Mine

I push open the door joining our rooms when I hear Sympathy for the Devil playing on the CD player. That's my signal. I wonder if he remembers what I told him about that song when we first started to flirt: that it was the theme song in my wickedest fantasy about him, the one where I really abuse him.

The door creaks like an old rusty farm gate; after all, who else makes use of the adjoining rooms at a Doubletree? His room is dark except for the glow of electronics LEDs and the Glade candles on his nightstands. He's in the center of the bed, under the sheet, and not saying a damn thing, though I can see him staring at me. Good. So far he's followed my instructions to the letter. As long as he's obedient, this will all be perfect. In a dramatic flair, I throw out my cape and sashay toward the foot of the bed.

- -- -

An hour earlier we'd met up at the ground floor bar: he had my room key, and I had a little package for him. I came in through the back entrance of the hotel, just so I could watch him for a moment before he saw me. I hadn't seen him in person for two years. He was sitting at the bar wearing new jeans that hugged his ass and a sweater a size too large. His neck (his lovely, swan-like neck) was craned back over his shoulder toward the door, where he stared anxiously. I was late, after all, but that was my prerogative. He nursed his precious Jack and Coke through a stir straw, looking every bit the 23-year old he was in a room full of thirty- and forty-something business travelers.

I wanted to sneak up on him and kiss the back of his neck, or slide my cold hand up his back where his shirt had come untucked beneath his sweater, but he turned when I was still few feet away and caught me cat-stalking him. He popped off the bar stool and tried to figure out how to hug me around the shoebox I held in my hands, but I pushed it into his hands and backed him right down onto his stool again. Even in my heels he was half a foot taller than me, but I wanted him at my eye, which level the stool forced. "There are gifts for you in the box," I told him, not even giving him a chance to greet me by name. "And instructions in the envelope. Open it."

While he opened the envelope on the top of the box and followed the first two of my handwritten instructions (1. Set the timer on your watch for 30 minutes and start it. Wait here until the timer goes off. 2. You may finish your drink and you may drink sparkling water, but you may eat or drink nothing else until I say otherwise.), I ran my nails -- long acrylics painted a garish red -- over his neck and down his shoulder and slipped off to the elevator. The man sitting closest to him stared after me; I could feel his eyes on my barely-covered ass.

- -- -

His eyes are fixed on me as I come around the foot of the bed. I have the type of body that feels better than it looks -- I'm short and soft and 'ample' -- which is why the lights are off in his room, but I spent a lot of time and money on my costume, and the truth is I'd be pissed if he didn't stare. The cape is the best part -- I salvaged it from a deluxe Maleficent costume, so it has the high-peaked collar and surrounds my shoulders in purple and black ribbed satin that falls down to a batwing hem. When I walk toward him, the slit at the front of the cape opens over my breasts and the hem billows around my calves. I have on four-inch heels that I haven't worn since before the divorce, and pantyhose with an open crotch (much better than nylons that cut into my thighs). The black satin teddy that covers my belly (and barely my hips) holds my girls in place well enough to create a massive crevice of cleavage, but as big as my breasts are there is always the danger that one will come swinging out like a wrecking ball when I bend over. I have my makeup done to full effect now; I'm wearing a shade of deep crimson lipstick and heavy black eye shadow that makes my caramel skin look pale, and I had my hair cut into a bob with bangs just for him. I couldn't tell if he noticed in the bar.

Despite all that, his eyes are locked on my face -- on my lips in particular -- because that's where the real costume is. Everything else is window dressing. I'm a tease, so I smile with my lips pressed shut and check to make sure he's put my little clamshell box on the nightstand. Check that off his list. I just slide it a little closer to the edge where I can reach it later.

The sheet flies back with an easy flick, and my cape billows out over him to replace it. Good -- another couple of check marks on his to-do list. (34. When you get in bed, you must be completely naked. 22. Take a quick, cool shower, but make sure you wash everywhere. Anywhere you think I might want to kiss you, wash thoroughly with only water and the soap I gave you.) The flight of the sheet fills the air with the scent of the lavender soap. Good boy. When I slide my leg over his belly to straddle him, I realize that he's shaved, too, without being told -- not just his face, but his chest, and probably more. That's a pleasant surprise; in reward I bend down to kiss the smooth skin of his chest and run my tongue up the shallow, hairless valley of his breastbone, then suck on the knob of his chin.

