The Guitar Man

Sam had a guitar, and he could play. No one else was very impressed with this fact, I guess, because I was the one who stayed at his feet all night, begging him to play another song for me. He would smile and oblige, as willing to have an audience as I was to hear him play and sing in his smooth voice. He went through his entire repertoire for me, so that by 2 a.m., everyone else had gone to bed, and it was just me and Sam sitting alone in the living room, me holding the music, turning the pages, him strumming his guitar and singing in my ear.

"Play another one," I begged, opening my eyes when the music came to a slow, sweet halt. He grinned.

"You're insatiable," he replied, idly strumming.

"I know, I'm sorry," I said, leaning back against his leg. "You’re such a nice guy, to sit up with me and do this… I'd listen all night long. You can stop if you want to."

"Nice guy, eh? I’ve been called a lot… I can’t remember being called that one.” He laughed softly. “You know, I think I've played every song I know…” My disappointment must have been palpable because he said, “But… I can still sing to you." We both looked up in surprise when the timer-light on the lamp went out and we were left in the dark.

"It's a sign," I said with a laugh. He smiled in the dark, and I could see the glint of the moonlight and the streetlight outside coming in from the window on his teeth.

"Maybe it is," he said, sliding to the floor next to me and putting his guitar aside. "So what do you want me to sing?"

"Anything at all," I said eagerly. He started singing a Simon and Garfunkel song that he had played earlier on the guitar, and I closed my eyes to listen. It seemed natural when he moved behind me, his hands rubbing my shoulders, whispering, "Relax" and then singing softly in my ear, his breath warm and sweet on the side of my face. I let myself go, all the tension in my body that had been building for weeks released with the touch of his large, warm hands. I didn't think about anything but the sound of his voice, and the feel of him against me, his long legs stretched out next to mine, his hands slipping under my shirt so I could feel the calluses left by the guitar strings on his fingertips as they brushed my back.

"When you're weary," he sang. "Feeling small. When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all..." Listening to the words made me feel so safe with him at a time when nothing else in my life was secure.

"You're so special, Maggie," he whispered against my neck, and for a moment I was clear-headed, knowing that this couldn't happen, even though I wanted it to. I was still married--Sam was married. We were separated, but legally, we were both still committed to someone else. I jumped when I heard a noise on the stairs, thinking it was Alison coming down to check on us, but thankfully it was just her cat who sat and stared at us with glowing, yellow-rimmed eyes in the dimness. I loved Alison, we’d been friends forever, and she’d taken me in after I’d left Tom, with nowhere to go and my two small children. (It hadn’t yet been a month since I’d discovered the hotel room bills and listened to his lies.) But I admit, I’d questioned her judgment when she told me that Sam and Josephine were coming to stay for the night, because her place was closer to the airport. Sam… her beautiful, talented, wayward and often manipulative ex-boyfriend… and now soon-to-be ex-husband of Josie… I imagined, when she’d told me, seeing the light in her eyes, that she wanted some sort of reconciliation to take place between her and Sam. She had flirted with him mercilessly all night, but he’d been lukewarm, and seemed to prefer playing and singing for me than talking to her. And now here I was, questioning my own judgment. What was I thinking?

“How long have you been playing?” I asked, thinking I might change the subject and shift our gears a bit.

“Guitars? Or women?” he asked, his lips grazing my hairline. I swallowed hard. “They’re actually a lot alike, you know.”

“Really? How?”

“Well… a guitar really is a woman you know… she has a mouth,” he touched my lips with his fingers. “And a neck,” his hand moved down my throat. “And the shape of a guitar is like the shape of a woman… a full, sensual, curvy woman… this shape here…” he ran his hands up over my hips, dipped in at my waist, and moved up my sides toward my breasts. “Do you feel that?” his hands moving back down again. I nodded, not trusting my voice. “And you know… she needs some fine-tuning sometimes… can be a little temperamental. But when you play her well… she can really sing.” I smiled at this metaphor. He had me, and he knew it.

