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Assertion

By: elevaytion



For a woman to feel and think the way she did wasn't loose morals, she battled with herself. When she was ten, she overheard her mother on a bitter rampage about dirty ladies who double-pierced their ears and carried prophylactics in their purse. At the time she had no idea what a prophylactic was but remembered thinking that having an extra earring sounded pretty exotic, and promptly got one at eighteen. When she stumbled onto her first porn magazine, left by accident in the bathroom of a childhood friends' grandfather, she was surprised to find only naked women within the pages. Later, as she explored pornographic films, (obtained only through mail-order in the brown wrapper marked 'the merchandise you ordered,' as if the mail carrier couldn't figure it out) she was consistently disappointed at how all of it was geared toward men. Happy to have any women viewers along for the ride, of course, but not as stimulating for the female demographic. Once she even tried ordering lesbian porn, hoping that at least in this genre they would show women connecting with their partners, but once again the implant-filled, bleached-blonde actresses catered straight to a male audience. Now really, she recalled thinking, when do two naked girls waste their time giving a plastic dildo a blow job??

She found people still had a hard time accepting women as sexual creatures. Of course men loved a woman who loved sex, but old attitudes remained steadfast. When she was in college, her roommate was nicknamed a 'fraternity slut' because she slept with two "brothers" at different times. How sad to label a girl for liking to have sex! Nobody judged the college boys who fucked different women every weekend, but once a girl had made it with more than one guy she was immediately marked. And had these boys known about the few times she and her roommate lay naked and played with each other's bodies, they would have undoubtedly set off a whole other subset of frenzied judgments.

The mother of a longtime friend made a comment once that stuck with her until this day. In a relationship, she said, men jack off to other women all the time, because boys will be boys. But a lady should bury all those naughty feelings inside and keep it to herself.

Internalize she did. Sometimes in her head she was a Temptress, calling upon her god-given sexual power to summon men to her, teasing them, watching them spin around her in heightened stimulation. She would give them just enough of herself to fire them up: a peek at her nipple, a taste of her own arousal, a flick of the tongue- then suddenly back off. The effect was addictive, almost like a drug. Wanting something you know you can have, but making it seem unattainable. The fuck beyond your reach.

Sometimes she was a fierce Dominatrix, a woman of excessive power. She directed men to pleasure her. In these fantasies she wasn't clad in leather and whips, with sexual torture devices or gothic play-chambers. Instead, she commanded her men to pleasure themselves in front of her. She loved to watch as they pulled their cocks, hands beating up and down fiercely. She loved seeing them come for her, faces strained, semen erupting on their hands. She demanded that they let her know when they were close- she loved hearing a man climax. Her own fingers often found their way inside of her, rubbing her clit as she thought about them grunting and panting as they shot off their warm loads.

Other times she fancied herself a twisted Damsel in distress who found her rescuer to be far less than a gentlemen. Those were her favorite dark and secret thoughts- the ones where she found herself in slight fear of her pursuer. He would shove her, push her on the bed and smother her until she could barely breathe. He would force her hands above her head, rip off her clothes, and, with desire consuming him, push her legs apart and shove his cock straight inside of her. It was pure, animalistic sex: grabbing, biting, scratching. There was always just enough pain and intimidation involved to push her usual limits.

Her fantasies consumed her. They say men think about sex every 30 seconds or so. But she never heard how often women thought about it. She was convinced she was abnormal. And she would never admit it to anyone. It had been a while since she had enjoyed a good fuck. She recalled the last time- break-up sex after her last lover had ended their relationship. His hand on the door to leave, they kissed one last time, and ended up in bed for a mediocre romp. Not even memorable enough to make her wet thinking back upon it. She needed pleasure soon.

On the evening of a weekend, in a town that could have been any metropolitan area (except that she called this particular one home), the same group of friends met at the usual club, bringing the latest entourage of friends-of-friends together to drink, all of them seeking the same thing. She had followed the time-honored ritual of the hopeful girl going out: shaving all her parts and spending extra time on her appearance in the off-chance she would get laid. They all did it, which is why a sweetly-perfumed pheromonal cloud now saturated the air around her and the other females. Her eyes scanned the room, sizing up the potentials as well as the competition, when she stopped to stare at a group of people talking. 

She had seen him before, they had spoken about a concert they had both attended. Some mild flirting ensued, she had found him attractive, and liked his personality. She recalled that someone told her he had recently lost his sister to cancer, which probably explained why she hadn't seen in a while. He carried himself well, she thought... always dressed nicely and seemed to charm everyone he spoke to. As she lost herself in this thought he glanced up at her, as if listening to her internal dialogue. She blushed slightly and looked away, immediately focusing down on her glass.

Three more vodka tonics later and she had loosened up enough to gaze at his brown eyes. He was humoring another friend who was recounting a story, and smiled appropriately and attentively as it went on. He would catch her eye every chance he could, she no longer felt flush from his attention.

The story presumably finished, the friend acting as a barrier between them stood up and left to the bar. They both immediately saw the opportunity, but, as a cat would bait a mouse, she made no move and waited instead, counting on the male instinct to engage. Not five seconds later, under the pretense of needing to put down his drink on the table in front of them, he moved closer.

How have you been? He inquired. Horny and needing a good fuck was what the Dominatrix in her brain wanted to say. Instead she smiled and they began a basic discourse. She wondered if he was taking inventory of her as they spoke- the words at the moment didn't matter anyways. She did watch his gaze move down to her breasts at one point but didn't say anything. He asked if she wanted another drink but her internal alarm warned her to slow down if she wanted to remain in control, so she shook her head no, politely. Her previous intake was having enough effect already.

He pushed a piece of her hair from her eyes. The first contact between them. She thought it should have felt much more electric than it did. She realized he was speaking and snapped to attention, though the air between them was becoming a little blurry. He was talking about his job, nothing glamorous, but he was proud of a recent accomplishment. She wondered if they would fuck before the night was over and if he was a good lay, then wondered if he was wondering the same thing. There were clues, hints from the things he said. People watched them speaking throughout the night and smiled knowingly, fuzzy drunken smiles.

