2 comments/ 5219 views/ 1 favorites Coffeehouse By: Kajirah I had seen him at the coffee shop for weeks now. We had gotten to that friendly-smile-and-nod stage when we passed each other at the counter. He was interesting looking -- much taller than my 5-foot height, honey-brown hair, beard and mustache well trimmed and neat, and eyes that could change color like the North Sea. Which was apropos, since he ordered his coffee with a delightful, vaguely Northern European accent. I was curled up in one of the big chairs, a good book open on my lap and a tall cup of mocha latte precariously balanced on the chair arm. I heard his melodic voice ordering his usual cup of coffee and glanced up from my book. He turned his head and our eyes met. We both smiled and started the friendly nod, but then the gaze held a heartbeat longer than normal. It held long enough for my hand that was holding the book open to tremble slightly as a small sizzle of energy made its way back and forth from our eyes. quickly dropped my gaze back down to my book and grabbed my coffee cup that was teetering from the sudden movement. Taking a deep gulp of the warm, thick latte I steadied myself and then slipped into a mini-daydream and again tried to figure out where that accent came from. I'm a student of languages; they have always fascinated me and I have made it a hobby to train my ear to accents and dialects. So, besides being interesting-looking, the coffee shop man posed a mystery that I intended to solve. I just wished I could hear him speak more than just a coffee order. My wish was granted. "Would you mind if I sat here?" He was standing in front of me, indicating the chair across the low table from me. I smiled up at him and made the proper and polite responses to let him know it was okay. He sat down, put his cup on the table in front of him and then leaned forward with hand outstretched. "My name is Peter." I extended my hand and was pleased that he took it firmly and shook it once, then let go. So many men think it is debonair, when shaking a woman's hand, to take it with his palm up as if he was about to kiss the back of hers. In actuality, there are very few men who can pull that move off...for the rest of the male species, a simple sideways handshake shows respect and won't get him thrown into the lounge-lizard pile quite as quickly. "My name's Kate, I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance." I replied, throwing all my demure, Southern courtesy at him all at once. I wanted to see how he fielded that particular curve-ball, batting eyelashes and all. His only response was a slowly widening smile and relaxing back into his chair. The conversation started lightly. A question here, a question there, back and forth across the table. We could have been batting a shuttlecock across a badminton net....we could have been playing chess. I asked what he did for a living; he answered that he was a financial consultant for an investment group. I made all the proper impressed noises and sipped my coffee. He asked what I did for a living; I answered that I was currently in the market for a job and used the coffee house as a refuge from faxing resumes and going on job interviews. He made all the proper consoling noises and we talked for a bit about the growing recession. Finally, I thought I had the answer to my mystery. "Forgive me for being forward, but are you from South Africa?" I asked, trying to keep my inner sense of triumph from showing. "No, not South Africa. I'm from the Netherlands, right outside of Amsterdam." I had guessed wrong. My cheeks turned pink with embarrassment at both my audacity at asking such a personal question and my ignorance at the accent. Peter took pity on me and said that it was a common mistake, since Afrikaans comes from Dutch. He smiled again, his lips wickedly framed by his beard, and said, "I do not need to ask where you are from. Your voice brings to mind magnolia blossoms in the moonlight." My cheeks went pink again, this time from surprised delight at the unexpected compliment. "Well thank you. I hadn't heard that Dutch men were given to such poetic images." I took another sip of coffee and wished that smoking was allowed in the coffee house. A cigarette would draw attention away from my suddenly shaking hands. Our eyes locked again, and my brain took over to imagine what he was seeing as he looked at me. Jaw-length auburn hair with a few threads of silver showing, big dark brown eyes, rosy cheeks against a Celtic creamy complexion as he looked at my face. If he looked further down, he'd see a short, middle-aged woman's body with curves a little too large to be culturally pretty. Former lovers had called me "rubenesque", and one kind soul had said I had a body just like the old fertility goddesses. But none of that seemed to matter as the slanting afternoon sunlight sparkled in his eyes and cast interesting shadows across his well-defined cheekbones and strong jaw. I dropped all my self-consciousness and basked in his attention. The conversation meandered down the avenues of polite chit-chat. Two people finding out about each other and enjoying the discovery. The talk turned to literature, and I was pleasantly surprised to find out that he and I shared a guilty pleasure for the old gothic horror writers. I recently acquired a first-edition, signed copy of The Dunwich Horror." My eyes widened in delight as he told me about his search for this particular book. I leaned forward eagerly as I hung on his every word. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm broke the tenuous hold on gravity that my coffee cup, still perched on the arm of my chair, had. I jumped up with a squeal as my lap was drenched in sticky, luke-warm latte. Peter reached over and grabbed a handful of napkins and helped me mop up the worst of the mess, but my skirt and most of my sweater was a lost cause. I sighed in chagrin as I contemplated the damp, sticky, long walk home. "I live a block away. Would you like to come with me? We can wash your clothes and you could get to look at my book collection." His eyes gazed into mine with a soft glow of invitation. I gulped as my heart skittered a beat or two with sudden anticipation. I nodded acceptance and he escorted me out of the coffee house, his palm warm against the small of my back as he opened the door for me. Peter and I walked the short block to a small row of condominiums tucked behind a grove of huge magnolia trees. He unlocked his front door and ushered me inside; I was immediately struck by how light and airy the interior was. He gave me a brief tour and I was pleasantly surprised by the clean lines and balance of his decorating. The living room was lined with bookcases, filled with all kinds of literature. His collection held the place of honor inside an old-fashioned legal bookcase, complete with glass-faced doors. He left me to browse to my heart's content as he went upstairs to get some clothes for me to wear while my skirt and sweater were being cleaned. I had pulled out a copy of one of H.G. Wells' novels and was goggling at the print date when Peter came back down and handed me a large t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants. "These are the only things I have that wouldn't fall right off you. I hope it will suit." He smiled and indicated the downstairs powder room where I could change clothes. "Come join me in the kitchen when you're through, and I'll make us some more coffee." I hurriedly got out of my sticky clothes and put on the soft shirt and pants. I had to roll the pants up at the legs so that I wouldn't trip, then contemplated the low heels I had been wearing. They went well with the skirt, but with pajama pants they looked ridiculous. I picked them up with the rest of my clothes and padded barefoot out to the kitchen. Peter turned as I walked into the kitchen, taking in my appearance in a glance. A smile hovered on his lips as he looked down and saw my bare toes peeking out beneath the rolled-up pajama pants. "You look comfortable." He paused, his gaze sweeping up over the t-shirt to my face. "It suits you." He took my skirt and sweater and disappeared into the laundry room. Lured by the smell of coffee, I wandered over to the kitchen counter and poured a mug full. I had just started looking around for the sugar and cream when a warm hand touched my bare arm. Startled, I shrieked and turned around; too quickly I suppose, as the coffee sloshed over my shirt for the second time in one day. I looked up into Peter's face as he tried to contain his laughter. My cheeks flamed crimson and at that moment I would have happily crawled under a rock. "I'm not usually this clumsy, I promise. Don't worry about another t-shirt, I'll just mop this up and..." My voice trailed off as my eyes locked with his. His hand came up to brush my cheek with gentle fingertips as his gaze focused on my lips. He's going to kiss me, I thought. A trickle of warmth rolled through me. Peter moved to within inches of me. I could feel the warmth of his body. He stood there, looking at me with those remarkable eyes, and I could see desire in them. I suddenly realized that he was waiting for a sign from me that it was okay, that I wanted him to kiss me. I took the last half-step towards him and put my hand up on his shoulder, and smiled. His hand came up to gently hold the back of my head as he pulled me in to him. His lips were soft and warm, brushing back and forth across mine. His beard tickled my face lightly as he explored my lips with his. He was tender but confident in his kisses, and I could feel myself responding with a slowly growing warmth. