Elly at 25

25 is such a good age. Old enough to have voted a couple of times; old enough to rent a car. Old enough to know something about yourself, but not so old that you’ve given up on yourself.

Young enough to have a great body without working at it, and young enough to have some arrogance about that.

At 25, Kelly was in a good place. Living where she wanted to--in San Francisco, home of liberal-thinking righteous people and great food. Doing what she wanted to do for a living; working at a way cool computer company where she never had to dress up in anything nicer than clean jeans and a sweater, and where she could design truly slick-looking laptops that she got to see people using in the airports she flew into and out of on a regular basis. Making pretty good money; living in a nice apartment with Fred, a street-thug alley cat that put up with her unpredictable comings and goings and her constantly changing boyfriends.

But Fred didn’t much like the latest one. For once, Kelly ignored his opinions (Fred was generally a pretty good judge of character, but she decided this time he was wrong). Edward was a Hollywood producer, worked with some of the biggest names in the business, and spent money on her and took her places. He was 42, a good age for a man, successful, smooth, well-dressed and articulate.

He’d fly up to San Francisco for the weekend, and they’d go to the best restaurants, spend hours in his hotel room having sex. Shop during the day.

And he had taught her things.

After a randomly promiscuous early youth, Kelly knew she had a sex drive that could get out of control and had told herself she was on top of it now. Sure, she still sometimes found herself in bed with men whose names she couldn’t remember, under the influence of far too much alcohol and sometimes pot or drugs, but that didn’t happen as often as it used to. And she was having fun. Right?

Then Ed came along, shooting a movie in

the city. They met when her company sent her to the set to provide rental computers for the crew and Kelly sat down with Ed to talk over details. He looked her straight in the eyes; something men don’t always do with women. He listened when she talked business and took her seriously. He asked her out to dinner and didn’t expect her to do all the work; picked the restaurant, made the reservations, picked her up AND paid for it. Nice.

She held out until the second date; maybe not as long as some women would, especially nowadays, but long enough to at least not look like a total slut. Of course, she’d had a few glasses of that exquisite expensive wine he’d ordered over dinner, and then some very nice cognac afterward, so maybe her inhibitions were a little unleashed.

When they got back to the hotel that night, she was a little wobbly stepping out of the cab. Stumbled, once, on her spike-heeled shoes walking into the lobby of the St. Francis. He caught her expertly; how often, she wondered, did he rescue slightly drunk women? Though he’d had even more to drink than she had, he looked and acted entirely sober. Still in control; smiling evenly, even fondly, at her slight wooziness.

He took her by the elbow and steered her into the elevator.

“Are you alright, honey? Shall we get room service to bring up some coffee?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Just not used to these shoes--they’re new.”

He smiled. “Of course. The shoes.”

The doors opened and they stepped out onto the floor; elegant, as the St. Francis had always been. Patterned carpet; molding on the walls framing large ornate mirrors over the side tables holding house phones. He reached to take her arm again, though she was walking fine now. Reached for the doorknob at his room, slid the key in and out and opened the door for her. Such a gentleman, always.

Inside the room, she could see that he was also a neat gentleman; she’d expected that. Everything perfectly in order. Bed made--by the maid, of course--and his laptop closed on the desk, neat stack of papers and scripts next to it. Palm cradle plugged in and waiting patiently.

No clothes visible; not even a suitcase. She could see the closet door open a little, and there were suits and shirts hanging in neat rows, shoes lined up on the floor.

He closed the door carefully behind her, putting the Privacy hanger on the knob. Shot the bolt.

“Some music, perhaps?” he said, moving to the Bang & Olufsen CD player set up by the window. He didn’t wait for her answer, pulled something out of a jewel case and popped it in. Classic jazz oozed out of the speakers; not her taste, really, she’d go more for some Nirvana, maybe Elvis Costello or some older rock, but this was OK.

There was an unopened bottle of cognac on his end table, VSOP. He unwrapped the foil from its stem and uncorked the bottle, pouring a little into two snifters. Handed one to her.

“To our friendship,” he said, tilting the glass.

“To our friendship,” she echoed, and swallowed the entire contents--only to see he’d just sipped his. Ah well.

There were a couple of chairs in the corner of the large room, and he sat in one. She walked--a little more steadily--to the other, turned and settled her nice firm 25-year-old ass in it, feeling the soft cushion underneath her, aware that her pussy was twitching. Jesus, the damn thing is uncontrollable, she thought.

“So how did you get into the computer business? It’s an unusual one for a girl--sorry, woman. And you’re good at it.”

