There she was again. Tall and curvy, cleary the woman spends an awful lot of time in the gym at the squat rack, I thought. Those legs. Wow. But I turned my head away from the impressive view before she realized that I was once again staring at her, jaw unhinged and tongue half-lolling from my mouth. I chucked; it wasn't quite that bad. But it wasn't far from the truth, either.
I made my way up to my apartment. I didn't know where she lived. I didn't know her name. I'd never even exchanged a brief eye contact-head nod moment. And I figured, a tall and curvy woman like that was probably well off of the market.
I was twenty-seven. Once divorced. I know, right? Well, I got married young, right out of college, at twenty-three, and the truth was that my ex-wife and I were far too young, immature and stubborn. So that dark period lasted about two years, and then there was an unsettled six months as we extracted ourselves from that doomed union. I had moved on, moving away for a much better job and was feeling pretty good about myself. The only problem was, I'd not met a woman.
It was not for lack of trying. I did the dating apps and sites and I swiped right and I sent emails and texts. I got replies, I got ghosted, I got bots that wanted money for sex. It was all frustrating at times and yet I did not stop looking.
Since it was a Friday night, I decided to go to my favorite place. One block down there was this little hole in the wall Irish bar. My mother was born in Ireland and though her accent has faded some being in the States for a while, I had a soft spot for all things Irish. Including their pubs, and this was a good one. Later that night, there'd be a singer and the pub would be pretty hopping but the clientele generally was couples first, single males second. A lone woman walking into the place would have been virtually attacked with attention.
I got a table, near the wall, and ordered my usual drink and food choice. The waitress was a pretty, young girl who took the orders efficiently and moved off to the next table. She was not big on chit-chat. I was sort of staring out into space not really looking at anything. I was aware that the doors opened and a couple strolled in, then three single men, and then to my surprise, the beauty from my building.
I did not turn my head nor did I move my eyes, but I was sure to study her in my peripheral vision. I saw her scan the bar once, then a second time, then she shrugged. When she walked directly towards my table, I had no choice but to look directly at her. She stopped in front of me.
"You live in my building," she stated flatly.
"Yes, I do. I've seen you."
"I've seen you," she replied, offering a ghost of a smile.
"Hey, grab a seat before you get accosted with drinks and attention," I offered.
Her smile was wan and she accepted gracefully, sliding into her seat opposite me. We got to talking a little bit. I learned her name was Trisha, that she had been in the building for two years, that she worked about two blocks from where I toiled and that it was her first time in this bar. She learned that my name was Kevin and that I was a semi-regular here, because of my Irish heritage.
The conversation actually flowed pretty smoothly. It felt like a first date, to be honest, and a good one. I felt a bit of a spark and I leaned in just like she leaned in. We sat there until close to nine, until the bar was crowded, noisy and tight and I saw a lot of eyes ogling her and she seemed to be growing uncomfortable in the mob. So we paid our bill and left, returning to the busy sidewalks filled with people all going to the clubs and bars or returning from supper or maybe just out for a walk.
We exchanged numbers; it was clear that I was not getting an invite to her place. But all budding relationships have to have a first step, and unless I was very much missing things, that first step was taken.
Three weeks later we enjoyed our first sexual touch, but it was a one-way street only. We met at the bar, as we had done the past three Fridays in a row, and this time she invited me to her place. She invited me into her place and it was soft and feminine and I saw immediately that it was a million percent homier than what I had done to my apartment, which was nothing. I resolved to at least get a painting on the wall, and maybe a floral arrangement somewhere.
She led me to the couch and we sat and watched TV. We had been holding hands and kept holding hands as we snuggled closer and then we kissed. It was as passionate of a kiss as I had enjoyed in a long time, and I was content at the moment merely to kiss. The darting of tongues and the sweetness in her mouth, combined with the faint aftertaste of the whiskey she'd consumed, was pleasing. The natural reaction occurred and my erection pressed hard against my shorts.
She shifted to turn sideways to me, draping one arm almost protectively around my shoulders, and planting the second on my crotch. "Can you handle it if we do it my way only?" she whispered.
My cock, pressed by her hand, spoke for me. "Yes."
The kissing grew hotter; her body sort of trapped my arm against hers and I was aware of my upper arm trapped between her two firm breasts. But I could not touch her back. This might have started bothering me until she unzipped my shorts and drew my penis out. Her stroking was the best touch I had ever had another woman give to me. She stroked it expertly, soft and slow, not gripping and jerking like it was a teat to be milked.
There was one thing that my ex-wife had liked best about me during sex. I was a moaner. She loved hearing my sudden noises, filled with sexual longing. It burst out when she gave the upper region of my shaft a sudden squeeze.
"Mmmm, a moaner," she said instantly, her fingers sliding up to tease the hole at the tip of my cock. "I love that," she told me and then pressed in for a deeper kiss again. She played with my cock expertly, eliciting several more moans from me. The pleasure built steadily.
"Do you want me to suck your cock?" she asked me, her lips right at my ear, her fingers curled around my hardness, using the steady dribble of my precum as a lubricant.
"Oh god yes," I replied.
"Will you moan for me?" she wanted to know.
"Yes, I will."
Then she said a curious thing. "Good boy," she grinned. I was pushed down onto her couch as she nestled in between my legs. She looked up at me as she held my cock, stroking it lightly. Her eyes burned into mine as she pressed my rigid flesh to her lips and held it there.
"Are you going to give me a big load of cum?" she wanted to know.
"Yes!" I assured her.
"Mmmmm, I love taking big loads of cum in my mouth and on my face," she told me.
The rapid-fire thought pinballed through my brain: ohmygod she's a cumslut she's a cumslut ohmygod. Her mouth opened and all such thoughts were instantly blotted out by the most skillful blowjob that I'd ever experienced. She was perfect, her tongue swirling around the head as she held just that part in her mouth, all warm and wet. Then the slippery pleasure of her mouth moving down the shaft, taking more of me into her mouth.
"OoohhhhHHHHHhhhh," I moaned in delight, wanting to squirm under her body.
She picked up on my moans and her intensity picked up. My cries and moans grew closer together, more insistent.
"Oh Trish, Trish, oh god, I'm gonnnnnnaaaaaaa...." I groaned as my balls gave one final churn and the almost-visual of falling over a cliff was complete. The orgasm hit, the first eruption of cum hitting the back of her mouth and she moaned then, a loud noise, greedy and wanting. She jerked me harder and faster, gripping a little more tightly at the base, and improving the orgasm. Spurt after spurt of milky-white cum erupted and filled her mouth, and she swallowed hard and fast and not a drop was left out.
Finally, the orgasm subsided and my cock began to go flaccid. She released it and released me, and sat up, her fingers lightly toying with the top of the flesh. She grinned at me, her tongue poking out and slipping a droplet of cum into her mouth. She swallowed and moved close. "Will you kiss me?" she asked me quietly.
