Intimate Page 5

  Right.

  Well it didn’t… but somehow I don’t think that’s going to stop you from analyzing everything word-for-word. I feel like you do that a lot, actually.

  I get the impression that you’ll often find yourself playing back over conversations wondering to yourself, ‘What did that person really mean?’

  Do you know what I’m talking about? I can’t see whether you’re nodding to yourself from over here.

  Do you think that might also be why you tend to keep people at bay when you first meet them: why you’re reserved and unwilling to give away too much of yourself until that person proves themselves genuine?

  Are you nodding again?

  I’m asking the question of you because I’m curious, but also because I feel that you and I, over the course of just a short time, have got something going here – some kind of a growing bond of understanding, and maybe even trust. It feels like I’ve known you all my life, and that’s a little bit exciting because I know how naturally wary and reserved you are about people until you really get to know them.

  How did it happen? How did we get to this place where I would call you a friend, in just a short time talking to each other?

  Maybe it’s because you’re such a good listener. Or maybe it’s because this intimate conversation we’re having right now is good for both of us in its own way…?

  Crazy… but a good kind of crazy, don’t you think?

  * * *

  Look, there’s another woman I really want to tell you about.

  Her name was Christine and I met her at a time in my life after I had enjoyed some good long-term experiences with submissive women, but I was, at that moment, between relationships.

  Christine came into my life at just the right time – never as a potential long-term partner, but as one of those people you encounter briefly whom you connect with on a singular level.

  For Christine and me it was sex. Just sex. Outside of the bedroom we didn’t have a lot in common and nor did either of us try to bridge the gap. We were happy with the simplicity of the arrangement. It was an ‘ask no questions’ understanding. For all I knew when she left my apartment, Christine went home to a husband and three kids. I never asked, and she never offered to tell me.

  Oh. Do you mind if I pace? I do that a lot while I’m thinking. Somehow it makes it easier to talk, to gather my thoughts into some kind of coherent order. I really want to tell this story properly because in a way, my encounter with Christine is one of the reasons you and I are having this private conversation right now. Inadvertently, Christine was responsible for me writing erotica.

  So… um, the pacing thing…? You don’t mind do you?

  I met Christine through my work at the time. I went to her home after hours to interview her for a kind of client satisfaction survey. It was a questionnaire that took about forty-five minutes to complete.

  When I rang her front doorbell, there was no answer. I waited for a few minutes on her front porch and then went around to the side of the home. There was a shoulder-high steel gate. I pulled it open and walked into the backyard of the house.

  Christine was in her swimming pool, just wading across to the steps. She saw me, and her face lit up into a particularly friendly smile. She waved and called out a greeting. I watched her climb out of the pool. She was wearing a lemon yellow bikini that looked good against the color of her tan. She padded across the tiled surround and shook my hand. Droplets of water clung to her lashes like sparkling jewels.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. “I thought it would be someone else.”

  Hmmm...

  Now I’m not the smartest guy in the world, but I do know when a woman is lying, when she makes a mistake, and when she deliberately tells a blatant lie because she wants you to know she is lying but finds it easier to tell than a brazen truth. This was one of those.

  Christine knew it would be me visiting – my secretary had called and confirmed the appointment at lunchtime.

  I kept my expression neutral while Christine toweled her hair dry. Her eyes were slanted with sexuality, her lips pressed into a pout like she was anticipating a kiss. She excused herself for a minute and went back to the edge of the pool for her sunglasses, then stood, with the late afternoon sun directly behind her, and ran the towel slowly over her legs and across her breasts. Her nipples were hard, poking through the damp fabric of her tiny top and the bottoms of the bathers were so transparent I could clearly see the cleft of her sex through the material.

  Christine was a shaver… or maybe a waxer…

  She asked me if there was anything I would like, delivering the question from under hooded eyes, her words loaded with innuendo.

  I said nothing.

  We had met a week before at my office where I had spent a couple of hours talking to her about our product range. She was polite and curious – maybe just a little flirty – but she certainly was not provocative. She was attractive, educated, and well spoken.

  Suddenly now she was something else entirely.

  She rested her hand on my forearm and drew me through a set of glass doors, out of the sunlight and into the shade and gloom of a spacious kitchen. She smelled of chlorine and suntan lotion.

  She went to the refrigerator and bent from the waist to search the lower shelves. The material of her swimmers rucked tightly up around the cheeks of her bottom.

  Okay… so you get it, right? Christine, because of some unknown attraction, or maybe some unknown desperation, was coming onto me. I’ll skip the rest of the prequel and move the story along, okay?

  We tumbled into her big bed and Christine lay on her back. She was thirty-four when we met, with surgically enlarged breasts that pointed at the ceiling and natural blonde hair…

  I peeled the damp bottoms of her bikini off and asked her what aroused her.

  It turned out that Christine had two fantasies. In the first, she was a naughty teenage girl away at some kind of summer camp. She imagined her instructor catching her masturbating and then the man in her fantasies proceeded to punish her by bending her over the bed and fucking her roughly from behind.

