Precision

His name is Anthony and he walks into my apartment like he has been here before. Well, maybe he has I suppose since he works on all of the apartments in this complex. It just seems strange now because my things are here, that this is now my space and he is walking through it like he knows me, but he just knows the apartment. Kind of. He actually does know me, or know of me. He knows my family. His brother was friends with my brother and now he works for my mom and knows the whole family history I am sure. What I am not sure of is whether he and I have ever met before. Still, how weird he is so sure of himself in my place.

He moves from job to job with precision, head down, horns out, focusing on the task at hand while his pager and cell phone both yell constantly for him. How this man ever gets anything done is beyond me. But here he is, drill in hand, putting up my towel rack in seconds flat and it’s even straight. Damn, this boy has got some talent and some muscular arms I might add. I follow him around for a bit, trying to talk to him and find out what exactly my mother likes so much about him because believe me, my mother talks up a storm when it comes to Anthony. After a few minutes though, I begin to feel a little lost in my own apartment and something close to an eager puppy running after him so I hang back and watch him move. He’s quick and he has good calves. Hmm.

He mentions something about my mother being a “real good lady,” but all I can think is there goes the neighborhood. I mean, he knows my mother for God’s sake. Not that I am looking at this particular house, but there go the chances of even assessing the real estate. And this man is worth looking at: deep olive skin, dark short hair, dark eyes, full lips, must be 5’6”, and I am thinking he seems pretty fine under those baggy clothes of his and I am sure there is a hint of a great ass, but then I realize he is actually talking to me and I haven’t heard a word of it. Whoa, slow down there silly woman. You know jack about this boy and he has been nothing but professional. In fact, he hasn’t even looked you in the eyes much less look your way. So back in reality, he is saying how much he respects my mother. Huh, go figure. Didn’t expect that one. Most men find my mother a little too much—too forward, too aggressive, too in their face. He likes it. This real estate just went up girl, let me tell you.

And then he is gone. Just like that. Got another job, got to go, nice to meet you, take it easy. Perfectly professional. Shit. I don’t think he even realized I was a woman. This is not so good for the self esteem. But hey, I was only looking anyways, it doesn’t matter, that skin color with all that depth being so smooth white men just can’t touch it is not for this little white woman. And maybe I should try to stop wearing such baggy clothes myself so that I might look like a woman. I just want a guy to like me for who I am on the inside. Though I suppose you’ve got to attract them first. And the usual crap I wear, expect flies.

But all is not lost. He calls the next day to tell me he left his paint brush, could I find it? Nice one, now he can come by and you can give it to him and talk to him, make him talk, tie him down and talk to him if necessary. But that will probably scare him away because he is actually a nice person, my mother has told me so, and nice men don’t like being nasty. So maybe you should just stick to the flies you collect. Like with like. And though people say I am nice and do nice things, I have this whole underbelly side to me that is just as much a part of me as the goody-goody side. I have yet to meet a guy who feels the same. Anyhow, all is lost as I couldn’t find the stupid paint brush so there is no reason for him to ever see me again.

My mother doesn’t see it that way of course. As soon as she hears that I am looking for a drill to hang up my curtains, she pages Anthony with my number. I know nothing of it and feel 1) stupid because I am at first dumbfounded how he ends up calling me when I didn’t page him, and 2) even more stupid because I realize who did. Anthony, being the gentleman and probably feeling sorry for me at this point, offers to come over the middle of next week. I just need to call him when I am up and ready for him to come by. Do I use the sympathy trump and my nosy mother as an excuse to call him as he asked? You bet.

So here I am, Wednesday and nervous. I don’t even know why I am nervous. I could have been five hundred pounds and he wouldn’t have seen me. But this time he comes alone. No other workers. No one but him and me. He is quick with the jobs, steady, but lingering in between as if he has something to say. I help by making sure the curtain rod is even and show him where I would like other towel rail to be placed on the door. He steps into my personal space for this one, tells me we would make a good team. I watch his hands holding the drill—they are thick, hard working, rough hands that would feel absolutely delicious being rubbed all over my body. I can feel my body getting warmer and moving towards his hands. He touches me in a playful way, I think testing the water to see how I will respond. My body is doing back flips inside, but my mind stays numbly blank and I have nothing to say or add to his advances.

