A Flame in the Night

A DEAL IS A DEAL

The fetish tale that I (male) had told you (female) put a funny smile on your face. I'm not sure what I anticipated, but your expression seems awkward and you look kind of puzzled. Plus, there's a few odd, nervous giggles and whispering chuckles, and your grin is quite quirky and appearing somewhat mysterious. Then, even more than I expected, you're blushing severely, and your eyes are avoiding me too.

So what did I say that got you so flustered? Was it something you fancy? Was it something you recognized? Indeed, did I say anything pertinent, which makes you uneasy? Whichever it is or whatever it is, I'm clearly not understanding your gestures--after all, wasn't it I the one confessing and revealing my fetish?

"All right! All right, already!" I spank my hands together while pleading you to calm your giggling. I try explaining that the story was all true, but really, it doesn't seem to matter anymore.

Currently then, after being humored by my fetish anecdote, your mood is rosy and light. "Darling-- Honey--" jokingly, you say. "Do you really want me in all of your stories?"

We chuckle some and find ourselves smirking contagiously, ready to break out in laughter. However, it turns out you've something in mind with all of that chuckling, and it's not that you're laughing at me because you assure me of it, claiming you actually liked what I said in the story.

"Well, okay then," I utter, preparing to seek clarification. "So what was it? Which part was best? Did you admire any of my fetishes?"

You tilt your head and answer with a soft, elusive smile. "Not now! ... But I may tell you what later."

I grin for a bit, until adding, "You promise me?"

"Yes, it's a deal," you confer. But then, warmly you caution me, "However, my word is only as good as yours."

Together we laugh it off since also the word you're referring to is a guarantee I made to never look into the folded paper you'd given me. For assuredly, if I happened to read the contents of what's on that page, which is still tucked inside my shirt pocket, then unfairly I'd gain knowledge to one of your private sex fantasies that, at least for now, you don't want me to know.

In the meantime, after our laughter had waned, I offer my hand to symbolically bind our promise. "Great!" I say. "We agree again. Let's call it a deal."

So consequently we shake on it, and thus presently our date is prospering. And for the time being, we continue enjoying our drinks at the coffeehouse. We go about chatting, and really, I'm utterly astonished how this first meeting is proceeding. Comparatively, this is in a different league and so much better, having connected with you in person, as opposed to pairing up on some explicit sex forum in the cyberspace byways.

Hence, the immeasurable contentment I'm experiencing is far more pleasant and more satisfying than I figured it would be. This is why I wish to resist overachieving. I don't want to jeopardize our talk by being overbearing, insisting that I learn all of your fetish yearnings. Certainly, I'd be slaphappy to obtain access to more of your sexual curiosities; however, rather than pressing for it now, I'll mouse around for something less painful, something simple and straightforward, that you might freely confess. From this point on, I'll make my sexually inquiries so trivial and natural, then surely you won't hesitate to answer.

"Hey there, hold on a minute!" My eyes narrow as I pinch the sides of my chin. "Let me review this."

"Review what?" you ask, as you start curling the strands of your hair.

"Now that I think about it, you haven't told me anything specific that I can take to heart. You haven't given me anything helpful that I can take to bed with--sorry, pun intended. But you get what I'm saying. Tell me something I can get off on, knowing that it excites you. Until you mention something particular about your preferences, I can't let you off the hook yet."

Casually you begin adjusting your bra strap. Next, you stir your tea bag around a few times in your teacup. "So what would you like to know?"

I recline back into the support of my chair. Slowly, I swirl what's left of my soy-latte espresso. "Let me make this easy on you. Clear your mind of insecurities and merely state what's sexy to you?"

"Sexy?" Your tone rises sharply, as you wait for an explanation.

"Uh, hmm." I clear my throat. "Basically, try naming a few things you like in a man. Simple enough?"

You taste a bit of your tea and wonder if now's a bad time to sneak a glance at your watch. Do I really want to escape, this? No, swiftly you answer yourself, deciding it might be amusing to be sincere and voice out those things you favor. Shortly thereafter, your mouth puckers. Remarkably, it's as though the tea you've been sipping had freshened to a more creative and taster blend.

"Mmm. Well. I like confident guys, generous guys, and sometimes strong, broad shoulders. But not too big, of course."

"I understand," I say. "Good. Perfect. I'm liking your effort."

"Yeah?" you ask. "Okay then. Um--well, ... I also like a really cute smile. Plus, if a guy makes me laugh, that's awesome." You inhale a few breaths and resume your inputs, "Let's see--I like guys that treat me right. ... And I like him to know what I like, as well."

