She is a city planner. I met her in a cluster of people wanting answers to a lot of questions about a road rebuild. After we had all talked through the variables, and were more or less satisfied, I walked her back to her car with a few more questions which she politely, if curtly, answered. As she was getting into her car she glanced at her watch and spoke in what seemed like a self-deprecating aside, "Friday night and no where to be."
It was a throw-away, I knew but jeez, the woman seemed so, I don't know ... so lost and lonely. She appeared tiny for one and her nose was Rudolf red from the cold, which was obviously getting to her — she had been rubbing her gloves together for the friction. She didn't look miserable exactly but it was close enough for some pity. "I'm not up to anything, do you want to get some dinner?"
She was just closing the car door. She stopped and scrunched up her sharp face thinking about it. "Ya, sure, why not? Where?"
The restaurant we chose was a mistake. It was crowded when we arrived and just got more so as we waited. We talked about nothing for ten minutes then got out of there. The other two we tried were no better so we said fuck it and went to McDonalds.
On her way back into the bedroom from the bathroom she could see I was looking at her. "They used to be up here," she said lifting her breasts up a few inches. "Pretty soon they're going to be down here," she pressed them so they were all but flat against her.
"I'll drop by from time to time to check them out." I was lying in the bed recovering.
She knelt in front of me. "You do that." Does she have a sense of humour? Not so you'd notice, all I've seen so far from her is earnestness, it's like she's plodding through life with a weight on her shoulders ... in addition to the chip. "They'll always be beauties," I tried to cheer her up.
"They're dead weight."
"But with a purpose. Do you want a family?" If she did, she'd better hurry up.
"The very last thing I want is to be a single parent, like that's the absolute last fucking thing."
"That isn't the only option."
"Sure seems to be." She bent down and sucked my semi-erection, the one crusted with her cum and mine, then she lay down with her head on my thigh playing with it. "Do you think I was a bit too ... slutty last night?"
Infinitely.
She is very slim, quite tall, maybe 5'7", nice breasts and she has the sharp face of her doppelgänger, the eagle. They have the same eyes: beady, back and all-seeing; her very long nose is positively beak-like; her straight auburn hair falls to her narrow shoulders light feathers; the fingers holding my now full erection are so long and thin they could be talons. But it's her intense focus that is the most eagle-like thing about her, it seems constant and it makes her seem like a predator and makes me feel like prey.
"I got carried away. Anyway, I don't care."
I doubted that, she had acted like she had an insatiable need for a body. Sluttish? The moment we got into her place she turned and attacked me, it had never happened to me before, I wasn't ready for it. She pushed me back against her apartment door, pulled off her coat, her sweater and shirt, her talons made short work of my pants and she was just kneeling down and was about to guide my cock to her mouth when I came, I mean, I came all over her bra and chest, about 3 weeks of the stuff.
She freaked. She sucked, bit, licked, squirmed, rubbed, ground; the panties she pressed to my face were soaking and then flooding as she virtually swallowed my cowering cock which was about as afraid of her as I was.
Was she satisfied? Not a chance — that was just round one. She hauled me off to her bedroom, stripped off my remaining clothes, then her's — so fast I didn't get a look at her, then she pushed me on the bed and kneeling, lying, bending, stretching, she strained her body in every possible direction to get all the desire out of her, that's what it felt like. And looked like. We weren't having sex, we weren't relating or exploring or discovering — none of that: she had sexual energy stored in various places throughout her body and goddam it, she wanted it out.
"Do you want me to leave?" I said after it was over and she was lying exhausted on the bed.
"God, no."
"Do you have anything to drink?"
She quickly got up, "Wine, I'll get it. Do you want a bath?"
"Do I get the wine in the tub?"
"Ya, and me."
I don't know how old she is, she could be anywhere from 25 to 40 — she acts old but her body movements are young, like how she maneuvers around in the bathroom with the bottle and glasses and the little plate of crackers and cheese, and how she stepped into the tub, perfect balance, perfect body control. I had a fast flash of her as an old woman: her pinched face, her disapproving grimace, a cord attached to spectacles resting on her bosom — she would look every inch the disapproving spinster.
"What are you smiling at?" she frowned.
"Just happy to be here. Some people look better naked than they do with clothes on, you're one of them." I wondered how many men have had this view of her. Not many I'd bet, maybe over their shoulder on the mad dash out.