He keeps asking if I am sure there is nothing else for him to do. He keeps asking if I am a good cook and when will I have him over for dinner. I keep missing the point until I finally suggest that maybe after the holidays we could get together. That’s when he looks at me point blank and says that he will have another sweetheart by then. His brown eyes hold me silently, boring into me so deep I haven’t even been there. They are playful, questioning, and eager. So full of energy and life that his focus alone could cause a flower to bloom. And it does. In me. Still, the penny doesn’t quite drop because I am about to say that he could bring this new imaginary sweetheart over but by some small miracle manage to keep my big mouth shut. Suddenly the penny clinks at the bottom, reverberating throughout my mind what a rather thick head I have at times. And as if to prove this point, I can’t seem to remember where the front door to my own apartment is so I go off in search of it.

After the third time of making some suggestion to coming over or food or something, I finally understand that he would like to make it a little sooner than after the holidays—like now, oh thick one. So, I offer to have him over for dinner that night. He agrees and gathers his things to leave. He says maybe he will call me later and come by to watch TV or something and I think I am being all suave by saying that if he were coming over I wouldn’t let him watch TV, that we would definitely be doing something other than that. Believe me, it sounded just as bad coming out of my mouth as you could imagine it to be. God, the things you would love to take back in hindsight.

I walk him to his truck, making some inane comment I am sure about his tools and where he keeps them. I just can’t seem to shut my mouth at this point and hell, I have already lost my front door so what could I say that would make this any worse? I think he realized I was just stammering away so he looks into me and I can feel the silence settling around me like snow. He kisses me goodbye then, softly with those full lips, maybe suggesting what is to come and leaves.

I trip up the stairs realizing I have only 6 hours until dinner should be ready and I have no idea what the man likes. I know we talked about food, that he knew I was a vegetarian, that he wasn’t, that he liked salads, but I suddenly can’t remember any details or that I can cook and surely this feels worse than any walking around naked school dreams because this is actually happening.

I somehow manage to get to the store without killing anyone, start the food, take a shower, and not overcook the pasta, which is good considering he is ½ Italian. I make a pasta salad with pesto which I am just finishing when he arrives. I even remember to get the kind of beer he likes and hand it to him when he walks into the kitchen. He sits down in a chair, watching me cook, and I can see that he is pleased by either the fact that 1) I can cook, 2) I have on snug jeans and a tank top and there is a pretty good package of a 5’ 3” woman, or 3) he noticed that I smiled when he patted my ass as I walked past him. All of which hint at a nastier nice boy than previously imagined him being. Good for me.

Anthony seems to like his food, or at least he is very good at complementing the chef, and we move over to the couch. We talk for awhile and I am completely blown away because he is actually interested in what I have to say. He asks about my writing and teaching, and doesn’t just talk about what he does for a living. He talks about himself sure, but doesn’t dominate the conversation. And he loves his daughter so much it hurts. He has such a special relationship with her that you can almost see his heart open wider just at the mention of her name. He isn’t one of those guys that likes to hear himself speak about himself. He asks questions and doesn’t mind asking for clarification when he needs it. This is promising. It helps, of course, that this guy has me wet and ready just from talking because he knows how to get inside me without touching a hair on my body.

But we do touch—man do we touch. He leans over and kisses me deeply. I think we both feel a little off kilter because it felt so damn good to be kissed like that. To be desired and in control. His tongue searches out mine, our bodies connect, and our clothes get in the way. I feel myself moaning quietly, not even aware that I am the one making any noise until he brings it to my attention, telling he likes to hear it, he wants to know how good it feels. He slides down the straps on my top and exposes my breasts, licking them, kissing my nipples, telling me how nice they are, how nice I feel. I just want to press him into me, to completely swallow him whole, I want him so much. But I want to know first if he would mind if I don’t have sex with him. I don’t know who I am kidding, but I want to ask if he would be okay with that. He said it would be fine, asking me what if he didn’t want to have sex, why do you always assume the man would?

We both laugh and move to the bedroom. I think about the fact that maybe he doesn’t want to have sex except that his hard-on is so easy to see you can’t imagine him getting it up just to check the weather. I am not sure how much of me Anthony is ready for, I am not sure if he would like to explore some sexual options because I don’t know if he likes it tame. He may like to hear me moan, but what guy doesn’t like to hear a woman?