“Sam…” wanting to and not wanting to break the spell. “Where is this going?" I asked hesitantly.

"You tell me," he whispered, his brushing my earlobe.

"I'm afraid."

"If you're afraid, we'll stop. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do." He moved so that he was kneeling in front of me, cupping my face in his hands. "You're so beautiful. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think you were... absolutely amazing… really… I hope you know that." I knew what it sounded like, but at 2 a.m., with a little bit of alcohol in me, and an ego that felt reduced to the size of a pea, I wanted to believe him and I did.

"I'm afraid," I repeated, my voice and chin trembling. He kissed the tears on my eyelids.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid of doing this," I replied. "And..." I hung my head to hide my eyes, speaking softly. "And I'm afraid of regretting it if I don't."

"Don't be afraid," he whispered. "I won't hurt you." I didn't know if I should believe him, but I did because I needed to. It felt incredible to have someone want me, his mouth, his hands telling me with every movement that he wanted me.

"Why are we doing this?" I asked breathlessly into his neck, his weight on me like a blanket, safe and warm.

"I want to make you feel good," he said, pulling up my shirt inch by inch, following each tug with a kiss. "Making you feel good will make me feel good. What's the harm in that?"

"Nothing," I said, concentrating on his mouth that was moving its way across the flesh of my breasts above my bra. "Nothing, I guess." Thinking: everything, but I don't want to stop.

"You… are… beautiful," he whispered, enunciating each word as he undressed, and the sight of him filled me with an incredible longing. When he was on me, long and lean, but oh, so solid, I held onto him as if I were drowning, and I was, drowning in the feelings coursing through me, conflicting at every moment. He kissed me, a long, deep kiss like I'd never been kissed before. I felt sixteen again when he led my hand down between his legs, and what I found there made me gasp in surprise. He was so large and so hard that at first, I was really afraid, but watching his face as I touched him, his eyes half closed, his breathing ragged, I gradually grew empowered.

The difference was startling--his touch, his kiss, the size and shift and feel of him, all so incredibly different and new. I’d never been with another man except my husband. I’d never even entertained the idea. Yet here he was, and he was everywhere, consuming me. My own need began to frighten me.

"Sam, stop," I begged breathlessly, unable to dislodge him with a push. "I can't do this."

"What do you think we've been doing?" he asked, shifting his weight to look at me. In the moonlight his jawline was strong and firm. I tentatively ran a finger along it and he turned and kissed my hand.

"I know. I don't mean to tease you, but.... I'm just so scared." I was. I was fluttering, trembling.

“Shh," he said, leaning down to my ear and nuzzling my neck. He needed a shave and his whiskers scraped deliciously along my throat. "Let me take care of you. I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?"

"I don't know," I whispered, unable to sort out my feelings. Things were happening too fast. I felt it, and yet I was lying there completely dressed, yes, my summer skirt riding up over my hips, my t-shirt pulled up to expose my bra, but still in a state of not-quite-beyond. Part of me ached to feel the length of him against me. The other part of me wanted to straighten, rearrange, and make for my room in the basement. What in the world was I thinking of doing?

"What will happen if you don't do this?" he asked me, propped up on his elbow to look at me. "How will you feel?"

"You know," I said after a moment.

"Yeah, but do you?"

"Yes," I whispered, closing my eyes as his hand slid down my side. "You want me to say it, don't you?"

“Yes," he breathed, shifting back on top of me, and it was like coming home.

“I want to," I whispered, opening my eyes to see his face, his eyes bright as black glass in the moonlight. "I want you."

There were no more words then. He wanted to guide me and I let him. He undressed me quickly, no fumbling with bra straps or struggling with zippers. My panties were gone in a whisper. And I was there beside him, completely naked and exposed to a man for the first time since I married my husband. Shyness overwhelmed me for a moment, and I was thankful for the darkness to cover the heated flush of my cheeks. I wasn’t one of the tall, thin, beach girls he was used to. His wife had never even been pregnant. His hands kneaded my breasts and then my belly, generous and too soft and plaited with striae.