Apprehensively, a thought interruption occurs when you unwittingly start clawing at the glossy nail polish lacquered onto your thumbnail. Then unknowingly, your eyes drift to gaze out into the nearby window. But there's nothing interesting outside, and soon you've recaptured your concentration and know what it is that you want to say. Hesitantly you announce, "Oh, I just gotta say it. Surely I could go for a nice body. Yeah, especially if he's got a nice tush, so I can surround my hands around it--and squeeze. Ah, that would be fun. Ooooh yeah ..."

I hear you sighing, but from within, I feel like snickering, wondering if my tush has the right architecture to meet your qualification. "All excellent points," I remark, giving you a well-deserved compliment. "You're making tremendous headway. Please do continue."

"Hold on. Let me think harder." Lightly you tap the table with your fingertip. There's something weighing heavy on the tip of your tongue. "Um, what did I forget? Something's missing here." You review your earlier statements, knowing there's a white-elephant absent in your comments, something obvious has been omitted. "Ha! Of course. It had to be that." Again, you're blushing and your grin is pricelessly delightful. "Well, now, ... I suppose having a nice tool might come with enormous benefits. I really needn't have to mention it, but a girl needs her handyman sometimes."

"Got it. Check." I chuckle and then boastingly say, "I agree. As it turns out, I carry one rather large and ginormous 'bang-HER'--everywhere and anywhere that I go. And it does come in handy, oh, so many, many times."

"Ha, ha," you smirk. "Sure, right. I believe you. But don't show me that large thingamajig right now. Please keep your wooly mammoth hidden and locked in the toolbox while we're here. Okay?"

Zip--I make a noise as if I'm zipping my pants. "Thanks for alerting me. I'll follow your advice." I wink and scoot myself closer toward the table. "But let's not end this yet. Is there anything else?"

You grab your purse to find some cherry blossom, perfumed moisturizer. And once it's opened you dispense a few dabs and smudge it into your hands and elbows. "Very well, here's one more for the list. I also like guys that smell good." Your nose floats from left to right, absorbing the delicate fragrance of your lotion.

I lean inward trying to gleam the essence of your scent, however, without warning, frantically you're echoing, "Oh! Oh! I got another one." You bounce your finger like a shaking stick. "My, oh my! I really L-O-V-E a man that's fresh out of the shower! Mmm, yes! That's very, very sweet. I could really get on top of that."

Outwardly you're glowing; your face is beaming bright and radiant. Your visible disposition is truth telling, confirming these things are inflaming your sexual appetite and are genuine turn-ons. It's altogether evident you've disclosed some pretty significant likings and carnal preferences. No wonder then, perhaps that's what sets you off. Now, from somewhere out of the blue, as if to quell this well-worn subject, abruptly you wail out, "So where's my story!"

At first, I'm startled by the outburst. However, I regain my composure and jokingly behave like my memory has lapsed. Dumbfoundedly, I pull the ends of my earlobes and wobble round in my seat. Yet, when I see you staring me down with a sharp and murderous sort of look, I cower and quickly want to cool your temper.

"Come again?" I ask.

"Shh. Don't deny it!" You snap, and playfully lower your eyebrow. "You know exactly what I'm saying. I didn't meet you here for nothing! I want that sexy, erotic story you promised me."

Ah, yes, the crucial moment had finally arrived. The concession to you for consenting to meet me, as we've done, stipulated that I must give you a story.

"All right then." I nod. "You want a story. Something arousing and sexual, am I right?"

"You know it." You give me the thumbs-up, go-ahead signal.

Afterwards, I form my hands and pretend like I'm flipping through pages of an imaginary notebook. Then I give a bow to acknowledge the terms in place. After all, it's been a pleasure getting to know you, so why shouldn't I adhere to the rules of our agreement and give you that slice of X-romantic drama to mentally consume. Moreover, why wouldn't I do my part? Why shouldn't I do everything you request, especially when considering the fine print, and best part of the bargain we made? Conditionally it stated:

In order for us to meet, I have to tell you a sex story, and one so vexing and peculiar it'll win your attention. That's because the consequence of this deal would obligate you to have sex with me--but only if you truly like my story.

"Uh, hmm." I scratch my head and square my shoulders. Then, I steady the make-believe pages as though I've found my bookmarking. "Let's see here, how shall I start this?"

Hence, accordingly, after been given the right-of-way, I now describe a story, a story with a sexual undertaking for you to wholly note and thoroughly consider.

