Better Ch 01

Part 1 - Robert

Andrea had to be one of the most wild and exciting women I have ever known in a carnal way. Absolutely ready and willing at a drop of a hat. She had no inhibitions and she had orgasms that didn't quit. It was hard to know if they were multiples or just one marathon long ones. When she came, she completely coated my cock if I didn't take the opportunity to pull out and watch her cum pour out of her vagina that was so damn lickable if it wasn't so enthralling to watch. And she was a gusher: warm rushes of ejaculate that would soak the bed from the comforter, through the sheets, and through the mattress pad, sometimes more than a couple of times if we had the time to fuck. When I was done, there was no turning her off. She was also wickedly smart and incredibly talented as a professional print photographer who offered to be a mentor to me.

It was apparent that she was attracted to me from the get-go. It was in the way she would cross her arms, tilt her head and let her bangs fall over one eye, and look directly into my eyes when she talked to me. It was in the way she stopped everything she was doing to listen to me.

But I wasn't quite sure how she fit into my life. The first time we went out on a shoot, she said she wanted more and deserved better in relationship. She said she had absolutely no interest in a friends with benefit arrangement, and quite frankly, she deserves the kind of guy who would romance her over candlelight dinners and send flowers to her at her studio. But my head wasn't in relationship mode. I was running three businesses, and quite frankly, I liked the life of going out with the guys to watch a game at the bar, and if I was lucky, bring someone home for a good night fuck.

But there was an admittedly strong buzz between us, a charge that was as strong as a zap you would feel were touching something electric that short circuit. I felt it all over my body. As she gave me what I thought would be a friendly hug and a kiss goodbye the second time together we worked together, her velvet voice turned to gravel and said she something to me on the same order. It didn't take long until my steel hard rod was plowing into her. Deeply. And for consecutive drillings.

It became routine for us to shoot or edit and fuck like rabid jackals once a week or so, although there was nothing routine about the way we scorched the bed and the ground beneath it. The woman had a way of bending and lifting her body in every possible way for me to place myself into her. But one evening as we were wrapping up putting together the first pieces for my online portfolio, she said she couldn't.

"Can I ask why?" I asked.

She bowed her head, cast her eyes away from me toward the floor, and said, "I have to get up early in the morning. I have to pick someone up at the airport first thing in the morning."

"This doesn't sound like just 'someone.'" I said, not knowing if I didn't want to ask that question because I didn't want to invade her privacy or because I was trying to hold back on what I felt a pang of jealousy coming from the deepest part of my gut.

"A dear friend and ..." she said.

"Fuck buddy," I said. There was no guessing the end of that sentence.

I asked her to tell me about him. She said they met on a photography retreat several years ago. He was a talented amateur whose day job was a C-level something for a bank headquartered on the west coast. He was also married and had no intention of divorcing his wife. She said the both of them hit it off as friends, the troublemakers in their classes – always talking and cracking jokes when they should have been paying attention. Towards the end of the retreat, they had skipped classes altogether and spent the time touring the nearby resort town on foot, sightseeing by day, gourmet dinners in the evening, and make love into the mid hours of the morning. She said she broke every rule she ever had about married men and one-time hook-ups, but the time with him was worth it. She said it was being with him was how she knew she deserved and had to be treated: better.

"But he's married and lives 2,500 miles away," I said, perplexed.

"We get together every month or so," she said. "He makes excuses to come out to conferences here. There have been a few trips elsewhere – Napa, Cabo San Lucas, the Bahamas."

"I can see how that can be appealing," I said, surprised that a woman who lived rather frugally, if not gypsyish in a loft that felt more like a Pier One version of a Moroccan sultan's tent than the guts of late 1920's warehouse, would compromise her values.

"We're great friends and he treats and respects me better as a person, a woman, than any man ever has," she said. "He is my better. Well, at least my almost better."

She dropped her head again, this time in the palms of her hands as if she was trying to keep her face from falling to the floor. I lifted her head up and she wouldn't let go from covering her face. When she did, her eyes were welling, glassy.

I found a box of tissues and brought them to her. I wanted to know what the tears were all about.

"It's awkward telling you," she said.

"You love him?" I asked, not expecting her answer.

"He's fallen in love with me," she said. "It goes against the original parameters of what we originally agreed to. He still has no plans to leave his wife, but he believes I'm exclusive to him.

She took a deep sigh, lifted her head to look at me and said, "I have feelings for you, all of them unrequited. And I feel bad keeping you a secret from him."

Her face fell like the sunlight that was fading she was staring at outside of the window. I had to break the silence by asking, "Does he fuck like me?"

She cracked half a smile and half a chuckle, and said, "Do you really want to know?"

She was right, but in a way, but I did want to know.

"Think Miles Davis, an expensive Cabernet, and being recited John Dunne and Pablo Neruda by memory, while bathing," she said.

We both fell silent again. I don't know what was going through her mind, but I couldn't filter and sort through what was going on in my head. I had to bring myself to admit that I felt ashamed for outright knowing that I clearly took advantage of her open and vulnerable spirit. I had to admit that stirring feeling deep in my gut was jealousy that simmering and rising. I really wanted to press her up against the window she was staring out of and fuck her from behind until she was standing on tip toes and screaming so loud that the tenants on the top floor, two above, could hear her as If she was in their room. And I really wanted her to have better.

All I could think to do was to wrap my arms around her waist, press myself gently against her body that was seeking comfort, plant a warm kiss on her cheek, and say, "I hope you have a wonderful time. Let me know the next time you feel like having me hang out and learn something."

She turned her head and put a smile on her face as her eyes dammed up another stream of tears. I hoped that hug would make her feel better and would be the most comfortable way to a conversation that couldn't and shouldn't go any farther. But as I walked out of the door, I couldn't help but to feel like a douchebag for not giving her my attention and my time. For not telling her that I was really feeling for her, and didn't want to leave until I knew she was OK.

Or maybe what she needs is better. Whatever form that comes in.