Sex In Black And White Story 06

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. -- Anais Nin

**

From time to time, Anya mentioned the 'natural rhythm' of sex, but until this afternoon, I had scoffed at the notion, lightly perhaps, but scoff I did. However, as the day wore on, I found she was right.

With each step the stranger took, slipping his fingers into my bra, working my jeans to my knees, running his hands through my hair, he hesitated, almost imperceptibly, but he did it. I hesitated too, but that was different; I was passive. On the other hand, he was supposed to take charge. He led me to believe he would, at least he had throughout our online communications. Arrogantly, he said he could show me all manner of things. Naively, I believed him.

It was getting late. Things had happened. Like a good girl, I sucked his cock. He got what he wanted. Now, I wanted to get laid and was growing impatient. How much longer would he take?

I know it's ridiculous, but it reminded me of a game of Monopoly. He passed 'Go,' but it was my turn to collect two hundred dollars. I gave him Park Place on a silver platter, but not just Park Place; I offered Boardwalk, too. To me, Boardwalk, the most expensive property on the board, represented anal sex, my true objective for the day. I made it clear he could have whatever he liked, and what did he do? He dwelled on that blowjob. Presently, however, his eyes said he was ready, and I fixated on the ceiling as he pushed me onto my back.

"You're a funny one," Anya remarked one day. "Part of you wants independence—control even—another part, to be led around by the nose like a trained show horse."

He eased me back, and I fell against the cool sheets, my breasts rolling softly, settling to either side of my ribcage. He moved on top of me, and we kissed, his impressive erection hard against my thigh. I held his head as his now-familiar tongue explored my mouth, and I wondered if a man tastes himself in a girl's mouth after she has blown him. Were they so drunk on their bodies that they taste only us? I made a mental note to ask Anya.

Leaving my mouth, he quietly whispered into my ear. "I like this; I like kissing you." I smiled, hoping he was not lying.

Men are experts at shutting women out. He called me 'you,' and I was sick of it. Never once did he use my name. It was a lesson in how dehumanizing sex can be, that if kissing is intimate, using a girl's name is a long-term relationship.

"If all I do is kiss you like this," he whispered, "the day is worth it." I smiled again. I liked kissing too but felt our separateness; I reminded myself it is what I signed on for.

He kissed his way down my neck, revisiting my nipples. Downstairs, after he failed to nurse them to erection, he looked puzzled. Now, tarrying a moment at each rose pink summit, he sucked, gently at first, then harder, now and then, looking up, awaiting a reaction. It did not happen; I felt nothing.

It was not his fault; I am self-conscious. My breasts are too large for my petite frame, and I hate the thought of men seeing them—let alone sucking them. Earlier, when he popped my bra, I covered myself with my hands.

I felt his disappointment, but he soldiered on, moving down to the firmness of my tummy, and lingering at my navel. Warm, then cool, the tip of his tongue scoured the little dimple, filling it with gluey saliva.

He descended to my freshly-shaven slit, by then, and despite myself, soaked with womanly anticipation. True to form, I closed my legs, but not too tightly, as I wanted to feel his tongue there. Another of those acts I had never done, I wanted to know if I could come that way.

He had assured me of his oral skill. During one of our pre-fuck exchanges, I did the unthinkable, revealing to a strange man that I would finish my period just in time for our rendezvous. His response was comforting. "That's all right, love. We don't have to do anything the first day, just get to know each other and have a drink."

His reassurances notwithstanding, and though opting to take him at his word, I checked between my legs the previous evening. My tampon was nearly clean—nearly. After this morning's shower, I inserted a fresh one anyway. If for nothing else—if he got that far—the tampon, if I lost my nerve, might give me an out; that is, it might serve to stop him. Like most things, I could not decide what I wanted.

I had only just met him, and nothing seemed more intimate than a man putting his mouth—there. I knew practically everyone did it, but that did nothing to alleviate my self-consciousness. How can a girl not be jittery about receiving oral sex? So much goes on down there. A girl's vagina is her weathervane, her body's seismometer; it monitors her very being.