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let my body slowly melt against his. He brought his arms down around my waist, pulling me in to him and almost bending me backwards as I clung to him in the sudden swell of passion that flared between us. He pulled away slightly and when I saw the focused look of lust in his eyes I gave an involuntary shiver. I opened my mouth to try to say something witty but my words were cut off by his sudden movement. He scooped me up and effortlessly slung me over his shoulder. I was flabbergasted; never in my many years had anyone ever done that to me. I gave a delighted laugh then shrieked as Peter playfully gave my bottom a light slap before starting a slow lope out to the living room and up the stairs. I hung on for dear life as he took the stairs two at a time, bellowing some primitive-sounding song in Dutch. I was breathless with laughter and passion as he burst through his bedroom door and carefully deposited me in the middle of his bed. I had a split second to revel in the delicious softness of his down-filled comforter as I sunk down into it, before he pounced on top of me and covered my body with his. He propped himself on his forearms and smoothed the hair out of my face, his beautiful eyes changing from grey to green and darkening as he slowly leaned down to kiss me again. Long, languorous kisses that deepened as my lips opened for his tongue. I was spiraling down into lust; my whole body became one big nerve ending. I felt every little shift of our bodies, and every whisper of our clothes as each article magically disappeared echoed in my ears. Finally there was nothing separating our bare flesh from each other, and time stood still as his big, warm hand slowly drifted down to cup my breast. A flick of his thumb across the hard nipple and I let out a low moan of need as my whole body tightened. I arched back as his lips traced a path down across my cheek, down over my neck and chest, and then his lips wrapped around that aching tip and enveloped it in warmth. Peter suckled gently, his hand cupping my other breast and making a light sheen of sweat break out on my forehead with the swirls of warmth he was creating inside me. He kissed down over my belly, and my over-stimulated nerve endings screamed as his beard ran across my very ticklish midsection. I couldn't help it; I let out a loud giggle and writhed violently. I heard a low chuckle. "Ticklish are you?" His voice had gotten deeper and huskier with passion, and I wriggled again as his beard continued to rub and caress across my belly. "Oh god, don't do that..." I was helplessly giggling by now as he kept up a steady stroking with his beard, occasionally planting tiny kisses along my ribs. I reached down to push at his head to get him to move and my wrists were each gently but firmly captured in his big hands. "No my dear, I'm having too much fun...just relax and enjoy..." Even the breath as Peter spoke blowing across my skin tickled my over-sensitive nerves. I was helpless, giggling and shrieking as he tickled me. My hips bucked involuntarily as I lost control of my actions; the longer the tickling went on the more delirious I became. A sudden movement, and Peter's mouth was covering my pussy. He pressed the flat of his tongue against my lips and held it there as I instantly switched from helpless with laughter to helpless with passion. My essence flowed out of me as he massaged my whole pussy with his tongue and my body opened to him completely as I had a fast, shattering orgasm. I lay there stunned and still as Peter raised up and again covered my body with his. He kissed me, his tongue sharing my taste with me as his hips and legs nudged mine further apart. I could feel him, hard and ready, pressing against my opening for a split second before he slid himself into me. He rested there as he gathered me up in his arms and held me tightly against him. Then he started to rock slowly, touching every inch of me inside and out. My breath caught in my throat as I kissed him, grabbing the back of his head and wrapping my legs around him. Our bodies were floating on warm waves of passion as we moved with each other. Each swell of feeling sent us both higher and higher, rising on a tidalwave of ecstasy that was swiftly riding to shore. His soft groans mingled with my cries as first my body then his froze and then crested, crashing against each other's orgasm. As our breathing returned to normal and the seas of lust receded, he smiled down at me, wiping a trickle of sweat from my cheek. Another soft kiss and he rolled to the side, pulling me into the crook of his arm. No words were needed, even if I could think straight at that moment. We were both content to rest in the eye of the storm. Coffeehouse Comfort The weatherman missed the mark again. Sitting in his cozy tv studio this morning while I readied myself for another day at the office, he claimed that today the city would see the mid 50's and its fair share of sunshine. In other words, it was supposed to be a gorgeous autumn day. That's the last time I listen to him. I'll be damned if it was more than 35 degrees in the city this evening. The wind picked up again, a cold hand sliding over my face and through my hair on its journey through the streets. I sighed, pulled the collar of my well-worn pea coat up a little higher, bowed my head down a little lower and squared myself against winter's early arrival. As I passed another shop window, my slender figure was bathed in warm light for a fleeting second. "Just another block to go," I reassured myself and quickened my pace. The downtown streets had emptied quite a bit since the workday ended, its daytime inhabitants scrambling for the comfort of home and loved ones. As the sun finally gave up its fight and disappeared somewhere behind me, I turned the corner and opened the door to my home away from home, my favorite café. The gust of warm air and the strong, sweet aromas that greeted me when I entered the shop were both comforting and compelling, luring me ever inward, away from the cold concrete of the streets and towards the supple leather of my usual seat near the window. I used to come here maybe once a week after work, sometimes with friends, but usually alone. It got me out of the stifling quiet of my apartment and gave me a break from cooking dinners for one. The only drawback here is the persistence of the local males. For some reason, guys around here just can't comprehend why 'such a cute young thing', as they insist on calling me, would want to come all the way down here and sit by herself. They think that obviously I must just be waiting for a man to find me here amongst the cappuccinos and pastries and sweep me off my feet. Right. Wonder what they'd say if they knew that it wasn't a man I was looking for...but a woman. I had been in a serious relationship that ended about 6 months ago, and since then I just hadn't found another woman I was interested in. Until about two months ago. It had been another long day at work, and I didn't feel up to cooking dinner for myself, so I walked down to the cafe and slid into my usual table, lost in thought. Who knows how long I sat unmoving, distracted by the world outside my window. "Umm...excuse me? Miss?" I was pulled from my daze by a soft voice. I looked up hurriedly, carelessly. I suppose I had a startled look about me because she apologized for disturbing me. I guess she had tried to get my attention two or three times before I finally heard her. My eyes met hers...and my heart stopped beating in my chest. This was most definitely not my normal server. My usual waiter was an openly gay 22-year old guy named Erik. He had me pegged as a lesbian the first time he waited on me, although I'm far from obvious to most people. I've become used to being greeted by his "Hey girl!" over the months. Such a friendly, outgoing guy. He's been good to talk to, especially during my break-up, and to my surprise we've confided in each other quite a bit over the months. But this, this was most definitely not Erik. After a moment of staring stupidly, I came to my senses and smiled at the beauty before me. Her hair was pulled back in a careful ponytail, but a few strands had managed to escape their imprisonment, instead hanging down in front, framing her olive-skinned face. I turned into a schoolgirl in her gaze, my cool demeanor disintegrating in record time, my complex thought processes grinding to a halt, unable to do anything but smile a shy smile back and stare. "What can I get for you this evening?" she had asked me, but I was far too caught up in the surprise of seeing someone so gorgeous in this place to respond immediately. She had such an easy, unassuming smile on her face. Genuine...you can always tell a genuine smile because they smile with their eyes as well as their mouth. And god her eyes...a penetrating blue with flecks of gold and gray, a miniature Jackson Pollack peering at me. My heart skipped a beat, and somehow I found my voice, placing my usual order with all of the charm and politeness I could muster. Honestly I was so intimidated that I was lucky my voice didn't squeak or catch in my throat halfway through. 