Four writers for the price of one blog
She held up one outfit after another: too loud; too timid; and then just right, her favorite tube skirt and the black halter top with the mandarin collar—the name reminded her of geisha’s. She dressed quickly and sang along with the radio. Just minutes before the doorbell rang, she leaned, hips against the bathroom counter, and rouged her lips. She was already fantasizing, spreading her legs as she leaned against the counter, thrusting her breasts under her, imagining him behind her and his fingers squeezing her nipples.
She felt irresistible—everything was in the right place: breasts, hips, lips, eyes. Tonight was the night. She had plans. She straightened. The phone rang. She quickly fished through her purse.
“Batteries ran out!”
“He’ll be here any minute!”
“Okay, but you have to tell me how it goes.”
“A man, tonight.”
“You deserve it.”
“Got it all planned. Me, hot as hell. Dinner. Drinks. Flirting. Wind him up. Café. Pretend I don’t notice. Midnight, suggest a nightcap.”
“I don’t know if—“
“I don’t think he’s like your ex.”
“How’s that a problem?”
“Shit! I gotta’ go. Doorbell!”
Siri hurried to the door; and he was gorgeous. He was holding flowers; and he was looking unapologetically at her tits, her waist, hips, legs, and finally her. And then he said: “Wow. I mean, drop-dead.”
Siri resisted the urge to spin around. Instead she primly held out her hand. “They’re beautiful.”
“Not half as beautiful.”
He handed her the flowers and now that she had her excuse, she turned and showed off what a man likes best. He followed her into the apartment’s kitchen. There was a vase in easy reach but that’s not the one she wanted. She reached for the yellow ceramic on the top shelf, trapped her pelvis against the counter-top, ass thrust behind her. She felt cool air on her belly button.
“Jay-Zus,” he said with a smooth, licorice, pleasure.
“Where did you get them,” she asked.
“I was gonna’ ask you the same thing.”
“Oh, a little fertilizer every now and then.”She turned with a wicked smile and arranged the innocent flowers.
“Yeah—” Silence. “So— Tavern on the Green?”
“I’d love to.” Siri tapped the Rose into place. “Shall we go?”
But first he drew her against him by the small of her back. They kissed. Her nipples were hard. His cock was hard. They parted, caught their breath, then passed back through the front door, arm in elbow. They walked down the three stories. His leather souls scuffed and her high heels clicked. The entry hall was narrow with black and white tiles. The mailboxes were behind the first rise of the stairway.
“I just have to put a check in the mail,” she said.
Wind him up; and so she dropped the envelope. When she bent over she felt his hands on her ass, and when she straightened he pushed her against the wall with its boxes and mail chute. He pushed her tits and pelvis against cool glass and metal. He drew back her head so that she looked up at him. He kicked her feet apart and lifted the back of her tube skirt. Her heart thumped. The games she played—the fizzling, disappointing games she used to play—but this man wasn’t her ex. This was a stranger. She heard his belt, the whisper of linen, then his shoes as he moved behind her. He yanked her head. Her spine reflexively curled.
“Wait!” she said.
“Look at me,” he answered.
“Touched it? Sucked it? Looked at it?”
That’s not what she meant, was going to say, but he was right.
“Don’t say a word. Don’t talk. Just your eyes. Look at me. Now,” he said at just the moment his cock, parted, penetrated and slid, uncompromisingly, into her. “That’s it,” he cooed. Show me. Yes. Just like that. Is it bigger than you expected? Yes? There’s more. No. Don’t talk.” Her mouth opened. Her tongue, as though pushed out by the thing rising inside her, searched for his lips, his tongue, his words. Two fingers slid over her tongue, into her mouth, and she sucked as if the tips of his fingers and the rising tip of his cock could miraculously meet in the moist middle: she be a woman, wholly a woman, breakable, penetrable, to be consumed and made whole again.
“Look at me,” he repeated.
She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. Pain mixed with pleasure. Her abdomen spasmed. He pressed against the mouth of womb. He was different. So different. She began to shake. She waited. She sucked. She was ready. Please. Thrust. But he withdrew as slowly as he had entered. She heard her own wetness, the deep, secretive syrup of her womb as his cock slipped out; and nothing of him, his smell or mark curdling its clarity.
He withdrew his fingers. He withdrew his palm from the small of her back. He tucked his cock in his pants. She didn’t see him, but she knew. She straightened and slowly turned. She pushed down the back of her skirt. Her panties were still pushed to the side. He tugged at the bottom of his suit and straightened his tie. “Shall we go?”
“Go?” she echoed, dazed.
“Yes. Tavern on the Green. Drinks. Dinner. Flirting? Let’s make a late night of it. What do you say?”
William Crimson | September 19 2015