My question is answered as soon as his hand goes down my pants. As soon as his finger enters my pussy, I know he is bad in every good sense of the word. His thick finger fucking my pussy, his voice in my ear telling me how wet I am, and his body pressing close to mine gives me shivers in all the right places. He then takes his finger out, sucks it clean, tells me how good I taste, places it back in my pussy, takes it out again and places it in my mouth. I lick it hoping he will place his dick there as well, but he is not through exploring, and I am learning the act of patience, but please, please, please, fuck me soon before I lose my senses. My jeans come off and he kisses around my panties, but damn if I don’t want to shove his head in so deep he won’t be breathing. He says something about how he could do a better job if my panties weren’t in the way and I am too happy to oblige.

I notice he takes off his underwear as well, but I don’t say anything because I want him to continue licking my pussy. He sticks his finger inside me again, leaves it in there, and then begins to play with my butt hole with another, or maybe it was his other hand, I don’t know, I haven’t felt this good in so long, I don’t care, just don’t stop. My head is absolutely reeling with fantasies of him walking in the door, pinning me with his body against the wall, forcing my hands together over my head with one hand so his other can play with my pussy until I beg for him to fuck me good and proper. Or maybe we are at a party upstairs and everyone else is downstairs and we are looking over the rail, while he lifts up my skirt behind me and sticks his dick in as deep as it will go, grabbing a huge handful of hair with one hand and holding me steady with the other.

He stops licking my quivering pussy and comes up to kiss me. He begins to rub his cock on my clit, sometimes getting close to the opening where just the head begins to seek inner warmth, but he doesn’t do anything else, because I have asked him not to. I begin to move with him, every cell in my body screaming out Anthony’s name. He then places his hands on my hips and shoves his entire dick inside my pussy. I call out both in shock and pleasure and just as my body begins to revel in getting fucked, he is out again. He tells me see, that wasn’t having sex, I was just giving you a taste. I won’t fuck you if you don’t want it. You need to tell me you want me inside you. He does it to me again, pushing himself further in because my hips are higher, and his thrust is deeper, but takes it right back out. I just want to be fucked silly. I want him inside me. I want it so bad that I could care less if my neighbors hear me telling him how much I want it. Fuck me and stay inside me, don’t pull out, just keep it in, please, I want it inside now. I arch my chest, hold on to his back and push my pussy up to his cock, push his dick all of the way in, and then let my hands scratch his back all of the way down until I am holding on to his ass. I want to stick a finger inside him; I don’t want to leave any orifice untouched. I want to capture the very essence of this man and give it back to him whole.

He turns me over on all fours and enters me again, touching and caressing my butt hole, telling me what a nice ass I have. He then spanks me hard, which I am pleasantly shocked about and I call out again. No moans this time but deep noises that have always been beneath the surface. I just wish I could get him in deeper; he is amazing with his stamina. The size of his dick is just perfect for me. Any bigger and it would hurt. I imagine an oak dining room table at his house and when he invites me over for dinner, he lays me on the table, places my feet in the chairs and fucks me until I come. I imagine him placing a finger sized smooth vibrator in my ass while he is fucking my pussy doggy style. I imagine him pushing beads inside my ass while he is licking my pussy and slowly removing them one by one as I call out in pleasure.

Now I want to be in control. We move so I am on top. He lies back and I get my first good look at his penis. It is darker in color than his skin anywhere else, not all pink and new baby like a white guy, but a beautiful deep olive that I want to lick right off him. I begin to lick his balls, his ass, sticking my tongue anywhere he will let me and he lets me stick it everywhere. I thrust it in as deep as I can, until I can barely breathe, then up along the shaft until I reach the head, and then I start all the way back. If I could give him just an ounce of the pleasure he has given me, I would be grateful. He talks to me about what I am doing, how much it turns him on, and it turns me on so much listening to him that I straddle him and place him inside me, moving slowly, gyrating my ass on his hips like a lap dance. I know he will come soon, I can feel his cock getting swollen, and I want him to come inside me, to fill me deeply and fully.

And so he does.

It is the next day and he calls to see if I enjoyed myself. Yes, I say, yes. I want to ask when will we be together again, why does my body ache so much for you, what have you awakened inside me? But all I say is yes, yes.