctor, broke up, was an over-achiever, reading when she was 3, brilliant. A sheen of sweat covered the bare skin of her back between her sports top and shorts.  She aroused him. He liked the feeling of his body doing two things at once. He ran faster, timed his breath, and caught up to her.
She heard him. She must have. They didn’t look at each other.

He could smell her sweat, mixing with the oily smell of asphalt, humidity soil and leaves. Spring. He picked up his pace. She followed and passed him. He could hear her breath: regular, rhythmic, constant. Her stride was light and quick. She was a slight woman. His own stride was heavier and hard.

He ran faster. He passed her.

He could hear the timbre of her voice in her breathing. He imagined the light rhythmic fall of her lean body, legs open, pussy moistening a lover’s cock. He imagined her from behind, muscular and feminine, wet with sweat and penetration.

She didn’t slow. Her breath was even. She was passing him.

He ran harder; so did she. They neared the end of the straight-stretch and the first corner. He pushed to pass and she leaned, crowding him against the curb.

He caught himself on his  left hand and a bloodied right knee. God-damn her!

She was several paces ahead. She had stopped, bent over, hands on knees, catching her breath; but there was something else in her posture. She looked back at him. She spat before she turned again. He pushed after her. What the hell she was thinking? Who the hell did she think she was? But there was another emotion that mixed in that anger. Her palm had brushed his cock before he fell.

He struggled to control his breathing.

She veered! Where? The woods? He followed. The path rose, fell, and then she was off it. Leaves whipped them both. They jumped over fallen trees and snapped branches. She had speed but he had size. He was winning. She stopped, finally, hands on knees, knees on the earth, elbows wide, breath ragged. He passed her, bent over, catching his own breath. No! He stood, hands on hips, and turned. With a quick, sharp movement she pulled her sports bra up and cast her eyes downward. Her breasts heaved, nipples hard

He froze. Jesus!

Then, slowly, he pushed down the front of his shorts. He took his cock in one hand, the braid of her hair in the other. She hadn’t caught her breath; but that didn’t stop him. He pushed his cock against her lips. They parted. Then her tongue and mouth  closed round him. She crossed her wrists behind her back and sucked. He groaned. Her beautiful lips, just as he had always imagined, slid forward and back over his glistening length; then  he cried out.

She had bitten him!

He stumbled backward. She chased him. She snarled her fingers in his hair and kissed him – urgently, violently. Then she was running again.

His size and strength won out again. She ran until her breath was ragged, then turned her back to a tree, reaching behind her as though to hold onto it. Her breasts heaved. She averted her gaze. She was tiny compared to him – tiny, wiry and tough. When he pinched her nipple she held her breath. He pinched until her knees met and one foot lifted. She let go of the tree and  pushed him away, hard, but didn’t move. He pushed down the front of his shorts again, tucking the banding under his balls, freeing his cock. Her eyes followed his hands, then focused on his cock. She retreated, falling back once more against the tree,  her hands behind her and against the sides of the tree.

He pushed the crotch of her shorts aside.

Her cry was short, like high water, or a bird. The heavy bud of his cock had begun its slide upward. His felt for her wrists, then held her hands to the tree. She caught the skin of his chest between her teeth and tugged, then as quickly released him and rose to her toes. He  braced the balls of his feet into the moist earth, withdrew,  then  thrust up hard again. Her fingers dug into the bark of the tree. He held them. He thrust. She breathed hard from running and now the fucking. She pushed her upper back against the tree. She opened herself and made fluttering cries that inflamed him.

Her hands slipped out! She was fast!

She half pushed, half pulled him. She was trained and could fight. He recognized the moves. He fell onto his back and she landed on top of him, her fists wrapped tightly in his sleeveless. She gave a short, hard grunt as she took the full length of him. Had her breath been knocked out of her? No. Her head fell back and she ground against him. Shoots, crumbling leaves and damp roots pressed into his back. Then she was fucking him. He reached for her nipples. She took his wrists and forced his hands above him, against the damp soil. Her rise and fall was light, quick, rhythmic, like her running.

She rose until her lips just kissed his tip, then fell hard, engulfing the length of him. Her breath grew halting, starting and stopping, out of sync. He recognized the knot of her eyebrows, the way her mouth opened, the way her slight body hardened and stiffene.

“No!”

He freed his hands! She ground against him as he forced her hands behind her. Her wrists were tiny. Then he had her: both wrists in one hand. She could have freed herself but she didn’t. He pulled her wrists downward, backward, forcing her to tightly arch her back. She groaned. Her breasts and nipples were stretched. She struggled to grind against him but the more she tried, the harder he bent her.

She stopped moving, knees wide, penetrated.

“That’s right,” he snarled. “You can be faster, smarter, but when I’m fucking–”

She struggled. He held her. Her breasts heaved.

“No!” he growled.

