Politics Maes Strange Bedfellows

This is a story attended for adults, not for those who adults feed, watch, and change. If you are over 18, and still your mom makes your bed, you can read this but you are immature. ANYONE UNDER 18, DO NOT READ THIS. Go outside and play. Copyright © 2004. Blanket permission is granted to reproduce this work in any medium for any nonprofit purpose. For other purposes, email me. In fact, Email me and say Hi either way!

*****

I met her at the gym. I was stretching my calves and hamstrings after doing my allotted time -30 minutes and not another minute, thank you very much- on the Step Glider. My heart rate was slowing down, and I could feel my muscles slowly relax, as I pulled my torso toward my feet again and again like a pink flamingo's sleek neck as it searched for something to eat. It was during this time, as I held myself, eyes closed, counting to fifteen, when a woman settled down on the mat to my right.

I was initially unaware she was next to me. My eyes were closed and I wasn't paying attention to what was around me until I stretched out my arm and touched soft flesh. My hand jerked back and my eyes sprung open. Enjoying the moment, even on a mat in the middle of the cardiovascular room of a college gym, can come with its own delicious hazards.

"I am so sorry," I blurted out, suddenly becoming aware that it was female flesh. Flesh supported by a bra. "Um, miss."

She regarded me for a second and then returned to what she was doing, with her head cocked to one side and her body in a meditative position. Perhaps she had prayed for this moment. Perhaps not. "Don't worry about it. I hear being groped unintentionally by a sweaty guy is good luck in some places."

"Yea," I responded, "kinda like stepping in shit." Then I wished I hadn't said that. She laughed, thank god.

"And you don't smell half as bad either. Another plus." It was my turn to laugh, and I did, nervously.

She had her head down and her eyes were closed. Strange that a woman would talk with her eyes closed like that, but it gave me time to steal a peek at her. Dark hair, the color of a dusty raven, was set mid length; it was flopped over to the side. It shifted from side to side as she positioned herself into numerous knots and twists. A small birthmark under her right ear caught my interest for a split second before I moved on. It was the only ding in the armor, and the thing which made her all the more attractive. I looked at her breasts; large and expansive, even under the top and bra, seemed to call out to me...

Suddenly I drew my eyes back to her face. Did I make it in time?

"Like what you see?" Her confident demeanor, a jaguar crouched in the tall fields of grass, caused me to turn red.

"Don't worry." She held out her hand. "My name is Gabriella. Since we are already physically intimate, why not exchange names. Right?"

"Sounds good to me. My name is Chris. Sorry again Gabriella." I shook her hand. She had her nails done. Long red nails. I stopped shaking her hand, but she didn't attempt to pull away. She held my hand a moment longer, then slowly removed it. I spoke without thinking.

"What are you doing tomorrow night? I would like to apologize with dinner, if I can." She returned to her stretching and seemed focused on nothing at all except for her neck and then her upper thighs. Was she ignoring me?

"Pick me up at 7:30. I will give you my address and number when I am done here. Just so you know," Gabriella glanced at me for a second, "I have been told that I can be quite the handful."

I rang the doorbell and fidgeted self-consciously. It was 7:30 p.m., exact. I was aware of every hair on my head that was out of place.

One hair was exceptionally tricky near the crest that was beginning to be the place of mass exodus. It was like a coiled spring. Even burying it under the hair that surrounding it didn't work for long. Much to my dislike it was the Phoenix of hairs, arising from the ashes of styling gel. My left leg started to itch. Why wasn't she coming to the door? Large, mahogany with a cast iron frame, her front door was like train tracks.

On the one side: I was lower middle-class with a failing eight year old car (Car years, or at least Dodge years, are like dog years, and my car suffered from emphysema and poor circulation. I kept her because she had been my best friend and she hadn't peed on the rug yet.); on the other side: a large upper-class house in a well to do neighborhood with a two-car garage, both of which probably held purebreds with proper papers.

I thought about earlier that day: I had met her after her shower; waiting in fact 15 minutes in the hallway close to the entrance to the women's locker-room. I heard her intermittently hum along with a blow drier. I initially felt like a voyeur as I envisioned a towel wrapped loosely around her. It didn't completely cover what earlier hinted to be large attractive breasts. Did she ever play with them just to make sure they still had it? I wasn't sure, but the fantasy quickened the wait. Gabriella eventually came out. She handed me her card, then started to leave.

