For my muse. . .

The first time I saw her I was nineteen years old. She was in a bookstore on Lee street that has closed down now; one that I frequented at the time because it had an amazing selection of classic erotica--My Secret Life, The Pearl, Autobiography of a Flea. I came into the aisle containing all the works by Anonymous and she was standing there, engrossed in a copy of Fanny Hill. She didn't fit this college town at all--mid-30's when everyone else was either under 25 or over 45; dressed in heels, a long, black sheath skirt slit up far enough to catch a glimpse of the top of her black stocking, and a tight, shiny silver scoop-neck that showed much more than a glimpse of cleavage when in this town, sweatpants are considered evening wear. She looked as though she had dropped in from another, sexier, more sophisticated city. Not wanting to disturb her (and a little intimidated) I started to back away thinking of heading to the travel section. As I did so, she glanced up, looked straight at me and smiled without a trace of embarassment. I returned the smile a little sheepishly. She kept her gaze on me for a long moment. Getting the feeling I was being evaluated, I smirked a little and leant (I hoped nonchalantly) against the bookcase. After a second she broke the gaze and looked back down at the book, making me wonder if I had passed or failed the test. As I watched, she took a pen, wrote something in the inside cover of the book and returned it to the shelf. Then, without a word or a look, she walked past me toward the front of the store, brushing against me and leaving me in a cloud of (I guessed) expensive perfume. I watched her go, her shoulders back, her hips swivelling and I knew she knew I was watching.

As soon as she was out of sight, I went over to the shelf to look for the book she had written in. On the inside cover were a phone number and the admonition, "Buy this book." Never one to reject advice (especially from someone like that) I waited a few minutes to make sure she had left and bought the book. I called the number as soon as I returned to my room. She answered on the first ring,
"Hello," she said.
"Hi, um, this is. . . I'm the guy from the bookstore. My name's. . ."
"Don't tell me your name, child. Tomorrow at two o'clock come to my house. 218 Clinton street. I'll be waiting for you." She spoke curtly, as if somewhat annoyed by my eagerness.

I had to skip an anthropology class in order to be on time to meet her, but I reckoned that this was going to be a far more anthropologically enlightening experience than listening to Professor Schneider for an hour. I agonized for hours over what to wear, deciding in the end on a pair of jeans, motorcycle boots and a tight plain black T-shirt--simple but (hopefully) with a hint of elegance. If I had hoped to somehow compliment what she was wearing, I needn't have bothered. She answered the door stark naked but for a pair of stocking and black high heels. I was speechless, not only because she was naked (although that was surprising); but because her body--heavy, full breasted, round-hipped and with a thick triangle of curly black hair on her mound--was so very different from the narrow-hipped, high-breasted, cleanly-shaven girls I had been with. It was the first time I had been in a situation that was so brazenly sexual with a woman who looked like, well, a woman.

As minutely as I was examining her, however, she was doing the same to me; fixing me with the same cool gaze that she had used at the bookstore. For a long time we looked at each other and after a while I realized that she was standing in full view of anyone walking down the street. The realization brought a prickle of fear along the hairs on the back of my neck but it seemed not to bother her at all.
"Would you like to come in, Child?" she purred, smiling faintly. (Apparently I had again passed the test.) Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded and followed her inside.

As we walked down the hallway I found myself mesmerized by her walk, the way she so casually turned her back on a complete stranger, how her hips and ass moved with each step. My breathing became a little strangled; I tried (I think successfully) to hide it. Glancing around, I began to notice the house; it was large and modern but seemed oddly empty of things--furniture, bric-a-brac, art. It was almost as if this were a stage set waiting for props or a place someone was about to move out of. This didn't strike one as a house anyone lived in.

She didn't say anything at all as she led me through the house, apparently not the least uncomfortable with the silence, but when we entered her bedroom she turned around and holding a finger to my lips to silence me, she said,
"There are only two rules--one, no names, and two, you do exactly as I say--do you agree to these conditions?" I nodded, her finger still on my lips.
"Good," she said, smiling wolfishly, "Now the rules for today are as follows: You may not touch me with your hands, you will keep your pants on. You may, however, remove your shirt." This last was uttered far more as a command than a request. I immediately removed my shirt.