  Okey-dokey. No problems, I decided. In fact it fitted with my own fascination for domination and submission

  But there was a problem with the second fantasy. I pride myself on being able to please a woman, but with Christine I met my Waterloo. Her second fantasy was to be lost in a forest. Suddenly the vines of a tree wrapped themselves around her wrists and her ankles, restraining her so she could not move. Then… and I am not making this up… another vine appeared from out of the tree and impregnated her with ‘tree semen’.

  What the fuck…?

  I stared into her eyes and looked for signs of madness then said in a firm voice, “Welcome to Camp Jason, you naughty girl!”

  * * *

  I asked Christine to show me how she pleasured herself. She peeled away her bikini top and ran her hands over the magnificent mounds of her breasts and then glided her fingers down between her parted thighs. I watched with avid attention.

  Christine told me she needed a lot of pressure on her clit in order to orgasm, and then she began to touch herself. One of her fingers dipped between the lips of her pussy and reappeared slick and glistening with her juices. Christine began to rub her clit and slowly – very slowly – her breathing became deep and sonorous and her eyes closed. Her lips parted and she licked them with the tip of her tongue.

  “Help me,” she said softly.

  I took over massaging her pussy, applying firm pressure with the tips of my fingers across her clit. Christine cooed but begged for more. I pressed more firmly. Christine’s lips curled into a languid seductive smile, but still she needed more pressure. By this point I was pressing down on her clit so firmly I thought I might break her, but for Christine it still was not enough and I realized I had to find another way to arouse her. If I didn’t, I was going to end up with the muscled forearms of a pro tennis player.

  “Show me again,” I
insisted. Christine nodded bravely and her head kind of drooped to the side. She took a deep breath and began to push down with her palm and at the same time thrust upwards with her hips so that the sound was a slapping collision of her sensitive bud against her hand. It went on for a long time until Christine was panting and gasping for air. I watched with a mixture of fascination and mortification until at last she began to squeal.

  I edged away on the mattress and gave her space. Her body began to undulate and writhe and then the sound of her coming rose higher and higher in pitch. She was arched off the bed, frozen with her shoulders and heels digging into the mattress, but the rest of her body elevated off the sheets. The squeal reached a crescendo and then suddenly she collapsed panting and gulping fresh air into her lungs.

  Either Christine had just orgasmed, or she had pressed down so hard on her clit that she had fractured her own wrist.

  * * *

  After that first afternoon together in her bedroom, Christine and I never met again at her home; she always came to my apartment, and always of an evening.

  Normally when she would arrive, we would engage in a few minutes of small-talk and then, as if by some telepathic understanding, we would drift into the bedroom.

  Sometimes she would arrive angry and flustered with a sense of agitated restlessness about her. On those occasions she was especially passionate. Christine gave great angry sex. But normally our time in the bedroom followed fairly simplistic dominant - submissive principals; she was willing and obedient, but never enthralled.

  Do you know what I mean by that?

  Maybe it’s not the right word, but it’s the best one I can come up with sitting here chatting to you. I just mean that whilst Christine was very good at playing the role of the obedient submissive, it was never something that came from her soul. There was never a moment where she spoke during sex that was pure passion. Everything she whispered or begged or sobbed was delivered with the skill of an accomplished actress playing a part, rather than from her heart.

  For me it took the edge off our encounters… but from a physical point of view they remained spectacular. Unfortunately I was looking for a deeper connection. It’s one of the reasons the relationship was so one-dimensional. I just wanted more… and Christine, I suppose, wanted something else entirely.

  The last time we had sex was a Monday evening. Christine arrived just minutes after I had come home from work. She came up the stairs to the front door of my apartment while I was sitting outside, waiting for her. It was hot and there was a small breeze. I heard her before I saw her and recognized the clap-clap of her high-heels on the staircase beneath me.

  When she stepped up onto my level, she was in a smoldering rage, her eyes flashing and her cheeks flushed. She brushed straight past me and stood, shaking with fury, in my kitchen. I followed her inside.

  She told me she only had an hour. I told her that would be more than enough time. She undressed right there in the kitchen. She was wearing a long dress that clung tightly to the curves of her figure. She peeled it off like it was a second skin and stood in white lace lingerie, her irritated breathing making her breasts bulge and swell from the cups of her bra.

  “Do you want my pussy?”

  That’s exactly what she asked me, and made a gesture with her hand like she was waving a wand. Her panties disappeared like magic.

  We didn’t make it to the bedroom. I bent Christine over the kitchen counter and she stood spread legged and folded forward at the waist. She pressed her cheek against the countertop and I moved behind her. Her pussy was already wet, and when she heard me unzip my jeans her hands bunched into tight fists.

  We both groaned that first moment I entered her. The breath escaped through Christine’s clenched teeth like a hiss of steam and her pussy went into immediate contractions, gripping with the rhythm of her racing pulse. I held myself still inside her and put one hand in the broad of her back to hold her still.

  For the first few moments of long patient strokes, neither of us made another sound. It was as if we were both holding our breath, or maybe we were both waiting for an instant of inspiration. I slid my hands down until I had hold of Christine’s hips and she began to slowly rock back with her body to meet each new lunge.