He cupped her cheek with his free hand, then pressed his thumb to her lips. She opened. He pushed his thumb in her mouth. She bit down! She ground against him. He held her. She bit harder! He shook his head. She bit harder. Her nostrils flared. He refused. The pain was searing. Still harder, but he shook his head – not quickly but with determination. He was a proud man. He had been beaten bloody for being a Mexican in America. He’d been beaten bloody for being an American in Mexico. No, if nothing else, he was a proud man.

He was going to break this woman, Jesus! – he was going to break her.

She stopped grinding.

She stopped biting; and that was worse than the pain of biting! But her eyes changed. She began to suck. She slid her mouth back and over  over his thumb. She didn’t move her hips. His first thrust was hard and made her grunt. She let out a long exhalation but continued to suck, gazing at him, waiting. He sat up, brought his knees under him. She was still impaled, wrists behind her, back arched. He took her right breast into his mouth, all of it, and sucked – the part of her that was soft and delicate; that always would be feminine and vulnerable. He tasted salt and another scent – maybe perfume. Her breast slid out of his mouth until just her nipple was between his lips. He pressed it between his teeth.

Pain.

She quickly sucked his thumb. She ground on his penetration. He bit harder. She stopped grinding. She tongued his thumb as if she asked a question. He released her nipple and she inhaled sharply. That’s it, he thought to himself. He thrust again, still holding her wrists. He thrust hard, holding himself deeply insider her. She sucked his thumb. He knew the look – submissiveness. If she tried to move, he shook his head.

“Suck,” he whispered.

She did. He thrust. Smoothly. Repeatedly. She was stiffening. Her slight frame was arching. She was coming.

“Suck,” he whispered again.

She sucked. Her eyes rolled. She convulsed around his thrust and then, a shudder, a long groan, and she was limp.

He withdrew his thumb. The base was swollen, marked by her teeth. Saliva dripped from her chin. He let her sit up, still holding her wrists. She peered at him, then licked his chin, his neck and the hollow of his throat, tasting sweat and maleness.  He stood up easily. He slid out of her, wet and glistening with her breaking. He took in her breasts, her narrow waist and hips. He squeezed a tit. Her eyes fluttered. So she was an over-achiever? She was accomplished? She was smarter and more athletic? He yanked her shorts midway down her thighs. He turned her round, bent her over and pushed her to her knees. He took her unraveling braid and pulled her head back.

She cried out.

He sunk into her upturned opening. He fucked her. He fucked until she grunted with every thrust. Was she brilliant?  Yes, but she was a woman. He slapped her ass, he held himself insider her, bursting, and filling her womb. Then he fell over her, pressing her cheek into the rich, back soil. The smell of cum, earth, torn leaves and streaked thighs laced their breathing.

They stayed like this, her ass jutting upward, his body over hers. His cock grew languid and soft until just the tip remained in her heat. They kissed, tenderly and without speaking. She licked his lips. He licked hers. He stood and so did she. She pulled up her shorts, making no pretense to clean the fluids newly inside her. She watched him but without fear. Respect. She respected him.

If he had found something he wanted, and so had she.

He glanced back at the way they had come. The fresh shoots were matted down and driven into the soil. It was spring. The forest smelled of fecundity. He began the jog back to the road. She followed, then passed him. She was the more graceful, the more talented and the more athletic, but maybe she was his. Now, when he watched her slender hips and waist, he knew what was inside her, mixed and stirred by her lithe motion.

They reached the road.

She continued to run ahead of him, faster and fitter. Then, at the corner, she turned left.

She slowed.

She waited for him to catch up, and she saw what she wanted to see – a touch of worship and gratitude.

:Will Crimson
December 5 2009


Each of our erotic stories is like a letter,
And the response from our readers is the reward for writing them.
Why else write erotica publicly? Before you read and leave please remember:

If you would like us to keep writing, please write back.

Latest Comments

  1. ashes says:

    That is a different story… A melding & keeping of self? I will stop trying to analyze it. It was good & in the end that is what matters isn’t it?

  2. Fredwalls says:

    Will,
    I see echoes here of the dichotomy I commented on in your earlier story, 45. You seem to have a fascination for strong independent women who choose to submit – and so show their strength.
    Regards
    Fred

    • willcrimson says:

      What you’re reading is my unwillingness to write erotic stories (as opposed to genre- or fetish- erotica) about powerless women. I find stories about powerless women to be unrealistic and much less interesting. To me, the most erotic dynamic is that of the woman who is in control of her non-consensual experience. This is how life is. Trying to portray characters as real, with real (or implicit) responses, fears and desires is much more interesting than portraying a two-dimensional object of male fantasy. The web is over-full of “erotica” like that. It’s awful stuff. If women can see themselves or imagine themselves in my stores, then I feel like I’ve done my job. In a sense, 45 was an early declaration concerning the kind of stories I wanted to write and characters I wanted to write about. :-)

  3. Kat says:

    This was a good read. I loved the way you set up the history of the woman as well as the man. You’re unwillingness to write erotic stories about powerless women is great, in my opinion, since, as you’ve said, makes it more realistic, but also because I like to fantasise about possibly getting myself into a similar situation.

    Love it,
    Kat.

Share your thoughts.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s