He shivers, and his eyes close. His face can barely contain his smile.

I pass by his mouth, following the line of his jaw, and press my lips into the bulge of his neck just beneath his ear. Finally, I let him feel them -- the tips of the fangs I'd cemented to my teeth -- as they press into his skin. I bite down slowly until it's just enough to hurt -- until through my tongue I can feel the wincing gasp catch in his throat, even though he tries to hide it. He's in heaven, and I'm feeling just a little bit devilish as Mick roars through the chorus of the song. I suck the biggest fold of skin off his neck that I can manage and squeeze it against the fangs with my tongue and lips; I'm noisy and slurping and salivating as I give him the darkest hickey I can manage without breaking his skin. In place of blood, my warm saliva dribbles down his neck into the pillow.

I could break his skin if I tried. My fangs are sharp enough and strong enough to shred the skin from an apple -- or to nick up my lips the first couple of days I tried them out. My daughter laughed at the way I talked with them in, the way I slurred until I realized how to curl back my lips. (Then she asked if she could get a tongue piercing. I told her to wait ten years.) The cement is plenty strong, too -- back in my adjoining room, the wooden handle of my hairbrush has two matching rows of sunken dents where I tested my fangs.

My teeth want to sink into his flesh, my jaw aches to clamp down, and I'm not any more scared to taste his blood than I am his cum, but- I give him a final nip before I let his bruised skin slip from my lips and I move back up over his face. I hover just above him, my eyes only inches from his, before my mouth closes over his. I kiss him hungrily; my thick Mexican lips can devour a little white mouth like his, but he kisses me back with the desperation of a drowning man. It's gratifying to know that the wait since our last time has been even harder on him than on me. I give him his fill of my lips and tongue; I hold him by his cheeks and pour myself into him until his breath runs out, and when I let him break free I whisper what I'd been thinking ever since I began to plan this night. "Now you're mine."

- -- -

There hadn't been any of this pretense, any costumes or games, the first time we met -- the only other time we'd met in person. What there had been was near-disaster.

It was a little more than a year ago. Okay, it was 14 months, 2 and a half weeks, and I could probably count the hours if asked. I'd invited him to drive up to my apartment right after the divorce; actually, I'd invited him again, for what was the 20th time at least, but no amount of begging could convince him to visit me before the papers cleared, the self-righteous prick. That's right: I begged him, even when I had two or three other guys emailing me, saying they would drive over at a moment's notice to give me more loving than I could handle. That wasn't what I wanted though -- some self-obsessed dickhead from the internet; I wanted him. So he finally agreed and I made all the plans and counted down the days and the hours and the minutes. He was early.

He picked me up in his little American four-door that fit his height about as well as it fit my width. I was waiting in this black V-neck that swooped so low I had to keep adjusting it to hide my bra and a suede skirt that I couldn't believe I found in my size ...or close enough. I was funny and hospitable and sexy, and he could barely look at me. The table we sat at in the restaurant at lunch was small enough that our knees should have bumped, but he must have held his legs way off to the side because I was trying; I was sliding down in the booth trying to bump his legs. After an 'accidental' demonstration I told him how I was forever dropping food into my cleavage; if we went to a movie and had popcorn he might as well just start off by pouring half the bag down my shirt. As much as he paid attention and listened and laughed, his cheeks turned pink long before I could make his eyes drift down into my blouse. Any lingering doubts I had about his virginity were dispelled; he was shaking when I touched his fingers on the way back out to the car. He sat like a lump in the driver's seat when I showed him where to park to overlook the nude beach (it was empty), and I finally had to ask him why he hadn't tried to kiss or touch me. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To be with me?"

"I'm sorry, Kristina." He played with his stick shift; that damn thing kept poking into my thigh whenever I leaned over closer to him. "I guess I'm just too nervous! I don't want to seem like a jerk: all tongue and sweaty paws the first time we meet."

"Maybe I wouldn't mind a little more tongue and paws."

He glanced up at me, and in the weird light inside his car, his eyes were such a pretty, unsettling color of green. "Well, why didn't you kiss me?" he asked. "Since I'm the shy one and all."