He offered to see her home safely, but they both knew that he was asking, in a glorified fashion, to be naked with her. She loved the idea. A brief triage of the most inebriated of friends, and, everyone taken care of, they took their leave.

She slipped into her coat and he grabbed her hand. She sucked in the night, dark and crisp and felt the street lights glow on her in a hazy mist. He broke from her to light up and offer her a cigarette, which she accepted, and they started their journey headed toward the main street. The combination of the cigarettes and their warm breath left a ghostly trail behind them. It was late, there weren't many cars driving by, and it was quiet apart from the sound of the club behind them. Suddenly seeing an opportunity, she spontaneously pulled him on a different path, leading to the back of several day-based businesses. It was an alley, but not a dodgy one, just uninhabited at the moment. Her mind raced. The smoky-alcohol breath they shared, along with the scent of his cologne as he neared was affecting her, loosening the restrictions on her impulses. 

She flicked the cigarette out of his hand, lifted up the front of her skirt and guided his arm down in between her legs. The Dominatrix slipped out before she could filter her. Put your fingers inside me! The voice was hers, but she surprised herself at its demanding tone. She had made herself come many times on her own like this but having someone else touch her was infinitely more pleasurable. He slipped one finger inside, exploring her wetness. Fuck me with your hand... like this. She moved to stand slightly in front of him, allowing for his arm to reach around her now, and demonstrated the movement she wanted to feel. From the front she was exposed, the fabric of her skirt lifted up her leg while his hand moved beneath her satin underwear. He kissed and bit at her neck, she reached her arm up to grab at him. A horn honking from the street reminded her how they could easily be discovered, which escalated her climax even more. 

OhGod, my pussy feels good, yeah like that. Keep going. Her obliging partner pressed against her from behind, his hardness rubbing on her ass. The Dominatrix wouldn't let her reach around to feel him yet- this moment was all for her. He tried maneuvering to kiss her but she wouldn't allow it. It was her time to be selfish- in retribution for all the women who dropped to their knees to suck off their men and never got anything in return. For all the women who spread their legs for a two-minute thrust that ended before their pleasure even started. She took a last drag from her cigarette and felt her release imminent. OHSHIT, I'm going to come, don't stop! She clung to his arm and, almost buckling from the orgasm, let out a thunderous groan of pleasure.

In a seamless transition, her Temptress took over and she spun around to look at him. Realizing they hadn't even kissed yet, she grabbed hold of either side of his face and launched into a furious, intense coupling with his lips and tongue, suddenly pulling away to see his reaction. He moved his head towards her to kiss her again but she moved away, laughing. Before he could grab her she took hold of the rock-hard bulge through his pants and ran her hand over it. The effect was immediate- he moaned and threw his head back in the air.  You like that, don't you? A wicked grin spread across her face. Yes, please touch me, he begged, putting his hand on top of hers and pushing it down forcefully on his erection. Not yet baby, she said, starting to back away from him. Let's go home first. With a pained look on his face he complied as she giggled and sauntered ahead of him, back to the open street. 

The walk, though not very far, proved to be too long for the impatient and charged-up pair, so he hailed them a taxi. Once in the back seat she kept her hand on his leg, moving slightly up to where she felt him, still very much aroused. She whispered in his ear: When we get home I want you to fuck me harder than you've ever fucked anyone. He shifted in his seat and nodded. She nuzzled his neck and whispered in his ear. I can't wait to see your big cock. Taking one of the fingers of the hand that had been inside her, she wrapped her lips around it, fellating it, mimicking the movements of a slow, sensual blow job. The cab driver glanced quickly at the rear view mirror causing her lover to pull his hand away while she laughed. She loved baiting him, pushing the boundaries. 

At her apartment, she fumbled with her keys and once inside the door, threw her coat and his on the floor. Pulling him towards her while she slammed herself up against the wall, she again tasted the cigarette and gin he had drank earlier. He pulled off his shirt and they continued down the hall in the same fashion- crashing into the walls, frantically pulling clothes off, until they reached the bedroom. By that point she had shed everything but her underclothes. He stood before her, pants half-undone and grabbed her by a fistful of hair to kiss her again. She pressed her nails into his back. When they paused to take a breath, she spoke in the voice of her Damsel and whispered aloud: Let's play a little rough. 

While he fumbled with her bra she maneuvered them to the bed. Her nipples, already hard from excitement, stiffened further from the cool air as he released them from their constriction. He pinched them while their kissing shifted from passionate to forceful, grabbing and pulling at each other while he fell on top of her. Instinctively, her legs almost fell apart, but she wanted to be coerced into opening them. It wasn't long before they broke from the embrace and a more pressing need beckoned. He reached between her legs again but she clasped them together. Convince me, she said. He immediately placed his hands on either side of her inner thighs and forced them open, settling himself in between them. It was a swift movement, and as he propped himself up on his arms, she looked him straight in the eyes. Fuck me. Fuck my cunt with your big cock.

She made a motion to remove her underwear but he stopped her. I can't wait, I'm gonna fucking take you now. He pushed her hand away and pulled out his immense erection from his pants. Shoving her underwear to one side he thrust into her, hard, and without warning. She felt the belt buckle from his pants digging into her thigh as he pumped into her, savagely. Running her nails down his back, and, losing herself in the feeling while her body adjusted to the size of him, she was suddenly jolted back into the moment when she heard him command her to turn over. I want to fuck you from behind, you little bitch. The words jolted through her and she obeyed, pausing briefly to remove her underwear while he dropped his pants on the floor. With her on all fours on the bed, he dropped to his knees and backed her up into him so that he was level with her pussy. Knowing what was coming next she braced herself and spread open more while he positioned the tip of his cock at her entrance. He slid in, grabbed her hips and pounded into her. Christ, baby, you're such a good fuck, the volume of her voice accented by his thrusting movement inside her. He responded by slapping her on the ass, hard. This Damsel is going to come again, she thought.

