Our thighs touched as we lounged on the bar stools of the crowded restaurant. A dozen other customers had run inside as the rain sprinkled down on us and now the bar area was choked with laughter, voices, and elbows. The sky opened up with bright flashes and sheets of rain as Mitchell and I both looked outside.
“Would you mind giving me a ride home? I live right there.” He pointed at a silver-roofed apartment complex visible through the haze.
“I’d be delighted to.”
Mitchell and I weren’t even supposed to be together. Our official first date wasn’t until Saturday night, but when he’d hit me up to join him at my favorite oyster bar I could hardly refuse. He was a little taller than me in my heels, was trim and broad-shouldered, and had a close-cropped beard. Tufts of chest hair were visible in the V of his button down. I wanted to touch it.
He told me how beautiful he thought I was and what a good time he was having. I felt a pang of guilt because it felt like just another day at the office. I got this whole “first date” thing. I’m charming, witty, just coy enough that they can swallow my overt sexuality without worrying I’m going to eat them alive. I’m self-deprecating and poke fun at them to remind them they’re not in charge, but, neither am I. Let’s do this together, I say to them. Let’s lay as bare as the day we were born and explore what newfound thrills can be had with new fingertips, new tongues, and new hard and soft parts. I’m game.
Outside under the awning we took a deep breath together and plunged into the storm. I grabbed his arm as we trotted down the stairs; the street, a black river of cold water, sluiced over my feet. I hugged his arm tighter. It was pointless to run.
My long hair had fallen into ropes about my face, my dress soaked through to the bone. We jumped into my car laughing, smoked a cigarette and before I pulled away from the curb he grabbed my face and kissed me. Well.
“I’d wanted to do that in the rain.”
I smiled back at him and pulled out into the street. A minute and a half later we’re parked outside his apartment and his hands are buried in my hair and his lips, plump and whiskered, are all over mine. I felt my pussy pulse. A good kiss generally means good other things.
“Why don’t I grab a bottle of wine and you can take me back to your place?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to get up early tomorrow,” — and I have to fuck my neighbor — “I’ll see you Saturday at 7:30, right?”
He disappeared behind a curtain of rain and I sat in my car. “On my way home,” I texted to TN.
I drove with a shit-eating grin on my face. This is how I like it. Exactly. I’m not ashamed to admit I like being desired by many. The Beggar had also texted me during my date and had tried to convince me — again — to come fuck him.
Home, I had to park quite a distance from my stairwell. More rain. Big, fat, sloppy raindrops pounded into me. I felt alive and sensual. I nearly walked over to a tree and
humped hugged it.
I climbed the three flights of stairs and knocked loudly on his door. He flung it open, wearing only jeans. He looked disgruntled.
“Um,” I stammered. I wasn’t prepared for this. “I’m home.”
“Ok.” his hand still high on the open door.
“I just wanted you to know. You didn’t text me back.”
“Yeah, ok. Later.”
I turned into my front door, fumbled with my keys, and nearly stumbled inside. A clap of thunder made me jump. Goddamnit, I thought.
Then another trip out into the rain to relieve the puppy, a stop at my downstairs neighbor’s for some smokes, and a quick wardrobe change. I collapsed on the couch to SVU reruns. Fuck it all.
And then, 2 hours later, from somewhere off beyond the drone of the rain and the heavy slumber draping across my mind something pulled me up and through it. “Hy. Hy!” it said. “Wake up!” The Neighbor stood in my doorway. I blinked.
He took my hand and led me to my bedroom. I wondered if it was a dream and tried to shake off my confusion. He peeled off my clothes and gently lay me down on my bed. “You look so hot, Hy,” he said as he joined me naked but for his underwear, “You were beautiful wet on my doorstep.”
I thought, So he did notice.
“Can I touch you yet?” I asked, referring to his [presumed] medical condition I couldn’t pronounce.
“No,” he answered, “but I can touch you.”
His mouth found mine and his stubble scratched my face; his hands roamed my body, kneaded my breasts, squeezed my flanks; I could feel his hot erection pressed against me from behind stretched cloth. His hand went to where my legs joined and he delicately parted my flesh; entered sweetly. Then like a fish on a hook I began to writhe as he drove up into me, curling his fingers to my g-spot. I was his hand puppet, bashful and helpless, as he watched me build to a g-spot climax over and over.
My core went numb and like a ripple on a pond it spread up and out to my chest, arms, neck, and face. I panted and moaned; whimpered and cried. I could feel his eyes on me. As usual. I tried to watch him back, but the sensations were too much. I pooled like liquid sex into the curve of his hand and his thrusts splattered us both.
Eventually, he stopped. “Nine times, ” whispered.
“It’s embarrassing. I have no control,” I said.
“No. It’s fucking hot as hell is what it is,” he countered.
Then he’d slipped his cock through the slit in his shorts and entered me despite his insistence we not fuck. I was fine with it. His fear of passing on this strange cousin of chicken pox was his, not mine.
The sensation of the cotton on my bottom and lips titillated me and absorbed my ejaculate.
Minutes and minutes of pounding this way and that until he leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed my wand. I knew what he wanted.
As my orgasm split through me I began to sob, my heart broken. My predicament of impermanence with this man leered at me; my body felt felt not my own; I was skwered.
I gathered my reserves and pushed him off onto his back and crawled up the length of him. His cock – as ever – was stiff and slick with my juices. I licked the head, tasted me on him. My tongue pressed against the aperture of his cock and tasted a release of salty precum. Encouraged by the visceral response I wrapped my hand around his shaft and squeezed, my fingers each distinct counterpoints to my velvet mouth.
He came close, but lost it. I stopped and idly stroked him. “I was close.”
“How could you know?”
“I can tell. It’s obvious. You swell into my hand, your breathing changes, your whole body tenses.”
“Fuck I wish I could cum like other men. What am I doing wrong??” His voice was thick with frustration and disappointment.
“It’s in your head. Let go. Give up control. It’s what I have to do in order to cum with a partner. I know it’s hard.” And to prove my understanding I picked his meat up off his belly and dove back down on him. Softer this time.
His thighs became rock hard as he flexed, his breathing shortened immediately. “Oh, Hy,” he whispered. My pussy clenched as his hands went to my head and slammed my face down hard on his shaft and he cried out and burst into my throat. Pride swelled through me, my pussy throbbed.
I licked my lips and kissed him hard. He shook his hands just like I always do and laughed at himself. Nothing could have pleased me more than to see him helplessly react to something I had done to him. He is mine. I don’t give a fuck what he says, who he fucks, or what his engineered plans for his future are. Under me, in me and through me, I have him in some delicately special way.
And then he gathered himself together, kissed me again and said goodbye. I returned to the gentle blackness of unconsciousness with a smile on my face and smelling of sweet rain.