"I must be going Chris. But I expect you at my house at 7:30. Don't be late." Gabriella turned toward me before leaving. "I expect you to be on time."

I had at first thought to forget about the whole thing because she had given off a weird vibe that caused the back of my neck to tingle. She was haughty, aloof. Perhaps she was used to having people do what she wanted, a plan I didn't intend to follow. However, right before she left she had flashed me a mischievous grin that kept her number away from the garbage can. Whatever happened, I figured, good or bad, would make for an interesting evening.

I was looking off into space when the door opened. "Hello Chris. Sorry I'm running late. Let's go." She passed by. Her handbag swung in small concentric circles by her side. She headed for my car, leaving me there standing in her porch wondering just what to do.

We arrived at the restaurant while Gabriella told me about Hungary. "You know Chris," she said while moving her hands in large sweeping arcs, "Americans do not know what they have here. In Hungary, many are poor. And even those who have things do not have what most people have here." I listened to her while I drove down Elm Street, nodding at the appropriate places. She shifted in her seat, and then crossed her right leg. As she looked out the window telling me who lived where and what they did to get there I glanced at her legs.

She wore a red skirt that stopped above her knees. She had exposed her upper thigh. I imagined they were smooth under my inquisitive fingers. I wanted to look more, but I was pushing my luck. I didn't think she would like catching me ogling her twice in as many days.

She had picked the restaurant and had told me how to get there in-between tales of post-communist Hungary, democratic America. And money. More specifically, hers. "We were part of the 'haves' there, Chris, and now we are part of the 'have-mores.' I am not ashamed of that. Those who work, get. Those who don't, don't."

I turned the corner, and slowed down. Savoir Faire, the restaurant she had chosen, came up on the left past gas station selling wooden deer for 9.99 each. I thought about getting one for her. She would always remember me when she looked at the fake deer with a square light brown face, but I thought better of it. With her attitude, she probably wouldn't be caught dead with it on her lawn, or understand the subtlety behind a gift like that.

I pulled up to a solid red line in front of the entrance. A young man ran up to my door as I was getting out, taking my key. He was dressed as a racecar driver; I told him "a scratch in the car is a scratch on your ass." He didn't get it. I walked over to the passenger side and opened the door for Gabriella who was patiently waiting for me to do so. Her skirt, red and tight, rose up even higher when she pulled her right leg out, but I couldn't take my eyes off of hers. Her eyes were confidently stayed on mine like we had been lovers for years.

"My, Chris, you have quite the grip," she said. "Always important to know. Come, we have a reservation."

Savoir Faire was spacious inside. However, the darkly lit walls and ceiling, with a large glass aquarium separating the interior into multiple sections, gave it an intimate atmosphere. The waiter fluidly guided us past the aquarium, seating us toward the back wall. Behind the table was a large painting of Paris at night. We sat under a brightly lit Eiffel Tower. I noticed the music. It was a classical piece I had heard before, but it was all flutists, which made me forget the name of the piece and even the instruments it originally called for. There was a couple to our right; a woman nibbled an older gentleman's ear as he casually sipped on whisky, straight up. Good. Dinner and a show. We sat and studied the menu, which happened to be in French with English subtitles. Kinda like a Godzilla movie with a strange sense of humor.

I began to think that this wouldn't work out. Gabriella was very cute; her body elicited the right response, but she was coming off a little cold. Actually, she was pissing me off.

"The wait staff here is marvelous, but the busboys tend to come too quick to clear the table. I guess no one has a work ethic anymore."

We ate our food. I had something green and brown, whose name I forgot five minutes after I closed the menu, and Gabriella had "fa gua" or something like that. We ordered dessert.

It was at that point she moved the conversation from herself, her money, and those people who cry about losing their jobs, to the democrats. I should have seen it coming.

"The democrats have it all wrong. Bush needs to cut taxes for the upper 10 to 20 percent. Those who pay the taxes should be the ones getting the tax break." I bit my upper lip, almost drawing blood. What was up with her? Before long, I had had enough.