As she felt her orgasm building, he grabbed her hair again, taunting her.  Are you going to come for me? Come on my cock, you bad girl. Another slap of his hand sent her over and she climaxed, grabbing the sheets, gasping for air and screaming until the neighbors could undoubtedly hear. He slowed his strokes and pulled out to flip her body over again. Not waiting for the invitation this time, he grabbed her legs and threw them over his shoulders while he plunged himself into her. He kneaded the flesh of her breasts, the skin of his hands slightly rough. She scratched at his arms and lifted her hips off the bed to make his penetration even deeper. 

I'm going to fucking explode inside of you. He groaned, as she encouraged him to come. In a series of short grunts he shot inside of her. Watching him strain and contract his muscles, she felt the pulsations his cock made and the warm liquid that erupted from him as he stilled above her.

Panting and recovering, they shifted positions until he lay next to her. He made a few sweet and lovely comments and she smiled at him, watched him get up and walk to the bathroom. Her hands slid down her body, feeling the slight ache between her legs where he had just invaded her. Settling into the soft sheets she stretched and closed her eyes. The trinity of women in her head, satisfied and satiated, slipped away into the quiet of the room.

Assertiveness And The Alpha Male



Eyes meet across a crowded room. She smiles hesitantly then turns away, bashful. When she looks at him again her expression is quizzical. For his part there is a vague sense of recognition. He knows that he doesn't know her but he is sure he's seen her before. Where?

He moves through the throng of shoppers, never breaking eye contact, closing the gap between them to just a little more than a counter width. 

"Where have I seen you?" He is direct, almost terse, but his smile fills in the polite noises he omits. 

Put off balance by his enquiry, she seeks refuge in her professional persona. "I-I don't know, Sir. Here perhaps?"

"Not here. I've never been in here before. A bar maybe? A club? Where do you usually go out?"

"The Bradbury. Sometimes Aquarius." 

"That's it! The Brad." He feels his memory resolving. He shuts his eyes, the better to focus his thoughts. A mental picture is forming of her on the dance floor. "The Friday before last. Silver leggings and bra top. You have a pierced belly button and a unicorn tattooed on your left shoulder. You were with a guy. Tall chap; dark hair; crap dancer. You were really into him, grinding up against him, practically screwing on the dance floor-"

"Enough!" She's embarrassed. "You have a good memory. But, yes, it sounds like me: all except being really into him. I dumped him that night." 

"And the unicorn?"

"Yep. See." She turns side on to him, sliding a hand over her shoulder so the fabric of her blouse goes taut across her skin. He can see the faint image of her tattoo through the material.

"Had you known the guy long?"

"And I thought it was me you were interested in. If it's him you're after, no way. He's as straight as a ruler. Not very adventurous either: Over a year together and I couldn't even get him to keep the lights on. I used to call him my Missionary Man." She pauses, shocked by what she hears herself telling a total stranger. 

"I'm not interested in him. I just wanted to know how serious you'd been about the guy. You're single now though. Yes?"

"Like I said, I dumped him. Good riddance too."

"What's your phone number." Again, he is direct, throwing her off balance.

"Pardon?" Had she heard him correctly?

"Your phone number?"

"Why?" 

"So I can call you and tell you where to meet me on Friday - No, you'll be working on Saturday, right? (She nods) - where to meet me on Saturday night."

She's indignant. "Did I miss something? You're supposed to ask a girl out, not just tell her where and when." He's taking far too much for granted.

"If I ask you, you might say no and this ends here. My way, you have until Saturday night to decide. You could just stand me up. You could get a better offer. You could get back together with the Missionary Man. Or you could take a chance and turn up on Saturday, but the only decision you have to make right here, right now, is to give me your phone number."

"But you haven't even told me your name, or asked mine."

"No names. Just your number."

She is caught up in the strangeness of the situation. She tells him her number, scribbling it on a scrap of paper at the same time and handing it to him.

"Thank you." He pockets the paper and turns to go.

"Hang on. What about your number?" What's going on here?

"No need. I'll call you before Saturday and you'll either show up or not. Now I really must get back to my office. Goodbye. 

As he walks off through the crowd, her gaze remains firmly fixed on his back. He doesn't look back and soon he is lost from view. She can't believe what has just happened. Its simply too surreal. Why on earth did she give him her number? She still can't figure that out. Oh well, no harm done. He'll probably never call anyway. 

That evening she tells her best friend all about the encounter. 

"He sounds a right weirdo."

"No. The whole thing was weird, but he didn't come across as a weirdo. Actually, he was quite nice – in a weird way."

"So? What'll you do if he calls?"

"Dunno. I think, probably I'll go. Maybe. Oh, I don't know." There's a long moment's pause. "He was nice though."

"You're weird too!" But her friend doesn't give voice to the thought that her mate will be headline news in the local paper – posthumously.

As the week passes, so too does her recollection of Monday's meeting. That is until Friday, when her phone rings. "Yes?"

"I said I'd call you."

"You did. I didn't think you would." She doesn't say she'd forgotten about him.

"No matter. Do you know The Regal?"

"Opposite the music shop? Yes, I know it." 

"I'll be there tomorrow night from 8." 

"I'm not sure this –"

"No decisions now. You know when. You know where. You have until then to decide to be there." There was that self–assured tone again. "For now though, I've got to go. Goodnight."

"Er...Goodnight." There's a click and the line goes dead. For a moment she's too stunned to notice she's still holding the phone to her ear. When she does notice, she feels embarrassed and fumbles to put it away. This guy is just unreal. He takes so much for granted. She really has no idea what she should do.

Later, in the pub, she tells her best friend about the call.

"Don't go." Her friend is adamant this time. "This guy's too weird. You'll end up naked and dead in a ditch somewhere. If he calls again, go to the police and report him as a stalker."

"That's an awful thing to say. Anyway, he's not a stalker. I gave him my number. Remember?"

"How d'you know he's not a stalker who'd followed you to work? He'd been watching you pretty closely at the Brad, right?"