'Cos that would have been just my luck. I watched her walk away, I watched her as she tended to her other customers, never too confident in her actions, but always pleasant. First night jitters I guess. I'm sure she'll find that the customers here, at least the regulars, are pretty laidback...no need to worry about any of us. Someone a few tables away was giving her some flak for some trivial thing or another (must have been a new customer, too), and even with my back turned I could hear her voice falter a little in her dealings with them. As she walked back by my table on her way to the back, I leaned out and touched her lightly on the arm, an action that unexpectedly sent shockwaves rolling under my skin from my fingertip on up. "Don't let them get to you...you're doing fine," I reassured her with a warm smile. "Thanks...I really appreciate it. It's my first night. You can probably tell, huh." "Ha...maybe a little. But really, don't worry about it, k?" That at least got a little grin out of her before she went back to her duties. The rest of the night seemed to go pretty smoothly for her. When I got up to leave the warmth of the café for the cold of the streets, she caught my eye from the other side of the room. "Thank you!" she mouthed silently. I nodded my head in her direction on my way out the door, but as soon as my back was turned a huge grin spread over my face from ear to ear. It was the kind of mood that made you forget you were tired and made you want to turn cartwheels down the street. Well, I never could do a cartwheel, so I settled for a few skips on my way back home...something to let out that excitement and energy I'd just so unexpectedly found. The cold didn't phase me. Neither did the late hour. I returned home lost in thought with dreams in my eyes. Since then I've found myself returning to that place more and more often, usually three times a week now. It can't be helped. I won't even pretend I came here for the food. It was her. Of course it was her. Every time after that first night, she has always smiled at me when I walk in, said hi, or has come over to see what's new with me. Of course it was usually Erik that waited on me, but a few times she has filled in for him when he was out sick, and those nights were fantastic. At one point along the way, I was sitting at my usual table, writing in my notebook and stealing glances of her every time I could. I've found ways to be creative with my glances. Using the window to watch her reflection. To look without seeming to look. Apparently I wasn't as subtle as I had thought myself to be. One night I turned to find Erik staring at me, a knowing grin spreading slowly across his face. You could practically see that light bulb, like the kind they use in the cartoons, come to life over his head. I could feel his eyes studying me. And then...slowly, methodically, torturously...he swung his gaze over at her as she worked, exactly where my eyes had been just seconds before. The only gesture he made to let me know that he had me all figured out was a sly little wink. Great. I was sure that he would be the kind to tease me endlessly about my little crush. It felt like I'd been caught cheating on a test. Dread filled my stomach, my throat...it was heavy in my mouth. Wonder if anyone would notice if I crawled under my table to hide. Well as it turned out, that night happened to be a slow one, and when Erik slid into the seat across from me to talk and pass the time, I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. That same smile. That smug, knowing smile. It was in his eyes, too. And there she was, following right behind him, sliding gracefully into the leather seat across from me. So, we talked. And talked. And talked. Erik kept getting up to go take care of his one or two remaining customers (and hers, too), leaving us alone together to chat and get to know each other. I've got to hand it to him...he set us up right from the beginning, always bending over backwards to make sure that she and I got some uninterrupted time together almost every time I walked in the door. Wasn't even superficial chatter, either...I don't have much patience for such things. No topic taboo, anyone who happened by my table when she was with me would have overheard a debate on politics and the latest news out of D.C., a discussion on the finer points of world religions, or even, on occasion, one of us talking about our own past. She knew I was gay, she knew about my family, my work. Several times we lost ourselves in conversation, forgetting that we were two girls in a mediocre coffee shop, forgetting the millions of things we each had on our to-do list, forgetting our responsibilities to the world...we were simply there. Talking, learning. And the things I noticed about her as time went on. When she laughed, she had a way of rolling her eyes that made me laugh in response. When she was thinking, she had a way of pulling at the loose strands of hair that hung in her face. When she was being playful, she had this mischievous little grin that was to die for, that made my heart pound a little harder in my chest and created a little flutter in my stomach. And when she was happy, I got to see that smile I saw when I pulled her aside on her first night of work. The genuine one, the one where she smiles with her eyes. Since I usually dine alone, I always bring one of two things with me: either my little notebook or a good book to read. Of course when I was lucky enough to have her or Erik sit down with me, these two things were put away, but in the meantime, they kept me occupied (and they kept me from staring too hard). But usually any patron of this place could find me alone at my table near the window, scribbling notes (or if the mood hadn't hit me that night, lost in a book). More and more over those past two months, my writings revolved around her. It's a very strange feeling, writing about someone who was there in the same room with you yet completely unaware of your observation and your thoughts. I wrote often. I wrote of my attraction to her, and increasingly of my feelings for her. I wrote all that I felt for her and all that I wanted to do with her. All that I wanted to do to her. She's asked me a few times what I was always working on, and all I could manage was a sly grin and a "nothing much" in response. Hard to say if I would ever actually let her see all of these things, all of my thoughts. If I would ever give her an invitation to my every personal thought. Maybe. Then she would know that she was my muse. And that brings us to tonight. Tonight, just like every other night, the little bell above the door announced my entry into the warmth of the eatery. A bevy of "hey's" and "how's it going's" greeted me as I walked to my table. Erik rushed over to me as soon as he saw me. He was so excited...he had that look on his face that little kids get on Christmas morning. Instead of rattling off whatever was on his mind, he simply handed me a note and walked on by, still smiling, still giggling, still looking like he was ready to start skipping through the café at any moment. A little perplexed, I opened up the note. As my eyes took in every word he had scribbled down on the back of the receipt, my fingers began to shake and my knees went a little weak. Scrawled in a hurried hand was: "She's been talking about you a lot you know—getting giggly, blushing when I teased her about you. Just like you do every time I tease you about her! Just thought you should know!" I'm not sure how I ended up at my table. I certainly don't remember walking after I read his note. Everything else just kind of went away for a second. The blood rushed in my ears, drowning out the noise of the café. My vision blurred, but every word persisted in my head. There was only me and that note. The rest of the evening ran much like the others. I wrote, I ate, I talked with my friends. But interactions took on a whole new meaning in this new light. Little things, little smiles, little glances, little smirks, all could be construed as innocent, as simple, black and white, but tonight they were a million shades and they were one. Tonight anything was possible. Now growing up, my parents taught me to be polite. To be helpful. To be chivalrous. I hold the door open for strangers; I say "bless you" when people sneeze. And when the gorgeous woman I'm interested in complained of having too much to carry home at the end of the night when her shift was over, naturally I offered to help ease her burden. I guess she had stopped by the grocery store on her way to work and didn't have time to stop by her apartment first. One of her coworkers had helped her get them here, but she didn't have the strength after a long night's work to walk all the way home weighed down. And so it happened that I walked her home that night. We were two girls alone in the glow of the streetlamps, talking and laughing on our way. That night there was no one in the world but us, no conversation but ours, no road but the one under our feet. The world didn't exist outside of our light. I noticed the way her hair bounced with every step. I noticed the way her giggles echoed off the deserted buildings. And I noticed the way she walked close to me, too close to be accidental. Our arms brushed against each other again and again, but neither of us made to move away to get more space for ourselves. Instead we let our space meet. We let it coexist. Mingle. I loved it. The thick material of our coats managed to keep out the cold, but the electricity of her touch still found its way through to my skin. Her spark coursed through my body, robbing me of my breath but leaving me with a smile. I wanted her. I wanted to hold her hand. I wanted to stop her in her tracks and kiss her, to feel my lips against hers, to feel our bodies pressed together. I wanted her heat. Our conversation flowed from one subject to another as we walked. Soon, however, we ended up talking about ex's. We'd broached the subject before, during one of our many talks in the café, but superficially, neither of us coming away knowing much more than that the other was single. So as we walked I told her about my last relationship and how it met its demise. In no way was I prepared for her response. "You know, we all go through things for a reason. They shape