I was beginning to think I didn't have much to lose; I was practically giving this guy a backstage pass, and he didn't know what to do with it. "Because it's one thing, Rick, for you to say you don't mind a little extra fat on me when you're behind a computer screen, but it's quite another thing in person. A lot of guys would change their mind when they saw me. Have changed their mind. Since you wouldn't look at me or tell me how pretty I looked when you saw me, I figured you'd changed your mind, too. I'm not saying it doesn't hurt my feelings, but I understand. I'm not going to throw myself at you if you're turned off. I don't have that much confidence."

He seemed confused. "But I already had the picture you sent me. I would have been happy if you were half as cute as that, but that picture isn't half as cute as you. That's why I'm so nervous: I guess when I saw you I realized you were out of my league." He glanced up. "You're just so sexy I can barely talk."

If it weren't for that damn stick shift, I might have climbed into his lap and jumped his bones right there. That would have saved us both some trouble. Instead we kissed like teenagers sharing a breath mint, and I helped his hand find its way up my shirt and behind my bra.

Poor kid. Mine were the first breasts he'd ever fondled, and I'm sure he'll have a hell of a time ever finding another pair that compare to them. They're my girls. If he wasn't a breast man before, he was by the time I had force-fed him my nipple. The hurried drive back to my apartment was a little big dangerous since my fingers were groping inside his fly, but he kept his hands gripped to the 2 and 10 on his steering wheel and stammered when he asked where to turn next, so it was worth it. Inside the apartment we barely made it to the bed before I had him crushed against my breasts again, and from there it was only natural to push his head down, way down between my thighs. The first time his lips touched my cooch -- it was a polite, inquisitive kiss -- I nearly laughed from the excitement; I grabbed the back of his head and shoved his face into a less formal introduction to my vagina.

I wasn't just being selfish, either; he'd told me dozens of times how much he fantasized about going down on me -- more than he fantasized about sex, he said. Who was I to deny him his fantasy? I'd expected him to be clumsy and clueless, and maybe a little reluctant when he found out what a woman smelled like when she wasn't in his fantasy world, but he surprised me. He was extremely eager but still tender, and attentive when I guided him with my fingers. I fell back into the bed with the kind of giddy relief you only know when you've gone without for years; I draped my legs over his shoulders and let him just bury himself in me. If I needed a reward for the thousands of hours I'd spent luring and teasing and teaching this kid online over the last two years, this was it.

Trust me: I wasn't counting the minutes, but when I glanced over at the alarm clock and saw the long hand had moved halfway around, I pushed him away and told him he needed to breathe. I couldn't believe he'd been down there that long; I couldn't believe I'd pushed off coming and just let him lick me. If we were going to make love, though, it had to be before I was completely raw. We moved quickly; he had a pretty decent hard-on from eating me out, but it was fading and I couldn't get him hard enough to stay inside me, even after I pulled the condom off. Fuck! (Or rather, no fuck!) I climbed off -- hopefully before his poor performance could turn to stage fright -- and began licking him and sucking on him and using all the little tricks I thought might work, but he was a lost cause. He seemed more upset than frustrated, so I put on my calmest face and used my sweet voice. "What can I do, baby? What's going to turn you on?"

Oh, God! His embarrassment, his hesitation, was at the same time priceless and exasperating. "There's- There's one thing."

"You can tell me. Do you need me to talk dirty? Do you need me to give you a blowjob?"

"Can you sit on my face?" He looked like he'd just asked to borrow a million dollars.

Despite my best intentions, my nose wrinkled. Not in disgust -- quite the opposite; I was just surprised. "But is that really going to make you hard, Rick? I mean, it will make me wet as hell, but most guys need some kind of physical stimulation." "I don't know. But I think it will turn me on."

"You know," I said, my voice heavy with warning though I was already crawling up his chest to straddle him, "It's not going to be like the porn on the internet. I'm not some hundred-pound waif. If I really sit on your face -- and that's what I'll do, I'll ride you like a bike -- I'm heavy, and I'm soft, and you may not be able to breathe so easily. And I don't mean this to sound bad, but once I get going I'm not likely to care."

He just grinned like a dope. I loved that my pussy did that to him. "I told you before, Kris -- I don't want some bony pelvis punching me in the nose. I want soft and real. Fleshy."