As I straightened up, her face changed, her expression going from cool complacency to eagerness, her eyes softening and her mouth opening slightly. She moved toward me and began to kiss my mouth, planting dozens of small open-mouth kisses on my face and along the line of my jaw. Lightly, and then not so lightly, she stroked my sides and chest with her long fingernails. Moving down, she continued to kiss my chest. Opening her mouth, she delicately trailed the tip of her tongue down my neck and chest finally sucking one of my nipples into the warm wetness of her mouth. I moaned and she laughed, reaching down to cup the bulge in my pants. I was painfully hard.

"Kiss me." She said giggling at my helplessness. I bent down to kiss her mouth but she pulled back.
"No." She said, and falling back on the bed, she spread her legs. I knelt before her like a supplicant, trailing kisses along the soft flesh of her inner thighs and blowing gently on her moist slit. She moaned and grabbed my head, pushing my mouth into her wetness. Grabbing the underside of the mattress with my hands to steady myself I started in earnest, licking and nibbling her slit moving slowly up toward her clit. Apparently, I was moving too slowly.
"Suck it," she hissed, "suck my clit into your mouth." I did as I was told without hesitation, taking her aroused flesh into my mouth, sucking it as she had done to my nipple earlier. Her response was immediate, her hips began to rise off the bed, pushing herself against my mouth, and her fingers began to tangle themselves in my hair until she was pulling it painfully. She began to spasm against me and I knew she was coming.

After a few seconds, she fell back limp against the bed. Her breathing was labored and as I stood up I could she the flush of blood coming into her face and the tops of her breasts. Unsure of what to do, I stood, somewhat self-consciously, watching her. She opened her eyes and looked up at me.
"Well done, Child." she said huskily, "You may come back again tomorrow, but tomorrow, bring a friend. You can see yourself out." With that she turned away.
I retrieved my shirt, and after a long look at her naked, supine body, went to leave.

As I walked through her oddly impersonal house, I realized with some discomfort that I had come in my pants.

To be continued. . .

I don't know if you've ever been called upon to recruit someone to join with you in fucking a complete stranger, but as I'm sure you can imagine, it presents a few problems. Not only are you picking someone you'll feel comfortable with while engaging in activities not sanctioned by the school events comittee, you're also picking someone you hope (based on little or no knowledge) will appeal to the all-important third party. I examined and rejected each of my friends in turn (physical deformities, emotional deformities, religious exemptions) and began evaluating every eligible male I came in contact with. I began to feel oddly like some kind of perverted Panderus and believe me, it's an odd sensation for a nineteen year old heterosexual male to find oneself immediately starting to speculate on the penis size of every halfway attractive man you meet. It began to be extremely difficult to hold up my end of even the simplest conversation. Despair began to take hold.

However, as they say, the darkest hour is always just before the dawn, and my sun rose, as it were, in the form of the return from National Guard training of one Carlito Rodriguez. Carlos, Carlito to his many friends, was precisely the person I needed. Extremely handsome (in that short hair and white teeth kind of way that, while compelling, seems fairly universal in its appeal) he was the kind of young man that college-age young women loved to bring home to meet Mother and Father and then sneak down into the kitchen with and fuck on the kitchen table--in short, a man for all seasons. We had never been more than the type of college acquaintances that acknowledged one other at parties (generally by roaring obscenities at each other and getting each other beer--yes, I was that kind in my youth; I have grown so). It was, therefore, a somewhat awkward nominating session. The acceptance speech, however, made up for its brevity with its hearty enthusiasm. Carlito, as I have said, was (and is still I should imagine) a man for any and all seasons.