"Er, right! Okay, let's do it. Here is your story. But what you really ought to understand is that this is a different kind of story. That is, it's different because, well, you have to concentrate--and more importantly, you must participate! You need to relax and pretend you're sitting at home and alone. Yes, alone, all alone, and all by yourself. Although I'm here--in my home and far away from you--I want you there, where you are, to start thinking only of me. You should be dreaming of wanting me, wanting me badly! Desperately, how you wish to be with me, and then imagine that I--"

You sit glued to the chair, entirely engaged and clinging to my every sentence. The story continues onwards, as I pace through detail after naughty detail. And at the end, when the story has completed, you reflect on all that I've said.

"Hmm. Not bad. ... Yes, I guess I like that."

Bluntly, you state your assessment. Thus the naked reality is the story did get you excited, and not surprisingly, my temperature seems to have boosted a notch higher, as well. However, immediately upon hearing the words escape from the contours of your lips and recalling that very agreement we vowed to each other--suddenly, it causes you to shudder.

"Oh, no!" Stunned with realizing what you had admitted, momentarily, you flatten your palms and press them firmly into the tabletop. "What did I do!" you exclaim, as you lower your face and bury it within the shelter of your fingers. "Drat! Drat!" you holler. Your cheeks feel red and puffy from a heavy bout of flushing. Though in a bit, gradually, you pry your head away from your fingers and attempt to face me eye to eye with no reluctance or misgiving.

"Did you really like it?" I inquire, quite eagerly.

"Oh, very well. So be it." Gently you gnaw at your lower lip. "I guess you got me. I admit it. That did make me horny, very horny." You inhale a deep and self-cleansing breath, and then add, "So go ahead. It's settled. We agreed to this--and, after all--a deal's a deal."

At last, it's a 'blank check', an open invitation. You liked my spicy erotica and I'm enjoying time with you, my lovely, attentive story admirer. So we honor our commitment. And although we've made this pact, incidentally, sticking to our pledge isn't uncomfortable or done begrudgingly. It's a mutual consideration; in fact, by now we're both willfully curious to see the matter through to the agreed intention.

Inevitably next, before we know it, it's a quick exit. Simple and to the point--we hook up. And for the remaining evening, we're two bodies abounding with sensual body heat. We have sex, and more sex, which wears on throughout the night. And maybe it's the initial adventure of our first lovemaking that incites such zealous passion, but whatever the case, we're rolling in steamy fun, discovering who we are, and sharing our complete and total nakedness.

And then, the sex is over. You go your way, and I go mine. However, one may ask, will we meet again? Can it, or will it, get any better for us two sex bunnies? Perhaps somewhere now, we both are wondering the very same thing.

* * *

Later, back at home and over the next day and evening, you've ample time to mull over everything that happened. Putting it into context, the whole situation concerning our meeting and the sensual night that followed has produced a stimulating reaction that's become unmanageable and difficult to dismiss. The more you review the specifics, and the more you focus on that reckless and freewheeling night, the further it invests in you, making railroading fireworks and mad dashing excitement to sprint unreservedly throughout your awareness.

Oh that night! What a thrill it was to abandon your wit and uncuff your sensibilities. Suddenly, you were spontaneous and daring, uncharacteristically agreeing to gamble on a relationship you knew only via the Internet. And you knew well how it could finish. You knew it might route into sex, but how far would you go? How much would you do? In the end, the plot trick proved too compelling, too seductive, and too intriguing not to test yourself against the snare of a sexual promise.

And now that it's passed and our unions accomplished, remembering our bodies pressed together, and those salient eruptions while mating, has left you vulnerable. Sexually, you've become unsettled and unbalanced. "Yes I'm now home and alone, just as he requested," calmly you remind yourself of what you should do. And as you dearly and lovingly reminisce on my instructions, to the best of your knowledge you recount the objective.

"Let me see now. What else did he say to me?" Becoming clearer, and getting warming, you continue musing on that lustful situation, examining the outline, the summary, and the details of what happened. Your ability has reminded yourself correctly: "Oh yes, now I remember. His story began, and went on, and was sort of like this. ..."

Hence, with that lusty fable clear in your head, you call to mind the naughty lines of that peculiar story, which teased you so well. Now, in this very hour, you let the ideas of that oddly tale entice and encapsulate your senses. You're aroused by the wants of your new lover, thus you ponder the sex we shared--and the narration you heard--and you yearn to indulge in more of those pleasures. Next, vividly and affectionately, you now re-live the memory of that erotic story, the one that I taught you, a story within a story--my sex story.

--end of chapter five--

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