"So Chris, I see some of what I am telling you is having quite the affect. Do you disagree?" She was casually holding her Cosmo. She began to sip it, but watched me intently. That mischievous grin flashed across her face. She was enjoying it.

Enjoy this?

"Yes I do. I think Bush is the worst president we ever had. I think he is the luckiest idiot in the world, and is also the least deserving for what he has and is probably that more pitiful."

Her eyes narrowed. Good. She continued to slowly sip her drink. No turning back now.

"Without a doubt, if at all anything, I pity him because even though he is the president, and thus is the most powerful person on Earth, he cant even see the strings coming out of every hole in his body. And those strings are being pulled and stretched by the ones who really run the country. He is so dumb he doesn't even know he is a dupe. A puppet."

The Cosmo she was sipping slowly -as if allowing every taste bud a chance to enjoy the mixture of liquor and cranberry- suddenly was all over my face and shirt. Her eyes were slits; her chest heaved ever so slightly. She did not make a noise. I calmed down and licked some of the drink off of my lips. No wonder she was savoring it. It was pretty damn good.

The check was received and paid for without another word said between the both of us. Even the waiter, as if Gabriella had thrown the drink on him brought us the check and quickly escaped without saying a word. The woman, who earlier was practically jerking her date off, snickered. Her date was indifferent. Paying what he was for the dinner meant he was going to enjoy the quiet, intimate, orderly atmosphere whether it was quiet, intimate, orderly or wasn't.

Back in the car, I drove back to her place with the window open to dry my shirt. Gabriella looked angry -for what I had said earlier, and now for the lack of air conditioning- but what looked to be a smile on her face popped up every so often replacing the scowl she wore like Covergirl makeup. What was her problem, and what was she so happy about that she tried to hide? I sped down the road barely registering the stop signs. All I had to do was unlock the passenger side door, unhook her seat belt, make a sharp left turn, and then I would be less one bitchy, stuck up passenger. No jury in their right mind would ever send me away for it. She was lucky her street had cars parked on both sides. The thought, however, made the rest of the trip bearable.

"No. No. I'll be good! Don't open the door!"

THUMP-THUMP

I pulled to the curb and unlocked the passenger door. I waited for her to leave. She sat there, looking back at me with a straight expression.

"What?"

"I never walk to my door alone. You must walk me to my door."

Holy fucking shit.

"Fine." I got out careful not to slam my door, then quickly walked over to let her out. This time I looked down the road, pondering the places one can bury a body in this town as she stepped out. She held her hand out for mine. My hands, unfortunately, couldn't help her this time, as they were needed in my pockets. She grunted disapprovingly as she got out.

We approached her door. She took out her key and stuck it in. The porch light was on, bathing us in a dim light. The light in the living room was the only one on in the house. No one was home. Her parents, she had told me before the night turned sour, were away on business – they worked together- and wouldn't return until tomorrow afternoon. Initially I took that as a good omen, but now it was knowledge I was not better off knowing, like how you can place an egg on its end during the summer solstice and it wouldn't fall over, or how my dog liked to eat other dogs' shit.

The key clicked and she turned the doorknob. She opened the door several inches. Another couple of seconds and I would be home free...

"I think you were very impertinent, Chris. Very rude, especially after I did the charitable thing and allowed you to take me out."

Charitable? Jesus Christ. Do I have to sit here and take this, or can I just shove her in the house and close the door behind her. What's the rich way to do it? I know, as I slam the door I'll make sure I keep my pinky out.

"Listen," I said, looking straight in her eyes, "You have been a bitch the minute I knocked on your door till now. If I wasn't such a nice guy, Gabriella, the minute you threw your drink at me I woulda..."

" 'Would' what Chris?!" Gabriella broke my rant and grabbed my wrists. Her eyes had a blazing wildness to them. "Common," she said, leaning against the doorframe, "What would you have done? I told you from the start, Chris, or should I say ASSHOLE, that I could be quite the," she drew my hands to her chest, "handful."

I was shocked. "What the hell is going on? What is it do you want Gabriella? Do you want me to..." The connections were made; the light came on.

"You fucking bitch. You were playing me all along." I seethed internally but I did not remove my hands from her chest. I began to squeeze slightly, finding my way to her nipples. They were already hard. Her head rested on the doorframe; she pushed the door open with her leg.