“I always liked them. When I was little I played with my parents’ computer, learned how to use it before I started kindergarten--I learned how to read on their computer, watching my Dad work over his shoulder. Just sort of second nature.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs, not sure how to sit in the enveloping chair. Worse, her cunt was getting more insistent; she could feel its wetness, worried that the short skirt meant she’d stain the chair with her juice. Her thin gauzy panties, so fashionable, were in direct contact with the fine upholstery since the skirt had ridden up when she sat down.

“Were you and your Dad close? Sounds like you must have been.”

“Oh, yeah. He was my buddy. I still miss him.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yeah he went out sailing alone one night, took my Laser out for a short night sail and never came back. Coast Guard searched and searched; they found the boat, finally, mast broken and all beaten up, but never found him.”

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to open an old wound.”

“It’s OK. Been a few years. I miss him, but it’s not as intense as it used to be.”

She found herself staring at him, at his face; a few lines around his mouth, but not that many. Some grey hair; just a little, at his temples, looked distinguished. In fact, he might have dyed it there...well, whatever. Very distinguished-looking man, handsome, fit and slender. Without realizing what she was doing, her eyes drifted down...checked out his chest (nice; not huge, but solid), his arms (good forearms, well-developed muscles without being Popeye-ish), and his package.

Though he was wearing pleat-front pants, she could see the swelling between his legs. Unless one of the pleats had been overly starched, it was giving him a bit of a pup-tent effect, and she almost giggled before she realized he was looking at her, saw where she was looking.

“See something you like?” he asked.

“Nice pants. Are those wool? Doesn’t that get a little itchy under the hot lights?”

“Very fine gabardine. Not itchy. They fit so well and drape so nicely I wear them all the time. But I didn’t think that was the target of your attention.”

Well, shit, what’s to lose? “You were right.”

He said nothing, just smiled and reached toward her, hand outstretched.

She smiled back and looked at his hand. Reached out and took it, unsure what he intended to do.

He stood up; she stood up. He led her to the bed.

Here we go again, she thought. A too-quick semi-satisfying time that will leave me wet and wanting more, and then in the morning hating myself for being so easy.

But he was moving slowly, deliberately, and treating her body as if it was something very special, not just a means to an end. He sat her down on the bed, gently pushing on her shoulders to make her sit. Then he kneeled in front of her and reached up to her blouse and unbuttoned it carefully, easing each tiny disc through its hole with the very tips of his fingers, feeling the fabric as he ran his hands down the placket to the next button. When he reached the bottom, he spread the blouse open and looked at her, running his eyes over her skin as if they were hands. He pushed the blouse back, peeled the sleeves from her arms, and reached behind her to unhook her bra.

All of this slowly, gently, with intense concentration. No rushing, grabbing, reach for the most important parts. He touched her skin as if every nerve ending counted, and her skin responded with every nerve ending it had. Now she could feel her clit swelling, pushing against the gauze panties.

Her bra off, he stood her up and stepped back. “Very nice,” he said. “Very nice indeed. You have a beautiful body. I assume you know that?”

“I suppose so. Some days it looks better than others.”

“I doubt that.” He came closer again, and reached behind her for the zipper on her skirt. She heard and felt it go down; the metallic vibrato of its teeth unhooking buzzed in her ears, sounded incredibly loud in the soft jazz air of the room. The skirt slipped to the floor on its own and she stepped out of it. He picked it up, folded it, placed it over the back of the chair. Then he turned back to her and put his hands on the insides of her ankles, circling them with his fingers and thumbs, an “o” around each one. He smiled up at her as he did that, a question on his face she couldn’t comprehend.

His hands opened, and he slowly--deliberately--ran his fingers up the insides of her calves, her knees, the insides of her thighs, stopping just before he would have touched her damp panties, felt the heat of her swollen pussy.

Took his hands down to her ankles again doing that “o” thing with them then ran them up the outsides of her legs to the elastic band of her underwear, and eased the gauzy panties down, stopping with them at her knees to look closely at her. His face was inches from her pubic hair (Damn, she thought, why didn’t I trim it like I was thinking I should?); she could feel his breath on her mound, tendrils of it licked her clit but his tongue did not. Yet.

He resumed, and she stepped out of her panties. He stepped back again, took in a breath. Locked his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.

“You are just beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She felt a little awkward, but at the same time the warmth in her cunt was spreading, intensifying. The way Ed stood there and looked at her, it was almost like sex; she could feel his eyes, her skin tingling where they touched. She felt almost helpless to move, anchored in place by his gaze.

“Lie back on the bed,” he told her. She sat down on its edge, pushed herself back. “Now spread your legs.” Still seemed a little odd, but so far he hadn’t even touched her, soshe spread her legs. As she did, she heard the wet sounds of her labia opening; knew that he had a perfect vantage point to see her pussy open wide, see how slick it already was.