She slipped in and settled back against the tub her legs pushing on both sides of my waist. The bird of prey was looking on me as lunch, then she softened. "OK, I've decided to apologize, that was a bit much; I haven't had any of that in a long time; it had kind of built up in me."
"Is it all out?"
"No. Who are you?"
"I don't really feel like talking, I'd rather sit here, listen to you and look at your tits, they're beautiful."
"What's your name?"
I laughed, she didn't. "Mike Kendall."
"I'm Erica Clayborn,"
"I know, you're a city planner."
"You're thinking I'm a tart."
"I'm thinking that the water's perfect, the wine's terrific and the company is beautiful and interesting."
"I'm hardly beautiful."
"And combative."
She was about to object but decided not to. "You'll stay the night, OK? I'll behave."
"Love to." I could see her physically relax when I said this as if all her tenseness was from fear that I might leave. "And you don't have to behave, in fact I'd rather you didn't."
She brought her right foot up and roughly pushed her toes into my face. "Good because the way you make me feel I really don't want to."
She didn't.
She was sitting on the bed cross-legged the next morning drinking coffee. She saw my glance. "I love my pussy, I think it's beautiful and if the guy I'm with doesn't, I want to know that."
"You're all attitude, aren't you? You have the female equivalent of the Napoleonic complex: in-your-face pussy, in-your-face fucking, in-your-face attitude. The message you're sending me is just take it and don't come back. Have I got that right?
"No, you haven't got that right; I don't even want you to leave." She seemed to visibly shrink and she repositioned herself sitting more lady-like with her legs over the side of the bed. "I'm nervous, OK? How am I supposed to act? I've never been any good at this. I just assume you'll start running like everyone else has ... but I've never cared about them. I think maybe I care about you. I'm not impressing you, am I?
"You seem unnecessarily combative."
"Was I too slutty last night? You never answered the question."
"You seemed fairly desperate. I would have probably loved it if I thought you were acting like that for me. You weren't. It felt like you were just using me to get rid of your sexual energy and tension ... not very flattering to me."
"It couldn't have been you turning me on? That's not possible? I have to be a slut?"
I showed her I could get annoyed. "I didn't called you that and you know it."
She went to pull the sheet over her. I stopped her. "Little late for modesty."
She moved to get up, I pulled her back. "You want me to stay, I'll stay but I'd like you to pretend that I matter as much to you as your fingers."
"Ya, well, my fingers know me and they're going to be around long after you've ... left."
I laughed. "You were going to say, what? Run? Fled? Bolted?"
"You like making fun of me, don't you?"
"You're pretty, you've got a terrific body, you've got truly spectacular tits and my dominant impression of you? Your bad mood. This could have been fun but you turned it into ... I don't know. You've left me with the impression your time would have been better spent alone."
"I have to go to dinner at my parent's place tonight. It's my father's birthday. Will you come with me?"
"Will it put you in better mood if I do?"
"Yes." She got up, put her coffee mug on the table then lay down beside me and started kissing my chest and nipples, my shoulders, my neck then she went down and kissed all over my body, like every square inch — it felt like she was laying some kind of claim to it. I had an erection through it all; when she finished sucking my toes she lay down with her cheek on my belly and she bent my prick down so she could lick and suck it. There was an intimacy to all of this that gave me insight into married life. I liked it ... a lot, a lot more than last night and her frantic search for friction. And I told her so, I put it delicately and as a compliment.
"It's you." She got up on her knees, swung her leg over me and lowered herself onto the cock that had been in her fingers for the past half hour. She didn't move on it, it was just there, tight and deep in her. She started kissing me, the same little kisses she covered my body with and with the same licks until the licks became more assertive then she let a gob of spit drop on my lips and she swirled it around while just hinting at moving her hips.
"I'm not going to last."
"I've never felt like giving my body away before. I love the way you make me feel ... if you think I'm a slut it's because you're making me one." It reminded me of pulling a cord to start a motor, suddenly she just started to thrust as she squeezed me into her arms; I just lay there, surrendering to her and in minutes I emptied into her in glorious appreciation.
"My pecker actually hurts." We had stayed in her apartment all day and were now driving to her parent's place in my car; she insisted I didn't need to go home to change.
"I hurt too."