"So if a guy notices me when I'm dressed in not very much then bumps into me again and asks me out, that makes him a stalker? Thanks a lot! It couldn't just be that he fancies me?"

"You know what I mean. I'm just worried for you is all."

"I know, and thanks, but I'm sure this guy's not dangerous, just horny."

"You're going to go, aren't you?"

"Probably, yes. Unless Brad Pitt turns up tonight and whisks me away to L.A. Look, I've been single again for a fortnight and it sucks. This guy is interested in me, he's quite cute and at least he's got an original approach. And-"

"-The best way to get over one man is under another." Her friend offers her some sage advice on the subject.

"-And tomorrow night's options are him or you. What d'you say girlfriend? Gonna be my bitch?" She camps it up, coming onto her friend mockingly.

"Ok, you win. Go and meet your weirdo, but promise me one thing."

"Go on."

"Make sure you two are seen together so the police can identify him afterwards."

"What are you like?"

"I'm serious. Promise me."

"Ok. I'll make sure someone can recognize him – I promise. Now put your happy face on, the girls are here. Another Breezer?"

"Thanks."

"Back in a sec. And cheer up!"

So Saturday night, at 8.30, she walks into The Regal, excitement and trepidation vying for supremacy in her head: What if he's not here? What if he is? Is this the dumbest thing she's ever done? Is it too late to turn and go? Does she really –

"Hi." A voice close to her ear and a hand flat against the small of her back snap her out of her reverie. Startled, she jumps. The merest hint of a shriek catches on her lips. He moves round into view, smiling reassuringly. Yep, he's as cute as she remembers. "You're shaking like a leaf. Did I startle you?"

"A – A little, Yes. Do you always sneak up on people like that?"

"Only when they walk straight past me. I was on that bar stool." He nods toward a seat about 5 feet behind her. "But you were in your own little world I guess. Drink?"

"A Bud. Thanks."

He steers her closer to the bar and catches a barmaid's eye, holds up two fingers and mouths the words "Two Buds", then his attention returns to her. "Nice outfit. Very Bauhaus."

"Excuse me?"

"Bauhaus? A school of designers and architects founded by Paul Gropius, in Weimar, Germany, just after the 1st World War. Their philosophy of design was ‘less is more'."

"Is that a compliment?" She hasn't a clue what he's going on about and it shows in her face.

"Yes it is."

"Thanks."

"Thank you!"

"What for?"

"For giving me your phone number. For taking a chance and turning up tonight. For making an effort to look, quite frankly, drop dead gorgeous. For everything so far and everything to come. Thank you."

"Do you rehearse these lines?"

"Lord no! Life is the real deal, there's no time for rehearsals."

"There you go again. My friend was right, you are weird."

"Your friend? Have I been the subject of much debate?" 

"Girls talk. Don't tell me you didn't know that!"

"I knew. So what else did your friend say when she was handing down judgment on me?" His eyes twinkle. He obviously enjoys his notoriety.

"She reckons you're a stalker and that I'll end up naked and dead in a ditch."

"Naked? Ok, maybe. Dead? Barring accidents, definitely not. Both together? In a ditch? Only if you dump me and go off with a serial killer. Sorry if I don't live up to your friend's expectations but I'm just a guy who saw a girl dancing and thought ‘Wow!'"

"Wow?"

"Wow. What's wrong with that?"

"It's just, after so much eloquence, wow's a bit of a let down."

"Ok, I'll rephrase it." He shuts his eyes and his voice drops to little more than a whisper close to her ear. "There is this girl, barely dressed, moving like a cat, dancing like she wants John the Baptist's head. Her hands and occasionally her body moving over her boyfriend like he's some sort of musical instrument – the source of the music that moves her. Her skin has a sheen of glitter spray or perspiration. Her hair is chaotic. A change in tempo brings her down. She closes her eyes, rocking rhythmically against her man. Her breasts heave as she catches her breath. She draws his hands round until he encircles her waist. Her head tilts back and they share a kiss. Her tongue flicks out, touching his upper lip as she twists free of him, gathering up the threads of the music once more and weaving them into ecstatic movement. I am transfixed. Like Herod before me, at that moment I'd give half my kingdom for her, such is my desire. My will is chained to the ring in her navel, my thoughts are smothered by her sweat moist cleavage and the veil of her hair fogs my vision. What little of me that is still my own is base lust and one word burns on my tongue – Wow!" He opens his eyes again. "Is that better?"

"Wow!"

"You're blushing."

"Are you surprised? I've never seen myself dance before. Was I really all that?"

"And more."

"Wow."

"Great word isn't it?" He smirks. " Another Bud?"

"Not here. Lets go somewhere less packed and a bit quieter."

"Suits. Any preference?" He finishes the last of his beer and takes her hand. As they walk toward the exit she points to the CCTV camera by the cloakroom. "I promised my friend I'd make sure you could be identified. D'you mind?"

"A sensible precaution. Sure, lets give them a good shot for Crimewatch. C'mon." He draws her nearer the camera, putting his arm around her and pulling her close to his side. His fingers brush the side of her breast but it seems accidental so she doesn't mind this little liberty. After all, this guy's been taking liberties from the start so what's one more? "Smile for the Jury." he quips as he looks straight at the camera. "You know? I suppose this is as good a time and place as any."

"For what?"

"Our first kiss. We can catch that moment on film too."

"Who said I was going to kiss you at all?"

"Nobody, but if you are planning to at some point, now is the time. Then we'll know if there's any chemistry and where, if anywhere, this may be leading. That way we can leave all the unresolved sexual tension here and just get on with having a great night out, secure in the knowledge there'll be no embarrassing misunderstandings later."

She laughs, "Crazy man! Come here then." She draws him close and buzzes him full on the lips. When he tries to prolong the moment, she pulls back just a fraction and he stops. "So?" she asks.

He looks whimsical, "I think we can relax now. That felt like ‘just good friends' to me. You?"

"Just good friends." She nods. "Now can we go and get another drink?"

"How about that olde worlde little pub behind the church? The Tudor Rose. It should be quite quiet."