He was half a breath away from my pussy, and I felt I had to do something before he pulled that string! With both hands, I raised his head and said, "I need to pee!" He—and time, screeched to a standstill.

In the face of yet another of my ill-timed interruptions, he stayed surprisingly calm. "Of course," he said, lifting himself. A moment later, closing the bathroom door behind me, I shut him out.

It felt good to be alone and guardedly; I stared into the mirror. The girl who stared back was not the same one who smirked confidently at me in his entryway mirror hours ago. With hair tumbling around her shoulders, cheeks rouged from his abrasive stubble and swollen lips testifying to having sucked him, she raised her fingers to her face as if checking to see if she was real.

Snapping back to reality, I scrutinized my disordered duplicate, squatted, and tugged. The tampon was clean. I would let him lick my pussy. With a flush, a turn of the doorknob, and arms folded across my breasts to diminish their natural sway, I tiptoed back to bed, where he extended a hand in cautious welcome. "Come here," he said.

I slipped under the sheet.

***

'A la carte' playtime was over. He would fuck me soon. I wanted to be fucked. Someone had to end my sexual solitary confinement, and it might as well be him. That I did not know him should have bothered me, but it didn't. On the plus side, my sudden trip to the bathroom shocked him to end my dillydallying, to take control of me—which I desperately wanted.

I had been 'ready' from the beginning, at least physically. I was soaked before leaving my apartment this morning. Yes, I was ready. He, being a man, was ready too. I wanted to scream: 'FUCK ME, GODDAMIT!' But I didn't.

As I opened my legs for him, his hand went straight for my mons, and we kissed again. A moment later, he was back down there, licking my clit. My period fixation was gone, and he slid his tongue along my suddenly willing vaginal lips. As before, he glanced up at me, seeking signs of approval.

I was too nervous to respond, at least not the way he would have liked, not other than to open my legs more, which I think pleased him. His mouth felt good there—in a mild sort of way, and I grabbed at his hair, urging him to do it harder. Everything was so damned lenient with him, except for his cock, an object I hungered to fill me, but he had trouble inserting it.

Having decided kissing was pleasant enough, I pulled him back up to my mouth, and we kissed more. Further kissing meant admitting the orgasm of my dreams would not happen from his too gentle tongue. I ached for forcefulness and needed a man inside me. Then a disturbing thought struck me: what if I do not come; will all this be for nothing if I do not orgasm?

"That's so nice," he groaned into my open mouth. His fingers slipped into my sodden cunt, whose condition, thank fortune, genuinely pleased him. It was the only firm reaction he had gotten from my dithering body. I was glad for him, poor thing. Too bad my conscious self had little to do with it.

He mounted me, and I felt the tip of his erection at the mouth of my sex. There, he waited, and as if taunting me, he moved his cock round and round in concentric circles. Wide-eyed, he kissed me more and fearing he might see too much, I shut my eyes against his stare.

He lunged, and I gasped as his cock slammed into me! The force of his assault collapsed my thoughts; my eyes shot open, and for an instant, I lost my breath. Clutching his arms, I held onto this stranger who had waited to pounce. He knew all along what he would do, that he would launch himself into me with a hard blow between my legs, jarring me to the reality that he owned the game—had from the beginning.

To my dismay, his eyes fixed to mine, catching me at my most vulnerable, and just as my fluttering lids snapped open. It was too late; he saw into me. It had taken a split second; I was bare. Worst of all, I saw it happen. Instinctively, I stared up at him. His self-satisfaction, immediate, stunned me, 'conquest,' etched his features.

Fucking: it had been so long—it hurt and felt good, his strokes, vengeance for my having played him, upstairs and down. As if settling a score, he took his revenge—I deserved it. In a flash, he witnessed the shockwave of a woman's simultaneous enchantment and fright at being pilloried under a man's weight and physical strength, of knowing he could do anything to her. I was helpless. I fought intimacy, but it was useless; through an eternity of seconds, he laid me bare.

Fullness mastered emptiness. He hesitated as if waiting for me to catch up. I finally did, and signaling him, I spread my legs as far as I could, and he drove that final inch of himself forward. "It's good," I whispered, "now, fuck me hard."