us, make us who we are, for better or for worse. At least that's how I see it. But really...it's your ex's loss. She should have known better than to let someone as sweet as you get away." I colored. My heart leapt into my throat. My tummy fluttered deliciously. But I couldn't think of one coherent, intelligent thing to say in response...so I didn't. I kept silent. I didn't have to speak—my body gave me away. One look at me and she saw my little grin and my red ears and cheeks. She smiled that mischievous little smile that I've come to adore, and we walked on silently. The world was gone. There was only me and her, my breath and her breath, the touching of our arms beneath our coats. And the heartbeats. Loud. Fast. Clear. Incessant. As we approached her doorstep, the light of the streetlamp illuminated her statuesque frame for a fleeting second. I was struck again by her captivating beauty. Her strong, confident walk. Her glowing skin. Her attentive eyes. The way she moved with a grace I simply couldn't fathom. Before we moved out from beneath the light into the dark of the night again, I couldn't help but notice how flushed her cheeks were. And I wondered...was her mind wandering to the same places as mine? She glanced askew at me. She caught me, lost completely in her brilliance. No excuses...all I could do was smile back at her as we took the last few steps towards her door. I took the bag she had been carrying all this way for her now while she got out her keys and opened the door to her place. Now with both loads filling my arms, I followed her clumsily to the kitchen, blind to my surroundings, mesmerized by the vision of her. Her hips swayed temptingly before me, in an almost hypnotic way. The apartment was cozy, the kind that seemed like it would make a nice retreat from the chaos of modern living. Soft lighting, which I was thankful for...don't know if I could have handled walking in to a place lit up like a 7-11 at this time of night. When I had deposited the bags on the kitchen counter, my aching muscles thanked me for the relief. "Do you want some hot chocolate? To warm you up?" Sounded perfect to me. Within minutes we were sitting side by side on the barstools in her kitchen, relaxing and warming our bodies sip by sip. There were some Netflix dvds sitting on the counter that I thumbed through, as much to give my hands something to do as to check out what kind of films she was into. One of the sleeves she happened to have sitting on the counter was "Lost and Delirious," something I hadn't seen in years but had always liked. "Oh this is a good one!" I said, not particularly expecting an answer, just kind of talking as I read. At least she has good taste in films, I thought. "You wanna hang out for awhile and watch it with me? I get bored watching movies alone all the time...I'll be happy for the company." Despite myself, I couldn't help but think "god it's late." She must have read it in my face. "Oh god I'm sorry, I forgot how late it is! I'm so used to staying up and unwinding after work that I forget other people don't always keep the same schedule I do. I'm sure you're ready to get home." Was that disappointment I heard in her voice? "Actually, I'd love to stay for a while. I haven't seen this movie in forever...it's just...well...even better that I'll have someone to watch it with." I would have jumped at the chance to watch "Barney" if she'd asked, as long as it meant a few more minutes around her. My only request, I told her, was another cup of hot chocolate. The relief and excitement on her face was unmistakable. It delighted me to no end to know that I was the one who put that captivating smile on her face tonight. She told me to get the movie started while she got out of her work clothes. I must have blushed again because she grinned—that mischievous grin—and left the room. My heart pounded in my chest as I did what she had asked and sat down on the loveseat. In a few moments she came gliding into the room wearing jeans and a tank top. The tight fit of the tank accentuated her feminine curves and gave me a teasing hint of her cleavage. The sight of her bare arms and more of that gorgeous skin made my temperature rise, and the denim of her jeans clung to her in all the right ways. Without missing a beat, she snatched the remote and sat down on the loveseat next to me, close, closer than most people would sit. But neither of us seemed to mind...we stayed put, preferring the mutual space in the middle. The movie started, and we watched attentively, laughing together, making comments to one another. Anyone could see that we were enjoying ourselves, but there was an undeniable tension in the air...a suspense. No more than 20 minutes into the film I began to shiver. The temperature inside the apartment had dropped considerably since we had first arrived. Noticing my discomfort, she asked me if I wanted a blanket, saying that she was cold, too...not too hard to believe given her outfit. She ran off down the hall and returned seconds later, blanket in hand. Coffeehouse Comfort "Here...we can share this." I laughed to myself...oh my god, she's bold. She sat back down next to me and arranged the blanket on top of us. Of course, it wasn't quite big enough, so she took the opportunity to close the gap between us. And there we were—together in the center of the couch, our bodies finally together and our body heat combined. Note: later I would find out that she had intentionally turned down the air in the apartment when she had gone to change clothes, hoping for the chance to get close to me on the couch. Clever girl. I'm not known for my risk-taking...never have been, never will be. But that night I silenced the angel on my shoulder, the one that always told me to bite my tongue, to be cautious. The voice of my body was stronger and more insistent. So I took a deep breath, peeked at the stunning woman beside me out of the corner of my eyes, and I reached for her hand. Soft, warm and waiting. I traced her hand and her fingers with my own. I learned the shape of them, the character of them before lacing my fingers through hers. She squeezed my hand and leaned in close to lay her head on my shoulder. Her weight on my body was bliss, and the way her breasts rubbed along my side as she inhaled and exhaled was electrifying. So close. She moaned softly, practically purring. It wasn't until she turned to look up at me that I finally recognized the same desire in her eyes that I felt so acutely myself. Any reservation, any other words of advice from the angel on my shoulder were immediately banished. In the next moment my fingers were lightly on her cheek, her chin, her eyelashes. When my fingers traced the lines of her jaw, I could feel her blood racing in her veins. She glowed beneath my touch. Her glance lowered quickly, almost subconsciously to my lips...once...twice. Wanting. Ever the tease, I leaned in slowly until my lips were scarcely an inch from hers. She inhaled sharply in anticipation, but I made her wait another agonizing moment before finally giving in. The meeting of our lips set off a jolt in both of us. It's almost as if it electrified the whole apartment...the air felt charged with our attraction. Another kiss. Full. Warm. Wet. Inviting. My tummy fluttered again. As I breathed in the intoxicating smell of her, another kiss brought us together, quickly becoming more passionate and more heated than any of the ones before. Our mouths parted, our tongues touched. Shivers coursed through my body, every bit of it, when I felt the tip of her tongue lick the shape of my lips. In the meantime, our bodies had come closer together, almost without our realizing it—my hands were on her back, on her arms, in her hair, around her neck—everywhere softness, everywhere electric...a current closing the circuit between us. She shifted in order to kiss me more fully, her hands running up from my waist, on top of my shirt, and for a second they ran lightly over my breasts, eliciting a soft moan from my lips. Although my head was swimming from our frenzy of kisses, that didn't stop me from feeling a button being undone on my shirt...and another...and another. When I pulled back from our kiss, I saw that mischievous grin on her face. Both of us breathing hard, she looked me directly in the eyes as she slowly continued to undo my top, revealing my black bra and my toned stomach before removing my shirt completely. Another grin appeared on her face when she drank in the look of my lean frame, unprotected in the cool of the apartment. Not to be outdone, I turned the tables and took charge, pushing her playfully back against the cushion of the loveseat, kissing her full lips, kissing her jaw, kissing her neck, where it's the softest and most sensitive. I covered her skin with light kisses, the kind that give you chills, before tracing the line of her jaw. When I reached her ears, I took advantage of their natural sensuality and sensitivity, lightly moaning into them so I could feel her body respond. My hands were on her tummy, her sides, grabbing at her shirt, slowly pulling it over her head and tossing it to the floor alongside mine. The flickering light from our forgotten movie cast a surreal glow to our scene on the couch. It added a softness to her feminine curves. For a moment we both sat back a little, stunned, drinking each other in. Breathing hard. Of course she was the first to break the stare. She grabbed my hand feverishly and pulled me off the couch and down the hall towards the bedroom, I could only assume. I followed in a daze the trail blazed ahead of me. The curve of her ass in those jeans no more than a foot or two in front of me would have been hypnotic enough on its own. But