Roseann Discovers Dominance

"Harley?" Craig laughed when I telephoned. "He's no more gay than I am. He's married and for a while he even had a girlfriend on the side, at least until his wife found out. He just puts on the homosexual act to make his clients feel more comfortable. It worked, didn't it?"

"Up until a few minutes before we finished," I said. I was a little embarrassed at the way I'd let the little dressmaker touch me all over my breasts and legs.

But when Sunday evening came and we entered the lobby of the Lyric Opera, I knew right away that Harley Moss had hit a home run. Though I wore pale gray pantyhose to make the leg tease less audacious, I drew surreptitious glances and outright stares from many of the men nearby. Their women looked on with curiosity, amusement, hostility, and possibly admiration.

We shook hands with a few people I couldn't remember, and Craig led the way to our seats. It happened that I blocked the view of the woman behind, and we traded seats with the couple.

As I'd been at Wrigley Field, I found my attention divided between the drama onstage, and Craig's intimate presence. In this setting, less raucous than the ball park, I could better smell his body and feel his warmth, and it came to dominate my attention. His hand never left my wrist.

During the intermission, we sipped wine from crystal cups—no paper or plastic at the Lyric—while Craig introduced me to officials of the University and some 11th and 25th Ward politicians he happened to know. He was clearly bursting with pride as these powerful men struggled for my attention. I smiled, outwardly and also inwardly, wondering what they'd think if they knew I was just a redneck girl from a downstate coal town.

In the middle of a conversation with an alderman, a thought burst into my mind with such force that it made me blink and lose track of the conversation.

I had power!

My looks, my height and bearing, my daring dress, gave me a sense of confidence I'd never experienced before. It seemed that I could crook my finger and lead any one of these men to a bedroom, or to commit a crime, or to sell their souls, all for my sake.

The thought continued to burrow into my mind after the intermission. I had to remind myself it was only a fantasy. The men were attracted to me—that much was obvious— but they were powerful men who'd fought their way to the top of Chicago politics. They were tough men, accustomed to being in control.

When the opera approached the tragic last scene, I remembered the promise I'd made to Craig. My belly churned with a mixture of lust and fear. I imagined lying on my back on his sofa, or his bed, while his tongue explored my pussy. I also began once more to second-guess myself, wondering again how he could bear to put his mouth

there

.

But a promise was a promise, and last Sunday had been nice. Very nice.

* * *

The ancient elevator was hot inside, and creaked and boomed as it rose. The fancy dress stuck to my skin. I was too nervous to think, and stared at the polished brass fittings and brushed steel art-deco trim in the little space. Craig was equally pre-occupied, presumably for the same reason.

Inside his tiny apartment, the cool, drier air calmed me a little, even when I saw the furniture we'd made love in just five days before. I wandered toward the window, studying the city lights glowing through the narrow gaps between nearby buildings. In Belmont harbor, some of the boats were lighted, likely by people having parties, or perhaps private, Sunday-night sex.

Craig held up a part-bottle. "Wine?"

I nodded. "Yes, please." I could barely speak above a whisper. I sat at one end of the sofa, not trusting my legs to hold me up.

He brought the two glasses, and while his fingers were touching mine, he said, "You're awful quiet, and I'm pretty sure I know why. If it bothers you, I won't hold you to that promise, you know." He sat at the other end of the sofa.

Mike would never have said that. In fact, as far as he'd been concerned, sex was his right, not a privilege I granted him. He never bothered asking. Shouldn't Craig demand that I come through on my part of the bargain? Had he had second thoughts? I wouldn't blame him. Even so, I wanted to see where this would lead, and I

was

horny, having relived Sunday's experience each night while touching myself.

"Do you think I make promises and then just break them?" I said. "Anyway, Sunday was nice. Why wouldn't I want you to do that again? If you're still willing, that is."

Finally he smiled. "Willing? I want it more than anything."

More than anything

?

More than regular sex?

Wouldn't he even want me to take his cock in my mouth? But I caught myself again. Why did I have to second-guess everything when I thought about Craig? Why not relax and enjoy whatever there was to enjoy, and make the tough decisions later? Maybe Craig wasn't the one, but I was never going to find out if I dissected his every word and action.

While he watched, I tipped up my glass of wine and gulped it down. Wine had helped boost my confidence during the intermission at the Lyric. Maybe it would help now.