I’m taking orders, she thought. Doing whatever he tells me to do. This from an independent woman? Someone who says she doesn’t need a man to run her life? But it feels good...well, what the hell.

“I want you to touch yourself. Take your right hand, and slip a finger inside your cunt.”

He still hadn’t moved from his standing position a few feet away from her, hadn’t taken off a single piece of clothing.

Her right hand lifted itself from beside her; she watched it as it slid down her flat belly, past her protruding hipbones, into the nest of pubic hair below. Felt it as if it were someone else’s hand as her middle finger reached further, dipped into her vagina. Felt the fiery wet grip of her cunt muscles as she started to come, and the motion of her hand as she started to pump--

“Stop! Take it slow. Take your hand away.” No questions; no “please,” or “would you.”

She removed it from her pussy. “Now SLOWLY use your index finger to touch the tip of your clit. Nothing fast; just slow strokes.”

It felt as if he held her hand and controlled it as she touched herself; an electrical current shot from that single fingertip into her clitoris. Her body jumped, convulsed with pleasure as she forced herself to stroke SLOWLY, her cunt squeezing, wetness dripping from it onto the nice silk bedspread.

“Bring your fingers up to your mouth, and suck them. I want you to taste yourself.”

This was new, too. Plenty of times men had wanted her to taste them, but not herself. The flavor was almost like the wine they’d drunk at dinner; dry, tart, but slippery-creamy. Warm and smooth.

He stepped closer, now, until he was standing between her legs. He reached out with his right hand, palm up, and cupped her ass, trailed his fingers up her vulva, rubbed her clit with his palm. She moaned, gasped, and pushed herself against his hand, rubbing and about to come.

He pulled his hand away. The cool air was a shock to her pussy when his warmth was gone. But she was still aroused, so aroused she saw the flush on her chest, saw that her nipples were erect and the aerolae contracted and tight.

“Turn over.” His voice was a little different; more urgent, harder. She rolled over onto her stomach, ankles dangling off the end of the bed. She felt him grab her ankles and pull her down, further toward the end, so that her legs bent at her hips, her ass exposed and jutting.

His fingernails start at her ankles, one hand over each leg. He applies just enough pressure that the scratches almost hurt; sharp sensations, taut, leave behind warm trails on her skin. He runs his nails up the backs of her legs. Behind her knees; spreading out over the backs of her thighs, one of the sharp hot lines scratches the crease between thigh and pussy but doesn’t touch.

Up her ass, still dragging hard enough to nearly cause pain, he drags his fingernails on her skin. The lines stop; then his nails are on her shoulders, drawing lines down her arms. He ends with his index fingers in her palms, and digs in to the point of pain she’s about to squeal in protest, when he stops. As soon as the nail is gone from her hand, heat replaces pain and she is surprised to find that her palm is an erogenous zone; the feeling pulls a response from her cunt, warm juices flowing.

He’s not touching her, but she can feel him standing behind her. As if his mind had power over her, she doesn’t turn to see him; she tries to read him without looking, to predict what is coming next.

But she’s not prepared for the spanking.

Hard; his open palm slaps her ass cheek, flesh left open, exposed, innocent and vulnerable. The sting makes her squirm, her eyes tear, then the same hand is between her legs--gentle--stroking her cunt, a single finger on the tip of her clit, vibrating, rubbing, making the hard button red and harder, and her pussy spasms. Two fingers slide in; she can hear the liquid, the come she’s already lubricated herself with now greases his hand, gives his fingers deeper access to her cunt. He reaches within her and probes her G-spot, and her fingernails start to tear holes in the sheets. Her ass is in the air, in his face, as she comes hard and reaches for her pussy with her right hand.

“No.” He slaps her hand, then spanks her again, hard; stinging, yelping. It just makes her orgasm more intense. She’s screaming, shouting, fucking his fingers, sucking them with her slippery hole.

As she peaks, gushing pussy juice, he pulls his fingers out and she hears the zipper on his pants, feels his cock plunge into her fiercely, feels the near-rape as he shoves himself deep inside her, fucks and fucks and fucks her until the darkness behind her closed eyelids goes white and she loses consciousness.

She’s lying on her back when her eyes open, covered, like a child, with a soft blanket. Room service has come; there are raspberries, and chocolate, and wine. He’s dressed, watching her.

“Are you hungry? I thought you might be. Come have a bite.” It’s as if nothing happened; as if the pain that became pleasure, the violent sex, were a dream and she a sleepy fantasizer. “The wine is a nice aged Madeira. Soft and sweet and rounded, like you.”