as we marched down the hall, she turned her head to look over her shoulder at me. That same playful, mischievous grin on her face. I had to bite my lip and clench my fists to keep from pinning her to the wall right then (and if she had turned her head one more time I would have...I know it). I bit my lip to keep my composure, or what was left of it, as a chill coursed through my body and between my legs. When we reached the edge of the bed, she spun around quickly, insistent, and she kissed me hard on the mouth, her tongue passing between my lips to touch my own. I moaned into her mouth. My hands started at her neck and gently slid down to her chest, lightly grazing her nipples. She inhaled sharply, and I reached around to hold her to me as we kissed again, passionately. I couldn't believe how soft and warm she was, how alive, how electric—it made me want to keep our bodies joined constantly—to be apart seemed to me to be almost sinful, blasphemous to her beauty. I closed my eyes and was lost in her. We breathed together, standing there. My leg between hers, hers between mine, our hands slid over each others backs, our bras fell simultaneously to the floor. We breathed together, our breasts against one another, rising and falling in rhythm. We were two women exposed in the cold but completely unaware of anything outside our circle. All we could see was each other. We filled our eyes. We filled our minds. We filled our hands and arms with each other. Staring at her directly in the eyes, I reached down to undo the buttons on her jeans. I did it slowly, I wanted to be cruel. But as she slid them down I had to smile because she had suddenly taken back all the power in our little play...she wasn't wearing anything underneath. "My god...you're beautiful..." is all I managed to say about the sexy, gorgeous woman poised before me. More kisses. Then we were falling. She pushed, and we tumbled backwards onto her bed. On my back, I felt her weight come down on top of me. It was delicious, that feeling, that pressing. Her hair tickled my face, her thigh came down between my thighs, our lips found each other again. A maze of kisses wet on my cheek, my ear, my neck. She paused to kiss me hard, bruising my tender skin, marking me as hers. I felt the warmth of her tongue as it electrified my skin, as it slid down my right arm, down to my hand. I watched her every move, but when she took my thumb into her mouth, I was forced to close my eyes...the pleasure was so intense I couldn't even look. When I opened them again, I caught the glow of the moon as it came through the window and splashed across her breasts. But it was only a fleeting glimpse, for in the next moment she was directly above me, her mouth on my nipple, her hand attending to the other one. A mixture of twisting, biting, sucking and flicking made it nearly impossible for me to be patient. I was too turned on to be quiet, and as she continued her ministrations, my moans became louder and louder. She had me squirming, wanting, wet and pleading for release. "Please...oh...please...." I whispered as I put my arms around her back, pulling her in to me while she kissed down the length of my body. Finally she moved back, sitting up, her hair hanging temptingly in her face. She tugged at my belt, and impatiently I moved to help her get them out of the way. But she wouldn't let me rush her...she was doing this her way. To make her point, she tugged my pants down at an excruciatingly slow speed. Past my thighs. My knees. At every point she placed a kiss. My calves. My ankles. More kisses, wet promises of things to come. Finally my legs were free. Her kisses started again, this time on the other leg, and she worked her way up like she had worked her way down...one scorching, aching kiss at a time. By the time her lips had reached the seam of my little black panties, I was almost crazy with desire. From there she traced the edge with her tongue, to the top of my thigh, around the waistline, and down the other side. I moaned with impatience, and I think she delighted in that. Finally, mercifully, after what seemed like an eternity, I felt her fingers on my legs, sliding up to my hips, under the cloth and pulling them down and off. She left me naked underneath her. The wait was over, and sitting there between my legs, the look in her eyes betrayed her cool exterior...I could see that she was aching as much as I was. She looked into my eyes one last time as she extended her tongue and made one long lick from the back to the front. "Mmmmm..." She moaned into me as her tongue found my clit, tentatively at first, before she enveloped it with her warmth. As she did so her hand slid up my inner thigh and reached for my pussy, slowly, teasing, rubbing along the outside before suddenly dipping a finger inside. I let out a cry, and within seconds she had slipped in another finger. Her thumb replaced her tongue on my clit, exerting a constant pressure that was delicious, and I felt the wetness of her mouth return to my nipples. Biting, sucking, licking, like she had just done to my clit seconds before. I couldn't keep my eyes open or my mouth closed...I was so turned on. Kisses on my neck, my shoulders, my jaw. As our rhythm quickened, her fingers sliding in and out, in and out, she adjusted her angle and found my g-spot like an expert. "Oh god...ohhhh....mmmmm..." Kissing me again and leaning toward my ear as she pumped away with her hand, she whispered, "Come for me." That voice...it was so soft, so feminine that it caressed my ears. But there was a hard, confident edge in it that commanded me, willed me to obey. I could feel it rising, starting in my stomach. My back had long ago arched under her attentions. My legs squirmed beneath her, waiting. She kissed me again, hard, her warm tongue playing on my eager lips. And I was there. Every muscle in my body contracted simultaneously at her command. My muscles gripped her fingers inside me, my toes tensed, my heart stopped its beating for a moment. In that instant I was suspended in perfect pleasure and release. My whole body shuddered, and I moaned into her mouth. The air rushed out of my lungs as my body collapsed in her arms. If breathing wasn't automatic, I wouldn't have thought to do it at that moment in time. All of my attention was focused on the waves of pleasure that rolled over my body and rippled under my skin. The moments that followed passed by in a blur. I remember soft kisses, soothing caresses. We held each other close, catching our breaths. The apartment was still cold, but neither of us felt it. We flourished in our shared heat. Alive. I grew in it, like the warmth of the sun brings the bud from the ground, I felt like I woke up. It was because of her, and I knew what I had to do. "I have a confession," I said. "I wanna hear it!" So I made my confession to her as we lay naked before each other in the sanctuary of her bed. I told her how I wrote about her. In the little notebook I always carried. I told her how she occupied my mind, how she haunted my thoughts like a ghost, and how I had to write about her to free myself. As she listened I could see a softening of her features, a clearing in her eyes. The moonlight elucidated the curve of her jaw and the outline of her bare shoulder. When the words of my confession had left my mouth and hung densely in the air between us, she looked directly into my eyes, a look so powerful and so raw it pierced right through to my very center. She kissed me square on the lips, not hard, in fact very soft, very feminine, but with a passion all its own. It was the kind of kiss that makes you drunk. My head was swimming. I felt weightless. And now it was my turn...to do what I had wanted to do these past months. How soft she was. I let my hands trace the outline of her face. She leaned her head back, and I traced the vertical line from her chin, over the ridges of her throat, down to the hollow where her neck joined the collarbone—the line that gives the human form its stunning symmetry. I placed a kiss on her neck, a soft kiss for the softest spot on a woman. That's one of the most intimate places on the human body. So sad that it's so often overlooked. It's so close, right there next to the ear. My mouth next to her ear, and my ear next to her mouth. Every breath, every gasp, every whisper is shared. We breathed together. The warmth of my breath on her ear made her shudder beneath me. I let me fingers trace down her arm to her hand to touch and explore. Slowly. Sensually. Hands are everything. To the blind, they're their entire world. For most people, you live with them, you eat, drink, make your living with them. They are you. Rough, calloused, soft, supple, small, frail, thick, robust, cool, hot...they are you. To give those up to someone, to put all of your concentration into those two extensions of yourself, it's commanding...it's persuasive. And when you take into consideration how many nerve endings are in the human hand... My kisses left her neck and joined my fingers at her hands. I kissed her palms, softly, kissed her fingertips, and wrapped my mouth around each one in turn, touching and teasing every last nerve. I could feel her, urging me on, moaning and squirming. I felt her giving herself, making herself vulnerable, and I could feel myself doing the same. We were both unprotected in that moment, our defenses down. I brought the same attention to her breasts, kissing, licking, biting, holding them until I felt her hands in my hair, urging me downward. Not to be rushed, I worshipped her hips, her thighs, her legs, her feet, her toes, all in turn, teasing and licking, letting my hair tickle her every part, her every nerve. Her moans grew louder and