"Why don't I move to your end of the sofa and we can kiss?" I slid along the fabric toward him, removing my earrings and necklace.

He set down his wine glass. "I'd like that."

Strange that, for all our nervousness, the difference in our heights didn't seem to bother either of us. I bent down to kiss him, aware that something about my height excited him. Once he started, his lips grew bold, and warmed my cheeks, my throat, under my ears. It seemed he couldn't stop; nor did I want him to. I luxuriated in his rapid breathing, his masculine smell, the taste of his lips, the pressure of his hands on my back as he pulled me close.

But he continued kissing me like this for several minutes, and I began to grow impatient.

Why is he stalling? Get on with it!

Perhaps he was still too shy. I forced a hand behind me, found the concealed zipper of my dress, and shrugged it down. I slipped the bra straps from my shoulders.

"Do this," I said, breathlessly, and pulled his head down to my chest so his chin pushed the bra cup down. He slipped from the sofa onto the floor, capturing my nipple with his lips and sending wonderful electric shocks through my body. I arched my back and moaned aloud. When he teased the nipple with his tongue, I felt as if I were spinning. I loved the sensation. I only wished he'd attacked my breast without having to be coaxed.

My concern may have been misplaced. Finally taking the initiative, he fumbled with my bra hooks until the garment slipped down between us. With his fingertips, he massaged both nipples, while kissing my throat and shoulders.

Still, things were moving more slowly than I wanted. I was burning with lust, and thought about his cock slipping inside me. But that hadn't been my promise.

I thrust him away, but only so I could stand and remove the expensive dress and lay it carefully across the other end of the sofa. I bent over him while he still knelt on the floor, and whispered, "You know that thing you wanted to do? I'm ready now. Don't make me wait." I sat on the sofa, drawing the slip up to my waist and spreading my thighs.

I'd expected to get nervous at this point. I remembered studying my pussy with a mirror, trying to imagine what it would look like to a man, and trying to imagine why he would want to kiss it. All I'd seen was an unattractive forest of dense black hair, divided by pink folds of flesh. Afterwards, the peculiar smell clung to my fingers, reminding me of the many times I'd masturbated in the past. .

As if he expected me to stop him, he cautiously drew down my panties and pulled them off my nylon-sheathed feet. I spread my thighs again, though I still expected him to recoil in revulsion. But he only gazed in wonderment, breathing out in a long, slow sigh.

I couldn't help asking, "Is it all right? Am I clean?"

"It's beautiful," he breathed, never taking his eyes away from my crotch. "I've dreamed about this all week, day and night, and yet it's so much more beautiful than I imagined."

In for a penny, in for a pound

. "Then kiss it. Lick it. I want it very much."

Maybe once he starts, I really will want it

.

Craig made a sort of whimpering moan and bent into me until I felt his lips press on my pubic hair. When the tip of his tongue touched my flesh, I jumped a little, but then it dipped into my vagina. His lips nestled against me and his tongue began to move.

The sensations overwhelmed me. My fears vanished as I sank into a swirl of pure pleasure. His rapid breath ruffled my pubic hair, as his tongue penetrated me, farther with each stroke. As before, he seemed to be licking the juices from me, stealing them for himself.

Go ahead, Craig, take my juices. Take all you want. I made them for you!

"Oh, my God, I love what you're doing," I gasped, and it was the truth. My words seemed to increase his urgency, and for the next minutes, he lapped at me with the flat of his tongue, inside my vagina and on its delicate lips. I moaned and mewed involuntarily.

He must love my pussy after all. Why else would he be so enthusiastic, so lost in what he's doing?

"Craig, make me come now. Please." My fingers danced on his temples, and I drew him up until I felt the rough, electric touch on my clitoris. "Yes, yes, right there!"

A few slow strokes were enough to set me off. I thrashed and cried out and bucked my hips clear off the sofa. I clawed at his head to pull him closer, as his tongue caressed my most sensitive place. He grunted excitedly against me, which only intensified the fantastic sensation.

This had lasted longer than any orgasm I'd had before, but still it continued. A long time seemed to pass until the waves of pleasure slowed and finally stopped reverberating through my body.

I turned his head sideways and let him rest in my pussy hair. All my apprehension had been for nothing. He loved what he did for me, perhaps more than I did. It might not be 'normal', but what did 'normal' mean when it came to sex?