"C'mon then." She takes his hand this time, practically dragging him to the door.

"Hang on, I've got to collect my coat. Didn't you bring one?"

"No, I'm not planning on being outside a lot."

It's bitterly cold out and she ends up wearing a coat after all – his.

They get a corner to themselves, next to the inglenook. As he returns from the bar with a drink in each hand, she giggles. 

"What's funny?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"Its just – no, its silly. I can't"

"Try."

"Ok. It's your nipples. They've gone really hard and I could see them sticking through your shirt. I told you it was silly." She's giggling again.

"Its cold out there. I should have kept my coat. Then I'd have somewhere to hang it."

"That's rude."

"The main difference between your nipples and mine - apart from size - is the fact that the guys in here wouldn't notice mine in a month of Sundays but wouldn't be able to take their eyes off yours so I'd have to wrap my coat round you to stop all these men from drooling into their beer. So you see I wasn't being rude, just practical."

She reaches out and strokes two fingers over his shirt. "It does feel... When I was about 9, before my breasts started growing, mine felt like that. They used to tingle too."

"Whereas mine are numb with cold."

"So you can't feel this?" She pinches him.

"Ow! They're not that numb!"

"Sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"A bit, but I'll get over it. Surely though, this can't be the first time you've felt a guy's nipple."

"Well, Missionary Man didn't like me to touch his. He was paranoid about them."

"So? There must have been others."

"Oh yeah? And just what sort of girl d'you think I am? No. Don't answer that – you'd probably tell the truth and make it sound like another compliment. Ok, yes, there have been others but I'm not telling you how many and, if you're a gentleman, you won't speculate about it."

"I wouldn't dream of it. Far be it from me to judge you for who you bestow your affections upon. So anyway, changing the subject, what do you...?"

And they talk and flirt and drink and learn a lot about each other – but no names. They stick to that rule. He is a sales manager, which figures. She is a shop assistant, which he already knew. He is ambitious and wants to start his own business. She is bored and wants a different job. He is 24. She is 18. He has his own place. She shares a flat with her best friend. Etcetera ad nauseum.

Close to eleven, well fuelled on Buds and Bacardi Breezers, They move on to the Bradbury Club. This is where he first saw her dancing. This time she's dancing with him and he's certainly a better mover than her ex. She teases him relentlessly, moving close only to twirl away as he tries to catch hold of her. She is like a dolphin returned to the wild after long captivity, obviously in her element. He revels in her performance but still he remembers that first kiss and knows that all the flirting is baseless and that when the dancing is over, so too will be their date.

The music slows toward its inevitable end. She moves close, her arms around him, her head resting on his shoulder. As they dance his senses are assailed by the fragrance of her hair and the musk of her exertions until his libido reacts in defiance of his willpower. It doesn't go unnoticed. She's close enough to feel how aroused he is.

He whispers "Sorry."

"‘S ok." She mumbles against his shoulder. They dance on.

The dance ends. The music ends. The evening ends with the two of them waiting by the local taxi rank. She's wearing his coat again. He's keeping as warm as possible by holding her close but it really isn't working and he's shivering.

"What now?" she asks as they finally get into a minicab.

"Now? Now I'll drop you off then go home and have a cold shower, or I'll get no sleep at all tonight."

"You don't have to."

"Have a cold shower? Yes I do. Well, there is an alternative but -"

"No. I meant you don't have to drop me off. That first kiss? I faked it. I didn't want you taking anything more for granted. This is what you missed." She cups his face in her palms and kisses him again. This time there is passion, there is fire, there is definitely chemistry, there is a mutual exchange of body fluids and finally there is an interruption by an impatient cabby wanting to know "Where to?"

"His place." She tells the driver. Turning back to the guy, she adds in a whisper "And you won't be getting any sleep tonight."

Woken by her mobile with the morning still in single figures, she answers it. "Yes?"

"You're alive then? Where are you?" Her friend's relieved to have reached her.

She looks down at the guy, still fast asleep, drooling onto his pillow. "In bed with my new boyfriend. I'll be home later."

"The weirdo? Tell me it's not the weirdo. It is, isn't it? It's the-"

"He's not a weirdo but, yes, him. Listen, we'll talk when I get home, when I'm actually awake. Bye"

"But-" 

She hangs up on her flatmate. There'll be time enough to gossip. 

As she snuggles back down beside him, she realizes that this is the first time she's slept with a guy without knowing his name. Well, it didn't seem to matter last night so why should it this morning? Nothing so trivial seemed to matter last night. To quote her new boyfriend, "Wow!"

Author's Note.

I showed this to a rather feminist friend in San francisco. 

Her first response was "Do you men really see women the way you described? I mean the part when she was dancing? I can't imagine myself looking at a man and having this sort of thoughts....". 

The next day, she rather sheepishly owned up to a night of lurid dreams. "What regards my fantasies, they were about ME dancing in that club, Me wearing all those clothes (or not wearing them at all), feeling men's glances, being as desirable as you described that girl. I wanted to smell in the most exciting way, to feel my own power over men who lose their minds... "

She's subsequently stopped being unduly critical of my attitude to women so I consider this story a success.



Assertiveness Training



Certainly shaping to enhance cleavage, provide lift, or make their boobs look a bit larger, as well as feeling sexier, are all reasons women wear bras.

But I think the main reason is propriety. Let's be honest: You see a chick with boobs swaying and/or nipples poking in plain view, and we guys think she's more likely to fuck, and so we're more likely to make a play for her or at least talk about her with other dudes.

I came of age in the late 60s and 70s, when lots of women shucked their bras, some to make a "women's lib" statement or indicate their sexual freedom, with others following for different reasons--comfort or because certain popular clothing styles were incompatible with bras. And then there were those women who went bra-less simply because everyone else did.

Funny story: When I was in college, I was working on this psychological research project with a couple of professors and several other students. Working in teams of two, our job was to go out into area high schools to administer assertiveness assessments to juniors and seniors, then come back and assign scores to their recorded responses. Melanie was on the project, too, and was an extra fine-looking co-ed with a stunning pair of big boobs, never encumbered by a bra. I wasted no time in pairing up with her.

