Lets face it; I'm a social retard. I'm not good at first meetings, especially when that meeting is with a woman who has spent a few weeks revealing her darker self to me online. My mind had wandered back to that first meeting with Julie, prompted by a contrast. The contrast between that look she had given me, as I had stumbled to make conversation shortly after we first met, and the look she was giving me now as we both sat, facing each other, her legs spread to either side of me. I was stroking the edges of her pubic hair with a razor. We hadn't become best friends or anything, in fact we rarely discussed our other lives. We enjoyed a certain comfort with each other, though, as much as one can be comfortable on the edge.
Julie was thirty-something, married, no children. Anyone could see that she was pretty, anyone but her. Her curly blond hair was cut short because she never felt comfortable with any of the styles when she wore it long. Julie stood about 8 inches shorter than me, and had the slight wiriness of a woman obsessed with working out. Her body was only slightly distorted by age. A few years ago she might have been called a yuppie. Her husband from what I could gather was not a bad man, nor even a bad husband. She seemed convinced what compelled her was her own weakness or depravity, and that normal women didn't have, or at least they had not succumbed to, these deep, dark needs. I said nothing to dissuade her of this conviction. To me she was simply ... delicious. You see, she was a rare find, like a fine scotch, aged to perfection by the oaken planks of her circumstance.
After I had finished my ritual shaving she sat there, staring back at me. I watched her. She had grown accustomed to my silence, and I especially savored these moments. I still was not sure what she thought at these times, if she was anticipating what I would ask of her, or if she was doing a mental penance for the sins she was about to commit. A few minutes passed in such manner, until she repositioned herself, so that she could begin licking my cock. Already erect, it was eager for her attention. Without grasping it she licked it up and down its length, bathing it with her tongue. It was more demeaning for her, somehow nastier, to not use her hands, but to have to maneuver her mouth and face into the nooks and crannies of my body to cleanse both my cock and balls. I was the instrument of the torture to which she had chosen to submit herself, her mind demanding humiliation for the thoughts she allowed herself.
She sat back slightly and looked at me; I glanced towards the table, at the lipstick on it. She rose and went to the table, picked it up, removed the top, and began slowly rotating the case, staring at it as the lipstick emerged further into her sight. She brought it to me and waited for me to begin.
I think it was on her third visit that I had instructed her to buy the lipstick, a fiery red color. She showed up at my door that night wearing the lipstick, not quite a smile on her face (she rarely smiled around me) but at least a look of accomplishment. After I had closed the door I looked at her lips.
"Wipe it off."
"Isn't this the lipstick you wanted?"
"Yes, it is. Wipe it off."
Confused, probably hurt, she started to take a tissue from her purse. Catching her mistake, she stopped, then wiped the lipstick off with the back of her hand. I had taught her not to be too much of a lady in my presence. She looked up at me, unsure. I turned and walked into the living room.
"Get naked."
She complied, folding her clothes neatly. I always allowed her this last dignity.
"Give me the lipstick."
She reached into her purse and pulled the new lipstick from it, handing it to me tentatively, as one would feed a wild animal. I placed it upright on the table. I placed my hand on her shoulder, and needed only a slight downward push for her to lower herself to her knees. My hand ventured from her shoulder downward ... my fingers taking in every smooth sensation ... every goose bump ... until they reached the small of her back. I placed my palm against her there, pushing. She bent forward, pausing only long enough to break the descent with her hands. She lowered herself, turning her head sideways as it reached the floor. Her ass in the air for me. Caressing her ass, I bent down over her until my face was next to hers. I whispered to her.
"Why do you come back to me?"