“Stretch marks,” I apologized as he kissed around my navel. He shook his head, breathing in deep.

“Beautiful,” was all he said. It completely filled me.

He took his time, slow and easy, but I was so far gone already that I was aching for him. His hands and mouth explored the entire length of me, his breath hot on the smooth, freckled skin of my shoulders, my soft and ample breasts, my generous belly, my full thighs. His breath tickled the dark red, wiry wedge of my pubic hair.

“You don’t shave at all,” he remarked and I flushed.

“No, I’m sorry,” I apologized. I’d seen women, girls, in changing rooms, at the gym, and even in a few of the movies my husband had started watching (“Girlie movies” my father used to call them) and had noticed that it was a trend now, to be shaved down there. How clipped or trimmed their pubic hair was, or even shaved to what my husband liked to call a “landing strip”—a line of hair like a runway just above their vulva. Some even completely shaven, smooth as my eight-year-old. He’d asked me to, once, and I had, but my skin and erupted in angry, red bumps and had itched terribly, and I’d never done it again.

“No, I love it… so tired of little girl pussies.” I could hear his smile, and his genuine admiration. The sound of that word in his mouth left me momentarily breathless. Then I was in his mouth, his tongue like sweet quicksilver sneaking through the folds, tunneling his way inward, first down, dipping into me and tasting me, then up again, finding that small, hard, sheathed button of flesh. His fingers opened my lips, and he made a game of gently tugging at my pubic hair to keep them open for his mouth. I couldn’t help the tiny little cries coming from the back of my throat, even though I knew his soon-to-be-ex-wife was sleeping somewhere upstairs, and my own children were tucked in downstairs with the only bathroom off this very room. I’d lost all rational thought, although I had enough sense to whisper and muffle my moans.

“You taste like heaven,” he stopped to tell me and as much of a line as it was, it still effected me. I shivered and moaned, cupping my breasts in my own hands, tugging gently at my nipples. He made deep, soft noises as he urged me on with his tongue, lapping faster and still faster at my clit, no more teasing.

“Sam,” I whispered, my hand finding his hair, close-cropped military cut, nothing to grab onto, I dug into the back of his neck with my nails, pulling him in and in. His hands were on my inner thighs, large and warm, keeping them spread wide. “Sam, don’t stop!” I gasped, feeling that first tightening, an almost folding in of all the muscles in my lower belly, and then the release, a complete and fluid letting go of it all centered right under the tip of his tongue. He held me tight, grabbing underneath me to steady me as a pushed up toward his mouth, gasping for air, scraping hard at his neck and shoulders as I came.

“Good, good, good girl,” he murmured, damp kisses spreading to my thighs, then my quivering belly. He was finally moving onto me, and I had a flash moment of fear. In the aftermath of my orgasm, I was suddenly more clear and sure that this really shouldn’t be happening. Yet he wasn’t stopping. He pushed my legs back, hooking my knees with his arms, propping himself above me, exposing me to him. “Take it in your hand,” he told me. I did. The tip was wet, and he was truly enormous, I’d never held a cock so big, so incredibly engorged. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised me, sensing my hesitation. He thrust into my hand, letting the wetness at the tip lubricate my grip. He moaned softly when I squeezed him. “Feel how hard I am?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered, sliding my hand downward from the tip, amazed at the length I traveled to the base.

“You did that,” he told me, finding my eyes in the dimness. “Do you want that?”

I nodded. And it was true, beyond true, beyond thought or sanity, it was simply wanting and being wanted, and I was lost in it. He smiled and he slid himself out of my hand and then moved toward me again, rubbing the length of his cock through my wet openness, driving me slowly to distraction. "Sam, please..." I begged.