Partners spent a great deal of time together, so I got to know Melanie quite well. Like me, she enjoyed herb and laughed a lot, and was extremely sexy. We made what could have been a very boring and serious project enjoyable, as we always had a lot of fun together.

Ever meet someone and know right away you're going to fuck? That was Melanie and I. 

We'd both just broken up with long-term lovers, and neither of us wanted to jump back into a committed relationship, but we were surely horny for one another. We worked together on the project at least twice a week, so, whenever we were alone, we had sex. Since we were alone a lot, we had sex a lot. In fact, we'd volunteer to drive out to the most far-flung county schools just because it would take us into the backwoods where we could park on some lonely back road or get out and screw like rabbits in the woods. You know, fuck on the way there, then again on the way back, maybe again when we returned.

Though it was the very early 80s by then, Melanie was a throwback to a somewhat earlier area—a hippie-chick type who liked to smoke herb and share her bodily goodies, which were exceeded in their goodness only by her facility in using them. She was just so free and easy and relaxed about screwing. Never has the expression, "casual sex" applied more than it did to our relationship.

With very dark eyes and straight brown hair hanging alongside a slim, smooth neck to a couple inches below her shoulders, Melanie was forever smiling, her bright teeth surrounded by a wide, full-lipped mouth that veritably screamed "blow-job." She had no clue about her ethnicity, but her somewhat short stature; dark, flawless skin; and sharp, well-defined features suggested a Mediterranean heritage. That would also account for her dark brown nipples--always erect--and equally dark, dangling pussy lips.  

Not skin-and-bones, she was nevertheless quite slender, with a terrific pair of fleshy little buns that bounced alluringly with each step beneath the loose, nearly threadbare seat of her faded Levi's—the only kind of pants she ever wore. At the terminus of her slim limbs were small hands and feet, punctuated with extraordinarily long fingers and toes. Not only was Melanie ambidextrous, but also she was equally adept with both feet: She could do practically anything with them, even write with either one in beautiful cursive script!

It would be difficult to select the best of her goodies, as they were all so tasty, but if I had to, it would be her boobs. It was not immensity—only a tad bigger than baseballs—but their shape, make-up, and how they were situated on her body that made them truly outstanding. 

They came out from her chest, hung down to form a crease, then swooped back up and out to the aforementioned perma-rigid nipples, surrounded by ultra-smooth, almost-as-dark areolas a good two inches in diameter, giving the tits a sort-of upturned appearance. Her small upper torso and impossibly skinny waist—Melanie weighed only about 105 pounds—coupled with what were honestly just medium-size tits emerging from high on her rib cage, made them appear larger. Rather than splaying outward, they hung very close together, creating deep, natural cleavage that begged, "titty-fuck me!" Pendulous but not at all saggy, her firm, dense bazooms would sway and bobble even when she moved ever so slightly. 

She never let on that she noticed practically every guy and more than a few gals, stare at them, though I'm sure she did. That's one of the things I liked about her, not hung up on her looks, though she could have easily been.

Leading the research project were two psychologists, a married couple. She was the one clearly in charge. They approached me, saying they'd had a few complaints from the schools about Melanie, and could I please say something to her, as she was doing an otherwise fine job, and they definitely wanted to keep her on the project.

I asked why they didn't speak directly with Melanie, and they said it was a delicate issue, so--knowing she and I were friends--felt it would be more comfortable for her if I was the one who said something. 

I didn't like the smell of this, but I asked what they wanted me to do. Well, they said she had become something of a distraction--specifically her breasts--to the high school boys, and would I please ask her to start wearing a bra? I'm sure they had no clue that Melanie and I had become fuck buddies, and that I was intimately familiar with her ta-tas.

Frankly, in terms of support, she didn't "need" a bra, as her boobs were far from huge, and quite dense and firm. Further, this was in an era in which lots of women went bra-less, so it was not at all out of the norm. Thus, I was a bit galled that they'd foisted this chore onto me, but the way they put it to me, I really wasn't given a choice.

Of course, that these Ph.D. assertiveness experts were too passive to tell her themselves was painfully ironic. And that one was a woman who herself went bra-less was even more ironic! Of course, though she was quite attractive, she had fried-egg tits with tiny pink pointers only visible if you positioned yourself strategically for a downblouse, like I of course did. I can't say for sure, but her real motive may have been jealousy over Melanie's much nicer breasts.

So I used the appropriate assertiveness technique to communicate the news to Melanie myself. Timing is everything, so, with her on top of me in a 69, I told her while simultaneously eating her pussy and titty-fucking her. Far from offended, she got a big charge out of it and cracked up laughing.

"I don't even own a bra!" she chuckled. "My boobs started popping up when I was 11, and I was out of a training bra in a few months and soon into women's bras. I tried every kind made and found all of them constricting and very uncomfortable. By the time I was 14, my boobs were done growing, and Mom said it was OK to ditch bras. She found them tortuous, too, and hadn't worn one since the mid-60s. Our tits are still almost identical, and hers have held up just fine over 15 years of freedom, so we don't need a fucking brassiere.  The last thing I'm gonna do is buy and wear a bra!"

It was hard to argue with that, and I suddenly had the urge to meet her mother! And it was impossible for me to be pro-bra, for I loved Melanie's boobs--always there for viewing and squeezing pleasure. Yet, we had a problem that somehow had to be solved. 

So, we went through her clothes, she trying on first one top then another, and finally found a long-sleeve shirt constructed of chambray--a light weight denim fabric. It did the best job of hiding her perma-pokies, but they could still be seen, even with a tee underneath.  Of course, both shirts did little to restrain the jiggling and swaying aspect of her boobs. Even so, it was a big "improvement."

Though small of frame, Melanie had a projecting, Bo Derek-like rib cage over a narrow waist that simply put her perfect, large C-/small D-cup tits on display. Personally, I think even had she worn a bra, they would have still been ubiquitous. You just cannot hide boobs like that on a girl like her no matter what you do.