He knew that was my favorite word! A second later I'd swallowed his grin in my "fleshiness", and all I could see were his beautiful blue-green eyes staring at me while I squirmed. I told him between heavy gasps to let me know if he needed a breathing break, and then I didn't worry about him again. I knew he'd started browsing porn since we'd first started chatting online, because he'd gone from being scandalized at the links I sent him to sending me porn links too, but I didn't expect him to be an expert. He struck the perfect balance between kissing and sucking and licking and holding the fuck still when I needed to grind down on his mouth. I glanced back once to see that his erection was back, as tall and straight as a flagpole, and glistening with pre-cum, but frankly I couldn't imagine why it had been so important for me to let him cum first. I bashed my clit into his tongue and squeezed my tits and groaned. I came finally, loud and hard enough to let all my neighbors know I was getting some, and gave his delighted face one more wriggle from my hips. Everything under his eyes was smeared with me, and he was panting like he'd just finished a race.

His cock! I slid back to grab it and squeeze it back to life, but the erection was bleeding out like a leaky balloon. Fuck.

I kissed away the dribble of pre-cum and gave his shrunken dick a testing lick. "Should I try to suck you off again, Rick? I don't care if you cum in my mouth -- I just really want you to cum for me."

"I don't think it's going to help. My- My balls are really starting to hurt, Kris."

Fuck! Blue balls and impotent. I was starting to feel a little more sorry for him than irritated. I tried sucking on him anyway, but even if I could get him to swell enough to unshrivel, he just wouldn't get hard enough to get inside me. After a few minutes, and after noticing his eyes starting to well up from the pain, I had to give up. I had the house to myself until after dinner -- I'd planned on going a few more rounds with him and teaching him a few things, or at least getting him to eat me out again -- but it was so weird not being able to make him cum that when he said he should probably leave I just nodded stupidly and helped him get dressed and showed him to the door. I barely remembered to kiss him before he left. The poor kid walked down the stairs bowl-legged and wincing.

I should have tried talking him into jacking off in the bathroom, but I didn't think of it until he was already five minutes gone, and probably already on the freeway. Damn. I really didn't want it to end like that. I crawled back into bed and called his cell.

"Hey, Kristina." He sounded surprised over the road noise in the background. "Did I forget something?"

"Yeah, Rick. You forgot to cum for me."

"Look, I'm really sorry about that. It definitely wasn't you. I mean, you were-"

"Just shush and listen. I didn't call for an apology; I called to fix it. Put your phone on speaker or something, okay? Okay." I settled down into the still-mussed comforter on my bed and dropped my voice an octave and made it dusky -- my phone sex voice. "Pay attention, because you've got to picture this. I'm laying in my bed, and I've got one hand holding my phone, but the other is down inside my panties. I'm touching myself, Rick. I'm imagining it's your tongue. I'm licking my fingers so they can feel wet like your lips. Oooh. Can you still taste me on your lips?"

"Kris -- seriously. I'm really, really in pain, and I don't think it's going to go away until I can stop thinking about you. That's going to be hard enough as it is."

"Awww, that's sweet. But it's not going to go away until you blow your load, you big stud, and I'm going to make sure that's just what you do. I'd never forgive myself if you got into an accident driving home."

"In my pants?" There was some desperation in his voice, and I could barely keep from laughing.

"Hopefully! Mmmm... But there's a rest stop thirty miles down the highway from where you got on. If you think you can make it that far. I don't plan to let you." I cackled into my phone when he groaned. "So, where were we? Oh, right -- I'm stroking my labia with one wet finger, imagining it's your tongue sliding up and down. Oh, I loved the way you ate me out, Rick. I can't believe you've never done it before -- you're made for it. If you hadn't've run off so fast I'd throw you down into the bed right now, because I'm getting all wet again just thinking about your head between my thighs. I want to wrap my legs around your neck and squeeze and grind against your mouth until I cum so hard that my juices are dripping from your chin. It's better when I know that all you care about is my orgasm, Rick -- it's all for me. I want to watch your pretty green eyes the whole time, 'cause I can tell that you're loving it. You just love to eat me out, don't you? Was it as good as you fantasized, Rick?"