louder, her fingertips digging into my shoulders. "Please...god....please..." she begged. I looked her in the eyes as I settled my face between her legs and licked her wetness, tasting her, sweet. My tongue licked every inch, every fold, lavishing attention on every part of her before finally settling my attention on her clit. I slowly, delicately took it into my mouth. She arched her back as we settled into a rhythm. Our rhythm. Incessant. I lost myself between her smooth thighs, listening to her chorus of oooohs and mmmmms and gods. I felt her, I watched her, the rise and fall of her breasts, her legs moving, her hips bucking, grinding my face into her even harder. Her cries filled the room, her hands were in my hair. She was so close. And then it happened. She clinched her fists in my hair as her thighs closed around me, while her body shook from head to toe from her powerful orgasm. While her body recovered, I kissed and licked her tenderly, making a trail upwards, leaving delicate kisses on her stomach, on the skin beneath her breasts, her neck, her lips, her eyelids. All the softest spots on a woman. When our bodies were equal, when we were once more together at the head of the bed, she reached out and put her arm around me, burying her head in my neck. Even though I couldn't see it, I could feel her smile. Not one of her mischievous ones...the ones that got us here in the first place. This was subdued. Personal. Honest. It was the honesty of it that affected me, that forced me to bow my head in response and smile my own smile into the folds of her neck. Exhaustion crept upon us like a fog, seeping into our bones, permeating every muscle, every cell, slowing our frenzy. We laid back in the bed, hair tousled, legs jumbled, hands intertwined together as I held her, as I had wanted to hold her all this time. I held her hand in my hand, running my fingers lightly over its curves, reveling in the softness, wondering what these hands have seen in their lifetime and how I came to be part of their story. I held them and smiled secretly to myself. "Did you write about that?" she asked dreamily as she gave in to the increasing weight of her eyelids and drifted into sleep. I smiled. "I couldn't have done you justice with words," I whispered, trying not to wake her. I kissed her forehead and closed my eyes. Coffeehouse Crush Maggie and I stopped having sex a few months before our divorce, and two years later I was still in a dry spell. Yeah, two years and counting. I was told guitars are chick magnets, so I dusted off my old acoustic and sharpened my pencil. I ain't no Bob Dylan, but I was happy to be playing and writing again and I frequented coffeehouses with live entertainment. You readers know the type of entertainment; men and women, mostly bleeding heart liberals, singing their life stories. Once you own the guitar, it's a cheap hobby. I can't say women flocked to me, but I'm attracted to just about every woman with a guitar, and so it was with pretty Nissa. As far as I could ever find out, "Nissa" isn't short for anything; it is her given name. I guessed her to be about my age, at the time in our early forties, maybe not as hot as she used to be, but she retained some of her younger glory. The reddish blonde hair was not as long as I imagined she wore it in her twenties, but it was still thick and wavy down to her shoulders. I bought a CD Nissa recorded. The CD was her vanity project, and I'm sure she still has a couple cases of the CDs in a back closet somewhere that will never be sold. So, she appreciated the occasional fan. The singer-songwriter scene in our town was intimate enough that she and I were on a first name basis and would see each other at open mic nights or other shows a couple times per month. She signed the jacket thanking me for my support, but wrote nothing to suggest she thought about me when I wasn't around. I thought about Nissa, though, and she met me for lunch once. We worked our day jobs within a mile of each other, so neither of us took it as a big deal, but I was attracted to her and we were both unattached. Nissa was a manager at an accounting firm by day. In my office, I'm one of the peons people like Nissa don't want to be any more. I didn't work for Nissa, though; to me, she was just part of our group of local songwriters. Nissa was a bit softer around the edges than my ex-wife. Maggie was a manager of managers, a boss of someone like Nissa, and someone who stomps on worker-bees like me just before Christmas when corporate budgets are reviewed. Maggie shortened her hair and heels, maybe to become more like the male managers she admired. Nissa combined a softer, artistic side, with her managerial, type-A personality and I liked her. I wasn't looking to marry Nissa, but I found myself comparing her to Maggie, so it was a shock to find out during our lunch conversation that my ex-wife and my coffeehouse crush were sorority sisters in college. If Nissa ever thought about me romantically, she seemed to lose interest after that revelation. One acoustic show took place around the corner from her little Cape Cod. She had walked over before sundown, but later after the show, she asked for the quick ride home in my car. I was happy to oblige, and figured I'd still be home in time for the Friday night rerun of the old Battlestar Galactica TV series. In the driveway, though, Nissa mentioned she had been taking an art class and hoped I'd give her a really, truly honest opinion of her drawings. It occurred to me that an honest opinion wouldn't get me anywhere with her, but we had known each other a year without getting anywhere, so I figured I'd play it by ear. "Etchings?" I asked. "Really?" She laughed lightly at the age-old "etchings" joke, and I was sure she was thinking, "No, this guy's not getting laid tonight." On the other hand, she invited me in. Sure enough, her living room was crowded with charcoal drawings on an easel and an angled drafting table. The drafting table was a solid hunk of professional furniture, with unusual brackets at the corners. I was considering my art review when Nissa appeared with a glass of red wine. She apologized for not opening a fresh bottle, but she thought it was pretty good Australian wine, and then she excused herself to "powder her nose". Several minutes went by and I realized I had just about emptied the glass of wine, and I stopped drinking so I wouldn't look like too much of a lush. In our time together, we had never drunk alcohol. She returned and stood next to me. I glanced at her and she nodded back toward her drawings. I think I asked her about her sources of inspiration or something similarly corny, but she launched into a serious answer about some Ecuadorian impressionist I had never heard of. I couldn't respond intelligently, and there was a moment of silence. I turned to say something, anything just as Nissa sidestepped behind me. She pulled my elbows back. She said, "We've known each other for some time. Aside from some songs which are mostly fictional anyway, neither of us divulges much personal stuff." She pulled my arms back more tightly, but not roughly. Nissa continued, "There's something I want you to try. I hope you'll play along, and it will be our little secret." OK, so Nissa was shy and didn't want anyone to know how inexperienced she was. Or, maybe she was embarrassed to be attracted to me. Whatever! I promised I could keep a secret, even though I didn't know what she was talking about. She told me to put my eyeglasses on a small table. I leaned over to put the glasses down and she leaned into my butt. I stepped forward a bit for balance because she actually shoved me. She didn't hurt me, but I felt the push. I chuckled and straightened up as she flicked off the lights. She slid a blindfold over my eyes. It was not just a piece of cloth; it was some sort of commercial product, with padded eye patches and a thin strap. I moved to straighten the strap on the side of my face, but Nissa grabbed my arms again and pulled them back. In the dark, blindfolded, I felt a soft, fuzzy material against my wrists. Quickly, I felt the soft fuzz tighten around each wrist separately, like a Velcro bracelet. Or, maybe it wasn't so quick. My senses were confused, and I was wondering more about what would happen than what was happening. I was gladly playing along. However experienced Nissa was or was not, she apparently wanted to try something new and unusual, in the dark, and she couldn't even bring herself to ask me. I felt Nissa's hands slide down the sides of my legs. She untied my shoes and I slipped them off. She removed my socks, and I felt her slip fuzzy Velcro anklets around my ankles. She stood, still behind me. She held me by my left elbow with her left hand, and ran the fingers of her right hand into my hair. I wondered if a man's head of hair was important to her, in our forties. I was graying, but not balding. Her fingers tightened and she pulled my hair enough to jerk my head. She pulled me quickly and rather roughly a few feet to the drafting table. I began to turn, maybe to face her, but she twisted my arm and pulled my butt into her abdomen. "Don't move too much. I'll lead you where you need to go." She let go of my hair. She pushed her abdomen into my butt again. She reached past my right shoulder, pushing me to lean over the angled drafting table, and she grabbed my right hand and pulled it toward the top right corner of the table. Still blindfolded, I heard a click, and my right wrist was stuck, bound to a bracket I couldn't see, attached to the fuzzy bracelet. I brought my left hand over to feel it. Nissa moved to the left side of the table and told me to feel her breasts. I heard her remove her