"Not yet," he whispered, keeping up an easy, gentle rhythm, the tip teasing my clit with every movement. I ran my hands over his shoulders, reveling in the smoothness of his skin. The hard ridges of his belly, already wet with sweat, made me dizzy with longing. I was losing myself in the sensation, feeling a familiar tingling beginning again in my clit, and when he finally entered me, I gasped out loud at the aim and size and feel of him, swift and hard.

He let out a pent up, shuddering breath in my ear, and when he began to move in me I couldn't keep from whimpering. He found a rhythm easily, and I gasped against his neck, clawing futilely at his back. He filled so much of me that it was a strange cross between pain and pleasure, but his movements were so precise that pleasure soon won out. He asked, "There, do you like that?" as he shifted a little and I moaned and whispered a hoarse, "Yes--don't stop!" He laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a thrill through me, but he did stop, for a moment, taking a deep, measured breath, and then starting. He did this again, and again, taking me ever closer to an edge that I was begging to fall into.

Finally, I was really begging, whispering, “Please, Sam, please, please,” against his shoulder with every thrust, feeling it building inside of me and he reached down to touch my clit, sending me finally, deliciously, over that edge. I shivered against him, every muscle in my body taut as I came, riding wave after wave beneath him.

"Ohh, yes, that’s my good girl," he said, leaning in to kiss me, beginning to move inside me again. For a moment the pleasure was still too intense and I squirmed. He chuckled. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, pressing his hand against my lower belly to still me. The feel of him in me was too much, now, and I was incredibly wet, from his mouth, my own juices, his pre-cum, the slick sound of it as he slid in and out suddenly overwhelmingly embarrassing to me.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m really wet…” I started and he kissed me quiet.

“Yes, wet and soft and open, it’s like sliding through butter, Maggie, you… are… incredible,” he punctuated each with a soft kiss. I didn’t know if he really meant it, but it was simply what I needed to hear and somehow he knew it. He shifted, letting me wrap my legs around his waist and gathering me into him at my shoulders, his breath matching mine, beginning again with me as we rocked. His mouth near my ear, his breath warm on my neck, he leaned into me and buried his face and his hands in my long red hair, inhaling me, pulling gently, then not so gently, my head going back, exposing my throat and my breasts to his mouth and he moved deeper into me. I couldn’t take nearly the whole length of him, but I was trying, lifting my hips to meet him.

I let myself go completely, abandoned myself to the feel of him, the ache in my belly, to something bigger than both of us as we moved together, slick and hot and panting as the sensation began to build upward again. I reached down to feel him going into me, and moaned when I realized I could wrap my whole fist around him at the base and still feel him buried into me as deeply as he could go. He was almost growling now, low and animal and I could feel his mouth sucking at my shoulder, sometimes his teeth, a sharp jolt along my collarbone.

“Ahhhh fuck, Maggie,” he whispered, the buck and thrust of him jerkier now, less coordinated and sure, more wild and without any restraint. I ached when I looked at his face, strained and intense in the moonlight.

“Fuck me, Sam!” I gulped at the words in my own mouth, I’d never said anything like it before. He gasped in my ear at the sound of it and I felt him twitch inside of me. I was encouraged. “Yesssssss Sam, fuck me ‘til you cum,” I urged, and he gave into it with a deep groan, his movements sped up quickly, earnestly, and I watched his face, feeling it build in me but knowing I wouldn't quite get there again.

"Help me," he whispered, as he pulled out and I took him, thrusting, into my hand. He groaned, low and throaty, and just the sound of it, so different, was enough to fill me with feeling as he came in hot waves into my hand and onto my stomach and breasts. Shuddering, he collapsed onto me, nuzzling his face in my neck, and I stroked the back of his head where it was shaved very close, so incredibly soft.

"Are you okay?" he asked after a while. I didn't know the answer to that question.

"Thank you," I whispered, kissing his cheek.

"So, do I still qualify as a nice guy?" he asked after a moment, smiling in the darkness.

“Excellent, I'd say,” I replied softly.

His light laugh took a little of the sting away and I turned my face to hide the tears slipping down my temples.