So that is how I found myself, a week after I had last left it, once again standing and ringing the doorbell on the steps of that odd house on Clinton Street. Our mysterious lady once again answered the door wearing nothing but black stockings and (this time) red high-heels. She was as lovely and sexually potent as I had remembered, but this time there was something more--a palpable, almost throbbing hunger in her demeanor that was all-encompassing. She seemed ready to swallow us up. Well, I mis-speak; when I say she was ready to swallow us up, I am being more generous to myself than I really deserve. Have you ever had the experience of watching something you created take on a life of its own and spin wildly out of control? Well, this is somewhat the situation I found myself in as I watched her drink in (I don't think that is too strong a phrase) her first sight of Carlito. She was mesmerized by him, magnetically drawn to him and he to her. I became somewhat apart from their gravity, more like a satellite--in their orbit but not (I was keenly aware) shall we say, geosynchronous. I suppose it was at that moment that the realization came to me that what I had chosen in Carlito was this woman's exact male physical counterpart (dark, tall, strong, physically graceful). It was as if I had reunited her with her distaff self. The effect of this kamikaze attraction, even to me standing on the outside, was head-spinning.

No-one spoke as we followed her into the bedroom. As she turned to face us, she could look only at Carlito, her former haughtiness swept away by their mutual lust. She murmured something inaudible, but the import was obvious as she knelt before him furiously pulling at his belt and zipper. I watched as her eyes, lit with lust, finally beheld their prize. She licked her lips hungrily and immediately, greedily took as much of his hard cock into her mouth as she could manage. She gazed up at him as she did this--looking imploringly at him and then closing her eyes as if lost in the utter deliciousness of what she was doing, of what he was doing to her. For several long moments she suckled on him, her mouth slack with lust, occassionally looking up at him, her eyes smiling almost shyly as if to contradict her wantonness.

She could tell that Carlito would not be able to continue this treatment for long without coming and apparently, she was not going to be satisfied with that conclusion. At length, she stood and, pressing her naked body as close to him as she could as if afraid to lose contact with him, began kissing his neck and gently touching his completely rigid cock with her fingers. I have never before or since, I'm ashamed to admit, seen a woman so completely overcome with sexual desire for a man as she was that day. Carefully and gently, probably without his realizing it, she maneuvered him to the bed and fell with him onto it. He was lying on his back, she was on top. With infinite tenderess, she straddled him and holding his hard cock upright in her hand, placed it to her opening. Letting out a deep, shuddering sigh of contented lust, she settled, completely impaling herself on him.

At first she sat upright, holding her heavy breasts in her hands and playing gently with her nipples. Then, putting two of her fingers in her mouth, she began masturbating while she rode him, putting her head back and closing her eyes, all the while moaning softly. She did this for a long time and captivated as I was by the sight, I believed that I had been forgotten entirely. At length she leaned forward and kissed Carlito on the mouth. Then looking over at me she spoke as if in a dream or from a long way away, but, I must say, with some of the old hauteur.

"I want you to put it in my ass now. There's lube on the dresser." She turned back to Carlito again, kissing him hungrily and twining her fingers in his hair. I took the lube from the dresser and slowly and somewhat disconnectedly anointed both myself and her. As I placed the head of my cock at her puckered hole, she temporarily stopped moving and took a deep breath. Then, surprising me, she pushed back forcefully until I was deep inside her ass. Carlito had slid out of her during this motion, and with a whimper, she moved quickly to shove him back in.
Filled everywhere now with hard cock, she began to writhe uncontrollably. Pulling Carlito's hair and moaning incoherently she began to come, which she announced loudly.

"Oh God, Oh fuck, Oh God," she shrieked,"I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming."

And, looking at Carlito, "Come with me baby, please, please."

Carlito nodded and looking into her eyes he came, pouring himself into her. At this moment, caught up at last in their gravity, I came too, grunting and emptying myself into her ass.

We lay there for a little while, too spent to move, while Carlito and this strange woman looked into each others eyes and smiled. I realized shortly that my presence was, shall we say, no longer required and zipping myself up (that's right, I had not even disrobed) attempted (I think successfully) to absent myself with some shred of decorum.

As I once again made the pilgrimage down that strangely sterile hallway, I remembered the words of the old song, 'Well, you're blessed I guess by never knowing which road you're choosing. To you the next best thing to playing and winning is playing and losing.'

THE END


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