shirt. To you, reader, this all sounds so strange, and it really was strange. I reached toward her on my left, to feel her breast. She took my hand and put it against her chest. I curled my finger into her bra cup. She leaned with her breasts over the edge of the table and I slid my fingers into the bra fabric, but it was all a trick. With a slight push, she attached the bracelet on my left wrist to the unseen bracket on the left top corner of the drafting table. I could stand almost straight, but my hands were cuffed to the table. Apart from my footwear, I was still dressed. I tested the wrist bindings. Maybe I could have ripped them apart or damaged the table, but I was tightly restrained. Nissa moved behind me and crouched, sliding her hands down my left leg. Another click, and my left anklet was attached to something. It felt like a wire attached to the left front leg of the table. I could move my leg and keep my balance, but I couldn't drag my left leg to the right. "Well, you are a pushy woman!" I joked, but Nissa kept working. Still crouching, she reached up and fumbled nervously at my jeans button and zipper. She pulled my pants and underwear down and off my right foot. She twisted the pants off to the left side. She couldn't remove the pants without unhooking my anklet. I said, "Sorry about the tighty whities. If I had known there would be an audience, I would'a worn my G. I. Joes." "Quiet," she insisted. Her face rubbed the side of my left butt cheek and down my leg. Her right hand shot up the inside of my left leg, into my testicles. In retrospect, I should have known she would try to trick me into spreading my legs. A half hour earlier I was wondering about Battlestar Galactica, not about some chick's bondage fantasy. Pretty Nissa was fondling me, and I gladly shifted my right leg over to give her space. She moved and I heard the click. All my wrists and ankles were bound. Nissa stood. "Listen," she said, "this is your last chance. You're probably not thinking what I'm thinking. Ask your questions now, and if you want to stop, I'll let you go. After this last chance, it's all a game, and we play it to the end." Curiosity killed the cat, as they say. I said, "No photos or video. No choking. No marks on my skin." She assured me nothing dangerous was planned, and, "What happens at Nissa's stays at Nissa's." I considered the possibility she was a hooker and I was about to get hustled, but I only had twelve bucks in my wallet, so the joke would be on her. I wisecracked, "You said you wanted me to see your artwork." Nissa laughed nervously. "You saw it. I won't tell you everything else, but I'll let you go if you wish." "Fine, let me go," I demanded. I felt Nissa begin to unravel the Velcro on my right wrist. "WAIT!" I yelled. "What?" Nissa paused. "I just wanted to see what you'd do. I'm guessing things are about to get pretty intense, and I'm nervous, but if you say it's not dangerous, I'm willing to continue." "Final answer?" "Final answer." Nissa adjusted the wrist strap a little tighter than before. I was sure she had decided to use me in some sort of art project. I wondered what I looked like, restrained, blindfolded with fuzzy accessories, bare-assed, but I hoped I would not find out on YouTube. Nissa was still mostly dressed, as far as I could tell. I was facing the drafting table and couldn't move more than a few inches in any direction. I wondered what her next step would be. I heard some faint clicks and beeps. "Are you taking pictures with your phone?" I asked. "No, no pictures," she promised. "Relax for a sec," she said with a mysterious laugh, "while you still can." She caressed my butt, reaching around toward my front, not quite reaching my pubic hairs. There was a noise at the front of the house. I jerked my restraints. "Did I just hear the front door?" I was scared. "You never said we'd have company." Nissa agreed, "You're right, I never said and you never asked. You're as safe as you were a minute ago." I heard footsteps and a familiar voice. "Hello, darlin'." It was Maggie, my ex-wife, using the pet name she called me while we were married. I pulled at the restraints again. I wasn't so sure I could break away even if I got violent. Maggie and I divorced without serious trouble. There wasn't much money and no kids. Still, no divorce is fun and we both resented something about the other. Maggie said, without emotion, "Darlin', you won't be harmed, and no one will find out about all this, I'll promise you that much. But you know me, I can hold a grudge, and three years ago, you forgot our anniversary." "That's it? You were on a business trip to Vegas!" I complained. "You were pulling all nighters at some convention center. I was home feeding the fish." "Yeah, well, tonight we settle the score," Maggie added with mysterious excitement. "Nissa asked if she could watch." "Watch what?" I asked. I could hear Maggie undressing and tossing her clothes to the side. I never knew Maggie to be kinky, but she was seeing me from a new angle. She stepped toward me from behind as Nissa moved around the room. Nissa narrated, "Maggie brought a toy with her." Maggie stepped closer. I was blindfolded, but I could feel her naked skin next to me. She rubbed something rubbery and hard against my leg. "Are you going to sodomize me with a stick?" I asked, about ninety percent seriously. Maggie kept silent as Nissa answered. "Maggie is wearing a strap-on, silicone dildo. We found it on the web. The harness holds a bullet vibrator in Maggie's vagina. I'll be working those controls, ha." "How big?" I asked. "The kit arrived with a couple of sizes," said Nissa. "Maggie is wearing the smaller dildo, 4 ½ inches according to the box." "What color?" I asked. They both laughed at my question. "It's purple. Maggie told me you'd be cracking other sorts of jokes. There are about a million double-entendre metaphors you could be shooting off right now, what with your ex about to screw you in ways her divorce lawyer never dreamed of." "Is it new?" I was thinking of STDs. "Yup," Nissa said. "Never used." "How about the bigger one, did you two, ya know, break it in?" I'm sure I leered. They both hesitated. "We're sorority sisters, not lesbians." "Riiiiight," I cracked, sarcastically. I jerked at the restraints and the women purred contentedly. I could have imagined more questions, but once I learned I was about to be on the receiving end of strap-on sex with my grudge-holding ex-wife, there wasn't much more to say. I had never done that with anyone, male or female or myself. I never wondered if it would be enjoyable, and doubted it would be. On the other hand, when they were finished, these two women would surely owe me some serious compensation. I felt the fake but lifelike and erect penis being rubbed against my leg, and Maggie spanked my left butt cheek. I told her with a high, girly voice, "No, don't do that." I was playing this to the hilt. Maggie didn't pause. She moved directly behind me. I heard her fumbling with something new, and I made out a squirting noise. I guessed she was lubricating her dildo. I heard a clunk, probably the tube being thrown down. I felt the cool, greased dildo erect between my butt cheeks. Nissa started a CD, "Cherry Bomb" by The Runaways. "How droll," I quipped, thinking of my metaphorical cherry. Maggie and I once spent a long weekend in Montreal drunk on wine and repeating the French word "drôle" and that line from John Knowles' "A Separate Peace", "Je ne give a damn pas about le français." I continued, "Sentimental fool, c'est moi." I struggled against the restraints some more, and I breathlessly pleaded, "Please don't enter me. I'm just a virgin, you know." Maggie gasped, I suppose with power. She was about to rape an anal virgin, even if only as a game. When I got up that morning, I had no thoughts of taking in a dildo, but I was caught up in the moment. Nissa's trickery in binding me to the table worked as masterful foreplay. I was primed and willing to play. These women manipulated me into their game, and I actually found myself wondering what anal sex would be like. "Hey, darlin', remember cherry lip gloss?" Maggie pulled my head around and leaned forward for a wet, tongued kiss. "Ah," I recalled, "just like high school." Indeed, I remembered the taste, another cherry reference and another unusually sentimental journey considering the dildo rubbing against my butt. Maggie rubbed the dildo up and down between my butt cheeks. I felt the tension of the bonds against my wrists and tried to keep my chin up, facing forward into my darkness. My legs were spread as Maggie aimed the end of the dildo. She was intent on penetration, but not roughly. What was Maggie's state of mind? With "normal", vaginal sex in the missionary position, the penis starts at the edge of the vagina and won't immediately slide in. The man pushes harder and the woman tells him to be gentle, but being gentle makes no sense to the man because he wants to penetrate, and if he's not penetrating, he pushes harder. Each push gains a fraction of an inch, and then there is that magical moment when the man feels the heat of the vaginal juices, and with one more thrust, his penis slides in to its base. That moment of the first deep penetration is a man's primal need. Most men are good people, and they don't want to hurt women, but in those seconds before penetration, no rational thinking in possible. The man just wants to get inside, all the way inside, right fucking now! Whatever those chemicals are inside his little brain, they overpower all other thoughts, and he just wants to, well, be the man and be in charge. It's hard to say how Maggie understood this. We never reversed roles when we were married. I