I had forgotten how it felt, how much I craved penetration. We calmed and settled into the rhythmic dance of sex. "Now then," he quietly offered, "is that good for you? You OK?"

"It's good, yes," I answered, hinting at affection as I sidestepped pointless conversation.

Wrapping my arm around his neck, I pulled him to me, and we shared a deep kiss. Through the next few minutes, I salvaged my equilibrium and shut my eyes against an encounter whose brevity was central to its fulfillment. Still dreading too much tenderness, I knew there was no telling what my body might allow if genuineness became part of the deal.

He was a nice man. He tried; I'll give him that; he strained to pleasure me. But sadly, I do not think the effort was intended for me, but rather for himself, for the amusement of knowing he could bring me off.

He pumped my open sex, and, yes, it was good, with no more of that, 'catch her unawares and pummel her,' kind of thing. But much as he worked and much as I lay back and took him, I knew he could not make it happen—that for me, orgasm from straight fucking was a long shot.

It was me, not him. Something deep inside me prevented the climax I craved with a man buried in my dripping sex, so just as I did when alone, I sought my own way. Warily working my hand between our sweating bodies, I found my clit; swollen and ready but strangely detached from a body instructed since childhood to fend off exactly this—exactly him.

He said nothing. But I knew him a little now, and my digital flourish displeased him. It questioned this shadowy man, this huntsman who crawled out from his hiding place in the shadows of the web, where he spent his life arranging to fuck women he did not know. I thought he might counter me, as he had when he took me with his swaggering pounce, that he might display some contemptuous look, a sigh, something to declare annoyance.

For a moment, as if suspended in mid-air, there was an opportunity. It was right in front of him. But he let it pass, just as he had let other opportunities pass. Anya said, "The erotic, issues from the joining of opposing sexualities—of his and hers. Otherwise, we are just two people using each other's bodies to Jack or Jill off." That is where it went: he Jacked, I Jilled.

But I did not care anymore. I let him fuck me and worked myself by myself. It was a final swipe at his wanting skills, and the meanness came out of me, my statement: that I, a lowly woman, had to bring myself off.

Anyway, there was more—or less, rather, as a moment later, with my climax finally beginning to build, he came with a groan—then stopped.

We lay there for what seemed like a long time, my fingers still pressuring my aching clit. Soon after, I gave up, but like the kissing that happened downstairs, what followed, I enjoyed. In afterglow, I stroked his hair and listened as his breathing tapered to normalcy.

He softened, and a warning bell sounded. I needed to get him out of my body before flaccidity set in, and his condom slipped off and into me. Oh, God!

He got the message when I gave him a 'get-off-me' kind of shove. With that indifferent look of his, he reluctantly backed from my cunt, and I glimpsed what a sperm-filled condom looked like. Had he asked me to drink it, I would have said yes. But he did not ask, and I curled into a chilled little ball on his bed as he wandered off to the bathroom.

Once alone, confusion reigned. I felt an all-too-familiar sense I had gone too far. Who was he anyway? For that matter, who was I? In two seconds, there were two questions and no answers.

The bathroom door creaked open, and he reappeared. His cock, glistening, was free of its counterfeit shield. It dangled lazily as he approached the bed, where he slid in next to me.

"I think I should go," I said. Abruptly, I jumped up and over him to the floor.

Suddenly all was disarray. Like a scavenger, and except for my garter belt, I grabbed my clothes, and my thoughts clumsily tripped over themselves as images of Anya, my mother, and my silly face in the bathroom mirror rear-ended each other in an emotional pileup on a foggy motorway where, slamming the brakes to avoid an innocent deer, I triggered the confused ending to a mistake!

"So soon?" he asked, genuinely perplexed. "Why, love?"

"I just have to, that's all," I answered. "It's late. I should get home. Look at the time. It's gotten away from me completely. I'll walk to...how far is the station?"

Observing my agitation, he cautiously lifted himself onto his elbow. "I'll drive you there. You needn't walk."

"That's very kind, thank you. I'll be ready in two minutes. Can we leave then?"

"Whatever you like, hon."

End -- Sex in Black and White