"Well," I said, twisting her nipple forcibly while drawing her face close to mine, "What should I do with you?"

"Verj lmeg."

"What does that mean?"

"Punish me," She rasped.

"This is for my shirt, and your attitude." I grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward in the living room. I ignored the couch, and instead walked over to a large leather bound chair that was against the north end wall. A thin veil of moonlight crossed over it from a window close by. I leaned her against the window and stepped back, confidently looking her over.

"Don't move."

I pulled the chair several yards away from her, just out of reach of the evening glow. She said nothing, but her hard, ragged breath told me what I wanted to know. Like an addict, she wanted this. Bad. I shut off the lamp. The soft light from the window draped over her like fine Indian silk. She could only see me in parts. I was covered like she was, but in the dark shadows of night and mystery. She first heard my pants drop to the floor, then my shirt. I pushed them into the light. She eyed them and ran her fingers over her body, stopping at her chest. She slowly rubbed herself.

I sat myself down on the chair and shivered slightly as my skin warmed the leather. Her eyes flickered between the heap of clothes on the floor and the formless hidden desire I had become. I throbbed in anticipation.

She heard my voice: loud, firm, dangerously confident. "Take off your clothes, slowly. Make me want you."

She attempted to disagree. I raised my voice, holding strong. "Don't talk, just act." Defiantly, Gabriella jerked her hips erratically. Even now, she fights.

I decided creative motivation will grease her parts. I stood up and partially stepped out of the shadows. She looked at my hard cock, then saw it blend back into nothingness. Gabriella's body became more fluid, more directed. She ran her fingers over her shirt, slowly undoing each button as if time had misplaced us in its inexorable push toward tomorrow, giving us forever in now. Even the tick-tock of a grandfather clock which stood proudly in the hallway seemed to wait tentatively.

Her blouse fell to the floor followed by a black lace bra. Her breasts, painfully beautiful, swung as she pulled her skirt down past her knees. She wore nothing underneath. She was open and ready. She continued on with her seductive dance. Her hands swept around her nakedness like the lustful glance of young lovers in a crowded room.

"Crawl to me."

She got on all fours and crawled to me. She reminded me of a sly cat on the hunt. Her nipples brushed against the cool hardwood floor. Before I knew it, her tongue tasted my ankle. I felt her soft, deft fingers work their way up my legs cautiously, as if one wrong move would trap her.

I closed my eyes before realizing I was giving in too quickly. I opened them to find her eyes over my knees like a child on her toes in a candy shop. They were set on my cock. She licked her lips. I shifted my weight. I was not done yet. Not even close.

Gabriella reached out to my manhood. I brushed her hands aside. Her eyes pleaded with mine.

"No." She looked crestfallen.

"Ok. You get one lick. Make it worth it."

"Mmmmm." She came so close I thought she was going take all of me in her mouth, but I initially felt nothing except for a tickle on the base of my cock which then turned into a warm slickness that slowly ran up the underside. I fought with myself to stay in control. I almost threw her down to the floor to consume her when her tongue ran over the tip.

I am a handful

repeated in my head.

It was time.

"Stand up."

She complied.

I pulled her nipple again, this time resting my other hand on her pussy lips. I left my hand there, not moving it at all except to move it away when she tried to grind against it. She did not speak. Her engorged lips were very wet.

I stood up.

"Show me your room."

I followed her down a long hallway which led to a staircase. She was halfway up the stairs when

SLAP

"My Ass!" It was more surprise than pain. "How dare you?!" she snarled.

She was going to say something else, but stopped. I was holding her vaginal lips in my hand again but this time the tip of my middle finger was in her. I pushed her down until she had to grab the stairs for balance. She was my bitch in more ways than one. My other hand was at her hair again. I pulled her head back and whispered to her.

"I am going to punish you. Give it to you the way you want it." I pulled her hair a little harder. She gasped and squeezed the stairs so hard I thought she would break a nail. "The way you need it. Now show me your room."

She grunted, then continued up the stairs. I watched her pussy. It would be so easy to slide in before she knew it, and fuck her until she screamed my name out in every language she knew.