think she wanted to understand it, and that was why we were in that position, with me spread across a table and her zeroing in on my entry point. I was telling myself I wanted it, but my muscles reflexively closed up. "You're fighting it, aren't you?" Maggie asked. I thought it was a rhetorical question, and I only managed a grunt, but she demanded an answer. I told her I was fighting it. I think that's what she wanted to hear. The dildo felt huge and my body felt small. She thrust gently a couple more times and I think she laughed. I imagined an evil sneer on her face. She wanted me to fight her. I was trapped, and Maggie was going to win the fight, but she didn't want it to be easy. "You Drive Me Wild" began to play. "Turn up the music," I called, trying to keep my mind on Lita Ford. We had hardly begun when I felt like Maggie had already won. I felt like her dildo was ten inches long and inside me, but I was wrong. What seemed like the whole dildo was really only the head. Maggie was gradually pushing the head in, a tiny bit with each thrust of her hips. I felt like she had been pounding me for an hour, but it had been only a couple minutes. Maggie moved slowly, but Nissa decided we were "ready". Nissa clicked her controller and the vibrator in Maggie's vagina kicked on. Maggie grunted, her body jerked forward and the lubrication conquered my resistance. The dildo slipped in. The dildo didn't scratch or injure me, but it was rigid and thicker than my virgin body expected. My insides were stretched in a new way. My cherry wasn't popped; it was bombed. I was tense on the table at first, head in the air, feeling the tight squeeze. When the dildo slid in to its full depth, my arms weakened and my chest collapsed onto the table. I felt Maggie's hips against my butt cheeks. She couldn't push it in any farther. I grunted loudly with each swivel of her hips. There was the strong smell of heavy lubrication, and of the insides of my anus being pulled out along the dildo. At first, none of us liked the smell, but after a while, it drove us on. It was a sex smell none of us knew. The edges of her harness and the vibrator rubbed against Maggie's vagina. Each move stimulated her, causing her to jerk back and forth more roughly with each gyration. She began slapping my butt cheeks rhythmically with her hips. "Oh, I get it!" Maggie cried. "I get why guys want to rush everything all the time. It's not the orgasm you want. It's this feeling of power. I own you! I bone you!" I didn't know where Maggie learned that phrase. Back in the day, I never told her I wanted to "bone" her. On this night, every time I thought I could muster the strength to move my arms, Maggie would drive herself to the next level. She dug her fingers into my hips and pulled herself toward me, jamming the dildo into my body, and once again my arms gave out and I collapsed onto the table. Coffeehouse Encounter with Stranger Something warned her that she wasn't the first one he was ravishing on this bay window. He knew his way around that cramped space too well. But she couldn't afford to care. Not right now. Not when she is so close. So close to the ultimate end that every beginning craves. So close to being one with all that is good in this world. So close to her first orgasm in years. Naas had frequented Turquoise Cafe so faithfully for months now. She knew who would be serving her the regular Latte and how long it will take them to prepare her usual croissant. There was a reason she preferred to go to the cafe at 4 in the evening on a weekday. There would be no one around. No one to judge her taste in music, no one to comment on her slightly quirky sense of style and no one to curiously stare at her long flowing black curly hair. She loved this hour of her routine - it was liberating to be away from any kind of incisiveness. This Tuesday evening was slightly altered. She was not alone in Turquoise Cafe at 4 PM. But, oh, she didn't mind at all. She didn't mind an eye candy at all. His hair jet black, eyes a shade lighter than hazel, his face covered in the most magnificent beard she had ever seen. As she entered she found him looking out of the window, his back turned to her. Her first thought — how completely spectacular it would be to eat his ass. She missed a step and stared too long as her own thoughts startled her and she realized that she hadn't had sex in a very long time. What followed was everything all the years of cheap, desperate Mills and Boons has taught you - their eyes met, her gaze fell, his heart melted and they both knew something has changed in the air. Maybe the automatic air freshener has squirted out another batch of fragrant liquid to diffuse in the air. Or maybe the dispenser that poured out its entire entirety and made the air as thick as it could be. It felt strange but she took her usual seat. She could feel him. Feel his eyes on her, curious, maybe even judgmental - but she liked it. She tried to sneak a peek at him. Saw his shoes. If what they say about the shoe size is true, he was a well endowed man. His legs. How they would look intertwined with her legs. His buttocks. She thought about how her legs would look wrapped around a stranger's ass while he thrust himself into her on a kitchen counter top. The specifics of her imagination made her realize how lively her mind was. And with that she noticed the waiter for the first time since she had entered the cafe. She received her order and the waiter retreated to the inner room as he usually did, knowing she was to be his lone costumer for an hour or two. As she took the first sip she felt the stranger move, looked up and saw him coming towards her. There was no polite conversation, nobody said a word. She stood up as if commanded to. With one swift move he grabbed her ass. Something shot through her that captivated - not her mind or heart — her imagination. That man, that figure of self possessed surety, was going to destroy her for any man ever, and she had no idea. While standing really still, his hand moved up her spine, the fingers tangled in the vastness of the curly hair, he pulled them. It hurt her. It assured her of his grip. As she stood there, face up towards the ceiling, all she wanted, all her loins seem to want was his lips on hers, his tongue dipping in her mouth. And he finally did. Nothing in her life had ever felt as lively as this stranger's tongue felt. It made her wet. Moist with anticipation. Anticipation of the unknown. Without a warning, he scooped her up. She could feel his heart racing as she dangled from his arms, head against the chest. It assured her that she was not alone in this madness. He propped her against the bay window, and slowly knelt down in front of her. With a jerk he parted her legs and with another tore apart the piece of cloth that hid her soul. A single touch and she loosened up. A single lick and everything inside her tightened. He pulled her closer and she slid deeper into the seat, possibly as deep as his tongue ventured inside her vagina. She pulled his hair as every sense inside her tingled. He nibbled softly at her clitoris and made circles around it with his tongue, and gently run his hands up and down her thighs. She felt aroused and calm at the same time. The desire to have a stronger and harder tool in place of his tongue was growing inside her. She believed that she couldn't wait any longer, and if she did she might die. And just at that moment he stopped - abruptly. And without so much as a kiss, he pulled down his pants. With a single, forceful thrust of his hips he was buried deep inside her. And that's when she realized how big he was. An excruciating pain shot through her - there was nothing pleasurable about it. The pleasure came after the third thrust. That's when she remembered why Missionary was her favorite position - she could hold on to his ass, and maybe move it to her rhythm. Her legs wrapped around his waist, one hand on his ass, and another holding on to the edge of the window. There were times she thought she would scream and the whole world would hear her - or at least the waiter. The intensity of the situation made her forget everything - where she was, where her underwear was, why she was letting this stranger fill her up with what could only be described as a magic wand, she forgot herself, she forgot her shame. She screamed. "Do me." He muffled her with one hand and pulled her hair with another. It was a warning, and she understood perfectly. She took his hand and placed it on her neck. She had been a bad girl; she shouldn't have been so naughty. But she was ready for her punishment. He reached for her neck. She was glad; she loved being kissed on the neck. But he didn't kiss her, he bit her, hard. She screamed out again. And this time he stopped pounding her. She thought it was over, she didn't want it to be over. But he held her waist and turned her around. He was going to take her from behind — just like that, without a word; he was going to plough her ass. It felt different. It felt like suddenly he was enraged. More powerful, more passionate. But it wasn't just passion. He was squeezing her breasts with a force worthy of murderous rage. It turned her on and antagonized her at the same time. She felt him go faster and harder and then suddenly come to an absolute halt. She knew what it meant. He was finished. He had just come inside her. She could feel it. It filled her. She wanted to see his face; she knew it would have a look of glory on it. She turned around. It wasn't the same face anymore. It wasn't the same man anymore. What had just happened? This is not possible. She knew him. But it wasn't the same man. She knew him from all the 4PM Lattes. It was the waiter.