  Suddenly, and without provocation, I slapped her ass – hard. The sound was a crack like a gunshot and the cheek of Christine’s bottom turned bright red. She flinched and then cried out, more, I think, in shock than in pain.

  I slapped her other cheek with the same force and then took a fierce fistful of her hair, pulling so that her face was lifted up off the countertop and she had to brace herself with her arms.

  I told her she was a naughty girl and that I was displeased with her. I told her that she had to be punished, and then I slapped her bottom again, holding her hair like reins in my free hand.

  Christine bucked and twisted against the pinning force of my cock inside her. She let out a hoarse growl of giddy arousal and clenched her jaw, begging me to teach her a naughty girl lesson she would never forget.

  I froze for a moment and then pulled my cock from within her pussy. Christine deflated and groaned.

  I ordered her onto her knees and barked at her to put her hands behind her back. When she had complied, I circled around, critically inspecting her submissive positioning and posture like a parade-ground drill sergeant.

  We’d never really gone much for the discipline aspects of BDSM in the past – we were both pretty much satisfied with the spontaneous combustion of our physical attraction. That alone had sustained us. Now I decided it was time to introduce a new aspect to our encounters.

  I cupped my hand under Christine’s chin, lifting her eyes to mine and told her that submission was about willing surrender. I told her that she should leave her personal problems with her clothes at the front door. I told her that our time together was not for anything other than my pleasure and that her pleasure should be derived from satisfying me. Then I told her that good girls were rewarded with orgasms and bad girls went home with an empty feeling of frustration.

  She told me she wanted to be a good girl in the baddest possible way. I didn’t understand that to be truthful but it sounded kinda cool. It also sounded – for the very first time – like something that seemed real. Passionate. There was no acting. Her words were genuine. In that instant I realized that the role-play, which had characterized Christine’s submissive poses, suddenly burned away like a morning mist and she became submissive. The look in her eyes changed. The vacant distance of her gaze blossomed into something soulful.

  I took Christine again on the kitchen floor on her hands and knees with her perfect ass high in the air. She looked at me from over her shoulder. Her breasts had spilled free from the cups of her bra. Her nipples were hard and pointed. She balanced on one arm and reached behind herself to stroke her hand along the moistening slit of her pussy as if in invitation. For a moment I watched her touch her fingers to her clit, then provocatively open herself up to my gaze, wide and wet. Her hair hung in a long blonde cascade over her shoulder, almost brushing the floor tiles, and the look in her eyes became smoldering.

  She touched at her lips with the tip of her tongue and then her hand on her pussy caressed the cheek of her ass. She shifted her weight a little, changed the tilt of her hip, and her hand reached down again to her pussy, rubbing herself in long slow strokes.

  I stayed on my feet with my legs spaced wide apart behind her. Christine planted the palms of her hands on the floor and raised her hips up to meet me. I slid deep inside her and the air came from her lungs in a deep sigh that was significant. Her head turned to the side, and we made eye contact. She began to gasp softly as I started thrusting inside her with long, slow, measured strokes. I was rocking my whole body, swinging forward and bending at the knees, with one hand clutching at the kitchen counter to maintain my balance and to add weight to each thrust. I filled her completely and Christine melted into a long throaty groan that was raw with desire.

/>   After several minutes I could feel the first far away tingles of my orgasm. I dropped down onto my knees and Christine lowered her body so that her elbows were on the ground, her fingers splayed wide on the tiles as if to give her purchase. The tendrils of her hair swept the ground with every rock of her body and her firm milky-white breasts swayed. I had one hand in the small of her arched back and she began to meet the beat of my thrusts – but in a way that was quite different to our previous sexual encounters. Now she was matching my rhythm as if to maximize the pleasurable sensations from her pussy rather than meeting each thrust to speed herself to orgasm. Something had changed, ignited by the tone of my voice and my attitude. Christine was giving herself wholly to me.

  Her rocking became more determined. She took one of her fingers and sucked the tip into her mouth. My hands slid up around her waist and clamped around her body. Her skin felt warm and tingling.

  Her enthusiasm drove me quickly to the edge of orgasm. Christine seemed to sense my rising urgency. She reached back to strum her fingers across her clit. The air was filled with the sounds and scents of sex.

  On the very brink of exploding I withdrew myself from her pussy and rocked back on my heels, my cock achingly hard, the lips of Christine’s pussy flared wide and swollen. Her fingertips across her clit were a blur. I watched her for a long moment, my cock twitching with my own insatiable need.

  I drew Christine to her feet and bent her body forward. She folded herself almost in half, balanced on her heels, her long slender legs perfectly straight and parted slightly. Her head was down around near her knees. She reached back and dug her hands into the cheeks of her ass for a moment until I was buried, once again, deep within her pussy.

  I was gentle for a few seconds, my fingers gripping the tops of her thighs. Christine reached down with one hand and made a tee-pee with her fingertips on the floor to balance herself, and with her other hand she gripped her ankle. I imagined her eyes tightly closed and her mouth wide open in a gasp of pleasure. She began to sway gently on my cock and each sound from her throat was a blend of cried delight and the strain of her physical position.