{Author's note: this story follows immediately on from An American Friday In London. It stands alone, but is enjoyed a lot better after the first one.)
Kathy and I have just enjoyed a moment of extreme intimacy. Not bad, given that five hours ago she was just a (pretty) face in a City bar. But I can see that already, as she comes down from such a powerful cum, the doubts are seeping in. Not surprising - she thought her Friday night would be spent drinking with her friends, not bent double in a luxury Docklands flat with a strange American woman lapping hungrily at her ass.
“You okay, hon?” I ask. The concern is meant to be fake, to keep things going, but I'd have to admit that, unexpectedly, I do care how she's feeling.
“Yes.” She doesn't look like she means it. But I've learnt in my six months here that you can ask the English almost anything (“how did it feel to lose both your legs?”) and they'll almost always reply “fine”, “okay”, “alright”. At first I found this stoicism a little irritating, but now I've come to appreciate it, as opposed to the life story, complete with gory details, I'd get back home.
Kathy is kneeling between my legs, topless, her creamy breasts reminding me how much more there is I want to do. I mustn't get this wrong. Her sense of discomfort may be increased by the rather inelegant way her skirt is bunched around her waist, and her knickers and pantyhose pulled down to her knees. It's how I want it, how I love it, but in the throes of what is, literally, an anticlimax, it may not be too comfortable for her.
“Why don't you freshen up, sweetie?” I ask. “There's fresh towels and a spare robe in the bathroom.” She nods, tugs her skirt down, hikes her underwear up, and heads off. It's a relief she's left her blouse behind. If she'd taken that there's every chance she'll come out fully dressed, all set for getting a cab straight home. As it is, unless she chooses to come out half naked, she'll have to use the robe. I've still got a chance.
A part of me is annoyed she's so upset. She hasn't actually done anything, for christ's sake, apart from remove (some of) her clothes. I've put all the hard work in, including providing my own orgasm. All she's had to do, quite nice you might think, is spread her cheeks for my pleasure. And hers, given the power of her orgasm.
But getting angry wouldn't work. (“How dare you not be happy! Stop being so silly and lick me out now!”) So I think about how delicious she is, how much she got out of the time we've had so far, and how we can both enjoy the rest of the night. She comes back in, wrapped in a white robe. Still no sign of a smile. I ask her to sit beside me on the sofa. She does, but a respectable distance away. Oh dear.
“Do you want to talk?” I ask kindly. I'm never normally this good at sympathy. I must really want some more action.
She mumbles a bit, then manages “I'm not like this, you know.”
“Sure you're not. None of us are.” She gives me a slightly contemptuous look, unimpressed by what she takes as my sophistry. I take it as a good sign she's showing some fight. “I mean,” I continue, “that I'm not a lesbian, just like you, and I'm not a pervert, just like you. But I think we're both people who like to feel good. What's wrong with that?”
She remains unconvinced. How can I recapture the mood we had before? “Tell me about your evening, Kathy. At least let me understand how you feel.” Hopefully by describing to me what's happened, she can get back into it. I look at her tanned ankle, a warm contrast to the white toweling of the robe. I want to stroke my hand over the curve of her ankle bone, up, up, under the robe, and feel her wet sex. Failure is not an option.
She searches for the right words to begin with. “I've had a pig of a week. Year, really. I was up for it tonight.” She pauses, confused. “Going out, that is. Getting drunk. I never in a million years thought this would happen.”
“Then some strange yank starts talking to you at the bar?”
“Yes. I did think for a second 'is she chatting me up?', but then I put it down to you being lonely.”
“And American.”
She laughs. Excellent. “Alright. And American. I'm from Liverpool, you know?” I know. “When Americans find out they always ask 'Do you know The Beatles?' Like one of them isn't dead and the other three aren't old enough to be my grandfather, living in mansions a very long way from the Mersey. You don't get that from any other country. At least you didn't ask that.” No, I got you to strip and licked your asshole instead. A lot less wearing.
“Then what?” I ask.
“Then, I enjoyed talking to you. I think we all did.”
“Did you think I was trying to pull you?”
“I wondered. Not most of the time, but sometimes. It did feel a bit odd the way you kept talking to me.”
“Nice?”
She pauses. “To be talked to, yes. To be chatted up? I was flattered, I suppose. God, I never imagined for a second we'd ever do anything.”
“What about coming here?”
I can see the recollection gives her a little pleasure. She gives a guilty little laugh. “I thought you were trying to pull me a bit more.”
“Was that good or bad?”
“I came here, didn't I?”