So, she started wearing the chambray shirt with the tee underneath when we went into the schools, and we wound up the pre-assessment phase of the project in spring. If there were any more complaints, we never heard about them.

We'd both just finished the spring academic quarter but stayed in town because we had jobs, and the leases on our apartments wouldn't expire until the end of Summer, anyway. I'd stopped by her place late one morning for a few bongs and boinks, and we were sitting there naked on her bed about to fuck when the phone kept ringing and ringing and ringing. 

These were in the days before answering machines, and Melanie thought it might be work, so she finally picked it up. It was the male prof, who said he desperately needed someone to go out to a school in the boonies to do assessments on several kids who'd been absent when she and I had been there before. The sample size would be too small for meaningful statistical analysis if a few more subjects weren't added.

He said it was the last day of county school exams, and the superintendent had agreed to hold the students over that day only, so she'd need to go immediately to get there in time. She was him-hawing, but the prof said he had grant money left over, and it was worth $500. She was still trying to get off the hook because she had a job waiting tables evenings--as did I--but I had nothing else to do that day and agreed to go with her. That would cut our time in half and get us back to town in time for work and still put $250 in each of our pockets.

We'd done a bunch of bong-hits and were horny as devils, but there was no time even for a quickie so we hurriedly threw our clothes on. In such a rush, we forgot all about the chambray shirt cover-up, so she just wore her usual faded hip-huggers jeans and a thin tee-shirt, bra-less, of course. Off we raced in my convertible to the school way the hell up in the mountains.

With the Talking Heads blaring on the drive there, she blew my raging hard cock as I had one hand on the steering wheel and the other fingering her dark, lippy pussy. But the damn road was so narrow and treacherous that we were both too tense to cum.

When we arrived, the principal was the only adult left, and, obviously in a hurry to get out of there, cut short our usual polite spiel and escorted us to the room where we'd do the assessments. I was looking out the front window and saw him drive off with a foxy middle-aged woman waiting in his red Ford F-350 duelie truck. As soon as he got in, she slid over to his side of the cab and gave him a nibble on the ear. I knew from being there before that they were married, but not to each other. She was the school librarian. 

Meanwhile, a dozen students, all boys but one, were waiting their turn in the lunchroom, going ape-shit, as they were all seniors and raring to start the summer vacation.

All the other rooms were locked, so we'd have to do two assessments simultaneously in that one room. The way it worked, the testers--Melanie and I--would first introduce ourselves and explain the routine to each student, play a recorded tape that would describe a scenario, then record his or her response on another tape recorder. 

There were quite a number of scenarios, such as, "You have returned to the laundry for the second time to pick up your clothes, but are told they are still not ready." The student responds on tape what he would do or say, and we go on to the next scenario. Each student is presented the same set of scenarios, and the recorded responses are later rated as passive, aggressive, or assertive, and the degree of each, according to a scoring scheme. 

Depending on how fast and lengthy the response, each student's assessment was designed to take from 30 to 45 minutes. All we had to do was the brief intro, then sit in front of each student and press buttons on tape recorders before saying thank you and moving on to the next student. If each of the kids took 3/4 of an hour, we'd never make it back in time for work, so we really needed to move things along. Further, if each kid went especially fast, Melanie and I would have time for a decent fuck session, what we'd intended to do that day.

So, she set up in one corner and I in the opposite one so that the students were facing away from one another but Melanie and I could eye each other.

Problem was, Melanie's first kid took a lot longer than mine, and the reason was quite obvious: He was a horny young boy, and she was a good-looking college chick with terrific tits. The slower and longer his responses, the more time he got to ogle. Cant' say I could blame him, and the rest of the boys would probably do likewise. 

And, since it would be a big distraction and yet another delay to bring in another kid while she was still with hers in that one room, I couldn't start another assessment with the next kid until she finished with hers.

And the thing was, the tee she'd hastily thrown on was even more revealing than usual: white and worn especially thin with a few small holes. There was no A/C in that poor country school, and we were both hot, her boobs getting increasingly damp from perspiration and the tee ever more clingy. Add to that the bright early June sun streaming through the windows, and, well, Melanie might as well have been topless. 

And as if that were not already tantalizing enough, it's what was imprinted on the shirt that really took the cake, "I Pump For Pay"! A blood plasma collection lab in our college town had given them away as a promotion. For 12 bucks per donation, you pump your hand over and over to squeeze out the blood into a collection bag. Get it? Everyone in the college town did, but no one up there in Appalachia would understand the double entendre.

After the first pair of boys, which took almost an HOUR, we walked them out and I closed the door for a "sidebar" with Melanie to discuss what we might do to expedite the process.

"I'm so damn horny," she said. "Let's just fuck right here in the room right now!"

"Not a bad idea, but that's way risky, Melanie," I said, noting that the door would not lock from the inside. "I have another idea, not without risk, but it's sure to work. I know you're not exactly an exhibitionist, but..." 

And so I laid out my plan, and she went for it.

We escorted in the rest of the boys, as well as the first two, closed the door, and left the one-and-only girl alone in the lunchroom. 

"OK, young men," announced Melanie, "You all like my boobs, right? Well how would you like to see them bare, no shirt, no bra, no anything at all?"

They didn't say a thing, but every one of them was smiling and nodding affirmatively.

She went on, waggling her chest as she spoke, "All you have to do is finish the assessment really fast, like 20 minutes each, then when we're finished, I'll give you a sexy show. It has to be our little secret: I'll show, and you'll NOT tell. Everyone OK with that?"

Still silent, they were smiling even bigger and nodding hard up and down.

Even if they did sing—extremely unlikely—and word got back to the principal, the chances of his saying anything to someone who mattered was nil, since he had seen me watching he and his librarian hottie snuggle as they drove away. I had the leverage, and he definitely wouldn't let knowledge of the affair he was having get back to his wife, her husband, and the school board.

To get her out of the way, I did the girl next, just she and I alone in the room together while Melanie ducked into the ladies' room. The girl was a very cute blonde redneck in short-shorts and tight little top. She certainly seemed to be interested in me, flirting and staring at the half-hard cock that my own shorts were doing a poor job of concealing. 

