(This isn't my story, it's my friend's. He used to meet me for beers now and then. filling me in on all the intimate details. After I moved away, he'd call me late at night and ramble on about his latest adventures. I'd listen, wishing I could do something for the guy, but knowing I couldn't. The last time I heard from him was in a letter that arrived three months after he wrote it. Reading that letter inspired me to write this piece. I'm telling the story from his point of view, so you, the reader, can see what he saw, feel what he felt. There are no hot, predictable sex scenes LIT is known for, but there is X-rated material. The fact that this turned out to be a love story prompted me to submit it for the Valentine's Day Contest. Thanks for stopping by.)
When I think about Erin, I see her sitting on the edge of the bed after we've made love. She's gathering up her long black tresses, her breasts rising and falling with every languid movement. She spins her hair into a bun and secures it with a silver comb. I don't know why this moment sticks with me. Perhaps it's because for that brief space in time, we were no longer two desperate people fighting for survival in a ruthless world, we were simply lovers.
The tattoo on Erin's lower back was a surprise. I didn't even know it was there until the second time we hooked up. The first time we got together was at a party, or rather, a business mixer in a gated community up in the foothills. Something clicked between us, and the next thing I knew, we were in a darkened back bedroom and she was rolling a condom on my dick. I'm surprised no one heard us, the way we thumped that headboard against the wall.
The awkward exchange of phone numbers followed. Her card said "consultant", and I guess in a way it was accurate, although I didn't figure out exactly what kind of consulting she did until the next time we met. It was at a rundown Motel 6 just off the interstate. Yeah, I was shocked; not at her price, but at what I'd gotten myself into. I'd never done that sort of thing before, but there was something about being with her, making love with her, that made her real job title seem irrelevant.
The tattoo on her lower back was an art nouveau butterfly; all swoops and swirls with read and blue spots in the wings. Very classy. Some would call it a tramp stamp, but my Erin was no tramp. She was too smart and sophisticated for that. She'd been to college, she'd worked in the corporate world, but she preferred to blaze her own trail, make her own rules. She definitely did have a talent for her chosen profession. She could cum almost indefinitely, each orgasm accompanied by her helpless little whimper, like a puppy crying out for attention.
"One more baby," she'd moan, her pleading eyes begging me not to stop. With her legs spread wide open, and her pussy all pumped up with arousal, she seemed so vulnerable, so delicate, so precious. is it any wonder that I loved her like a madman loves crazy? Sometimes she'd dribble when she came. It was just so personal, so intimate, I'd have to pull off my condom and ejaculate onto her skin, so that our fluids could mingle and become one.
When we were done having sex, I'd watch her as she strolled to the bathroom, her smooth round ass glistening with our liquid love. Sometimes our juices would be running down the insides of her legs, or dripping from her butt crack. I loved that. It got me so hot I'd try to masturbate while she was in the shower. I never came that way, but I'd try anyway.
She'd usually take a quick shower, since she was always on a tight schedule. She was a very important woman. There were demands on her time. Everyone wanted a piece of her. I considered myself extremely fortunate to have wormed my way into her life.
She'd emerge from the bathroom, a sleepy-satisfied look on her face, and pad over to the bed, her perky breasts bouncing like those of a fashion model. She wouldn't mind that I was watching her while she dressed. She accepted her beauty and the power it had over men like me.
"Clip me?" she'd say, turning her back to me. I knew she didn't need my help to get dressed. She was just offering me a little consolation prize, one more small intimate moment I could reminisce about until next time. Sometimes she'd tease me, climbing into her dress without putting her thong back on. "Oh, silly me" she'd giggle, looking at the little pink puff of fabric crumpled on the carpet.
"I've got it," I'd say. Then she'd hold her dress aloft while I slid her intimate apparel up her long legs. Sometimes I'd kiss her fluffy muff, or rub my cheek on it. I knew it was a futile gesture, but it gave me a couple more precious seconds to savor before she disappeared from my life.
*****
On Valentine's Day I booked a suite at the downtown Hilton. We had to hurry, since I only had an hour for lunch. In spite of the time crunch, we managed to enjoy a leisurely fort-five minutes of tenderness, opting for the slow buildup rather than the multiple O's. She even made out with me, which was a first. Then, perhaps because she felt sorry for me, and she let me fuck her without a condom. If she had known how much I wanted to have a baby with her, she might not have done that, but I couldn't tell her that. She would have thought I was a fool.
Afterwards, while she was in the shower, I pulled the Hallmark card out of my jacket pocket and set it on the dresser. I waited till she was dressed before I told her about it.
"Erin?" I said, "I got you something for Valentine's Day."
"Oh honey," she said, catching my eye, "you shouldn't have."
"It's over there with the money," I said, feeling like the proudest man in the world. "It's just a card. It took me forever to find the right one."
"You're so sweet," she said, picking up the envelope, and the three one-hundred-dollar bills laying next to it. "Oh Karl, an extra hundred? You didn't have to do that."
