I got this message from Mikaela:
'Tom, it's Mike. I spoke to Ray, she said everything went really well for you. I'm just calling to add my congratulations. I'm sure you'll be having lots of fun in the future. Oh, on a totally unrelated note, I've taken to jacking off in the shower since your last visit. I come every time. Have you ever noticed how much my harness looks like a jock strap? I have. I stand in front of the mirror before toweling off, admiring my taut, wet body, wishing there were somebody in front of me I could penetrate with my rock-hard cock. I'm going jogging now. Pleasant dreams!'
Having lots of fun was certainly on my mind after my last encounter with Ray, but my old submissiveness kept me from finding any, though the opportunities seemed to be everywhere. I guessed which women were Mikaela's friends without asking them. When I'd go to the coffee shop where we'd last met, the hippie girl with the braids (a real health nut) always did a double take at me from behind the counter, and grinned knowingly, and maybe maliciously. At the library, one of the university's Swim heroes worked a desk. She was a hot butch Amazon who kept her eyes on her monitor and keyboard when answering questions. I thought I saw her pause when reading my name aloud. As she handed me a book, I tried to take it from her, but found it stuck in her vise-like hand. I looked up at her and found her staring icily through me. Then she released the book and I dropped it. Before I could say something two hurried people got in line behind me and her eyes were back down to her screen. Standing on a crowded bus I felt two fingers pressing on my pants over my asshole, but I remained motionless for fear of making a scene. The massaging became a painful probing, and when the bell rang the only person behind me, a girl in a white dress with long blond hair parted in the middle, slung her big purse over her shoulder and jumped off. However many of these incidents were the results of paranoia and how many were perverted flirtation I couldn't know, but I was sure that unless one of these women showed Mikaela's initiative nothing would come of any of it.
It was at a fast food place that I met the girl who would carry me over the threshold. I was squirting ketchup onto my fries at the self-serve bar when I felt a hand creep onto my shoulder, and then the arm it was attached to come to rest behind my neck. Having been manhandled so much recently and never being sure where Mikaela would show up, I couldn't react with any surprise. When I turned though I didn't recognize the young woman standing there in such a chummy pose with me.
"Your name is Tom, isn't it?" Her thumb and forefinger were now kneading insistently where my shoulder met my neck.
"Yes, that's right."
"I'm Candy. We have friends in common." She reached over, took one of my fries from the tray, and bit off a piece. All of a sudden it was like I was being shaken down by a mobster for protection money. "We have to chat. Why don't you come with me? I'll drive you to my apartment, where we can have privacy."
"I just ordered."
"Forget the food. I'll feed you. Come with me." With that I realized it was better to comply.
Candy's apartment was in a duplex secluded in the woods far uptown. The inside was its own world, the kind of silent place where you can forget anything except the furniture and appliances around you exist. The woman herself was large and dynamic, and she fit in the rooms the way a bear fits in a cave. Her actions and movements were too well-planned and too quick for me to get any impression of her beyond the superficial. She had on a green army jacket, a red and black striped sweater, tight blue jeans, and sneakers. Her hair was wild, thick, dark, and to her shoulders. When she spoke it was curtly, with her head tilted up so she could peer down at me, and there was the ghost of a snarl in her upper lip. Her manner made it very clear our meeting had not officially begun, nor would it until she was good and ready.
"You know what to do," she said, and disappeared around a corner. I heard the weak slam of a flimsy door.
I have absolutely no idea what to do, I thought, standing in her kitchenette. Fortunately about two minutes later I heard the door swing open on its creaky hinges, and Candy yell to me, "Tom, get in here!"
I followed her path down the tiny hallway and rounded the corner to find her sitting on the edge of a king-sized mattress. The sheets were green and they cast an eerie halo along the white walls, which were too close to everything they contained. It was nauseatingly claustrophobic. There were the nightstand with its lamp and clock, the bed, the woman, and me, and it felt like we were the last two people on the face of the earth. She had her right knee bent at the mattress edge and her bare left leg extended to the floor between us. Both hands held the cock she had on by their thumbs and forefingers. It was a cleanly smooth marble knob, a healthy seven inches long, the same shade of purple as the form-fitting tank top she wore. In the poorly heated room she had sprouted goosebumps on her pale limbs. She caressed the dick's length as if her fingers were smoothing away folds of skin on its surface, like the folds of excess fabric on her torso below her restricted, average-sized breasts. Then she pointed the rod as if it would emit an invisible ray that might stun me.
"There are a lot of women interested to meet you, Tom. You have a reputation for being quite the entertainer. Though I notice you're still dressed."
"I wasn't sure exactly what was going on."