The thought of putting on my own show for her crossed my mind, but I knew that would lead to fondling and my probably boinking her, and well, we couldn't go overboard here, for Christ sake. After we finished, I watched her leave on her bike, making sure she didn't circle back. 

And so, Melanie and I proceeded with the plan. We finished doing the rest of the boys even faster than either of us had hoped—only 15 minutes each—so we had plenty of time left. I corralled them all back into the assessment room, sat them down at desks, closed the door, and leaned against it, for the first time feeling anxious at the sheer audacity of my outrageousness plan. 

Melanie strode up to the front and started to dance. Fuck buddies never having been out on a date together, I'd not seen her dance before. She danced just like she fucked—unhurried, smooth, coordinated—which is to say, great! With no music, she began to sing a cappella one of the Talking Heads tunes we'd been listening to on the way there, Psycho Killer, "I can't seem to face up to the facts. I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax." 

Sure, I'm biased in her favor, but, in all honesty, I must say, this was an act anyone would pay good money to see. Not only did she have fantastic moves, but she had a pretty damn good voice, also, doing an excellent job with both singing the lyric parts as well as scatting the instrumental segments. And the boys and I were seeing it all for free!

She gradually worked the tail of the tee shirt higher and higher until we could see the bottoms of her breasts, tucking it underneath and teasing for a while. Next, she stretched the neck ever lower to show her wide, dark areolas, yet careful to show no nipple. Then she reached up beneath and began messaging her boobs. She was either doing an Academy-Award-winning act or truly enjoying it, because the sultry expression on her face was one of sheer pleasure. Finding a little hole in the shirt, she punched a finger through to enlarge it, and worked a long nipple through it into view, licking her lips as she did so.

No one but her made a sound, and I don't believe any of us guys blinked even once. Wouldn't want to miss a split second! 

As slowly and teasingly as she had performed the show up to that point, in one deft and sudden move, Melanie snatched the tee over her head and tossed it aside. Her entire upper half, in all its magnificent glory, was naked! Though I'd seen her countless times completely naked and fucked her every which way, I was just as enthralled as the boys were.

She waggled and bobbled those boobs first this way then that. From beneath, she lifted first one, dropped it, then the other, dropped it, then lifted and dropped both at the same. Each time, they'd jiggle the jiggle that only young and perfect tits can before settling down. Melanie did the jiggle again, this time using only her pectoral muscles--left boob, right boob, left, right, left, right, then together several times. I'd seen her do that neat trick before, but somehow, this was even better.

"Look, Ma, no hands," I joked. No one laughed. The boys were too focused on the goods. 

Next, she assumed all kinds of postures to show what her tits looked like in different positions: the arms-squeezed-in pose for maximum cleavage, the leaning-far-forward stance for a hanging-boob view, plopping them on the edge of a school desk for a memorable mental snapshot, and so forth.

Then she began twiddling her nipples, pulling them up and out between thumb and forefinger, making them even longer than they were to begin with, before circling them with her tongue, sucking them hard, and pulling them quite forcefully between upper and lower teeth. She loved to have her nips played with, and, of course, I'd done all these things to them countless times myself, but, again, there was something about her doing this stuff in front of me and the boys that was even more of a turn-on.




Assertiveness Training



She finished the song with an extra chorus and froze, still as a statue when her boobs stopped jiggling. The whole show had lasted only about five minutes, yet seemed much longer.

There was a very pregnant pause before one of the boys—the first one she assessed that prompted my plan—looked her straight in the eye and spoke. "Mind if I feel them?"

Melanie looked at him, then at me almost imperceptibly nodding yes, then at the other boys—each in turn—before turning back to the first and saying, "That's a perfect example of assertive behavior, and, as positive reinforcement, of course you may."

She walked over to him and presented her mammaries for his tactile enjoyment. He squeezed them this way and that, smashed them together, bobbled them about, tweaked the big nipples around, rubbed them around on his face, and finally sucked each nipple.

The boy sitting next to him then said, "May I play with them, too?" so Melanie moved over to him, and he pretty much did the same thing, with the same shit-eating grin as the first kid.

And so, each boy, in turn, asked, and she granted their request until all were done and grinning ear to ear. 

We heard a door slam outside, and Melanie quickly slipped the shirt back on, reminding the boys that "mums the word" before we all filed out of the room and walked outside. There were actually several cars and pick-ups out there, to pick up the kids on the last day of final exams.

Melanie and I had to walk past all of them to get to my car parked down by the principal's office where we'd come in. The moms, dads, siblings, and grandparents were all staring at us. Were they gazing at my erection that refused to deflate or Melanie's bodacious nippley tits bouncing beneath a stretched-out tee emblazoned with a salacious message? Perhaps both, or the fact that we definitely did not look like we were from anywhere around there.

I noticed as Melanie got into my car that the crotch of her jeans were soaked clear through and told her I needed to fuck ASAP.

"Yeah, me too. Can't wait 'til we get back home, so let's find some place around here and get down to it like immediately," she suggested.

So I tooled on down the road a ways, turned off on a side road, then off it onto a gravel road and pulled over. Melanie had stripped buck-naked and was tearing off my shorts and sucking me so fine even before the car came to a full stop. 

It seemed like a secluded spot, but when the dust cleared, I saw parked up ahead a red Ford F-350 dualie, and it was kinda rocking a bit. Could there be more than one such vehicle in this remote neck of the woods? I don't think so!

It appeared I had discovered the principal and librarian in a lover's tryst. If it was good enough spot for them, then it was good enough for us.

We sucked and licked and groped and fucked in that spot for well over an hour, and I had to drive like a maniac to get us back to town and to work on time, but we did it.

Though I've encountered many a pair of breasts before her and in the nearly 30 years since, Melanie's still remain on my list of Top Ten Terrific Tits, and I'd bet they're on those boy's list, too.

And when it comes to being assertive, well, Melanie certainly was.