San Diego is a Navy town, and, like most military towns, it has its share of
strip clubs. I was there on a business trip, and I needed some R&R, so I browsed
through the phone book and picked a club by the simple expedient of being able
to find its street on my Hertz map of the city. The local law in San Diego is
that nudity means no alcohol in the club and the dancers, when exposing even as
much skin as one would see at the beach, must be at least six feet from their
customers. When doing a non-nude couch dance, a girl can brush her hands or body
against or otherwise touch a customer, but the converse is absolutely verboten;
these clubs are paranoid about losing their licenses, and touching the girls is
a surefire way for a customer to get himself bounced. The Beach Boys got it
right; California girls are special. While this club has a sprinkling of
thunder-thighs and pneumatic centerfold candidates, the majority of the dancers
here are slender, firmly-toned hard bodies. Some of them dance to slow songs,
while others choose more up-tempo cuts, but the end result is the same, an
impressive display of luscious young female flesh for an overwhelmingly male
audience. I'm happily married, and I visit such clubs when I travel to pass some
otherwise lonely time. I watch the girls dance, I buy a few drinks for some of
them, and I try to strike up intelligent conversations; the chances are that at
least one is kinked the way I am. Occasionally I get lucky; some dancers
advertise their orientations, and I thought things might be looking up when a
girl mounted the stage wearing a spiked collar. After she had danced her way
down to the bare essentials, she was wearing the collar, high heels, and a set
of chain-connected, tweezer-type nipple clamps. I tipped her as she left the
stage and invited her to join me for a drink. Initial appearances can be
misleading, though, and I've found it's a good idea to proceed with caution.
"You were wearing some interesting adornments. Are they for real, or just for
show?" "Oh, they're for real," she said. "Do you play?" Nothing subtle here, I
thought, but I never hesitate to make my situation known. "My wife and I both
play," I told her. "How long have you been in the scene?" "A couple of years,"
she replied. "I started when I was sixteen." Then I fell into the
first-impression trap. "Do you have a regular top?" "I used to bottom," she said
with a smile, "but I just top now. I'm thinking of becoming a pro Domme. Which
way do you play?" This eighteen-year-old with visions of sugar-plum dollar-signs
still has a few things to learn, I thought to myself. Like the fact that collars
are a symbol of submission, and Dominants who understand what they're into don't
wear them. "I top," I said dryly. We had now ruled out any possibility of mutual
play-interest. Each DJ at the club is a combination of a music-and-lights
controller and a carnival barker. I had pretty much tuned out the current one's
pitch until something changed in his tone. "And now," he announced with a
heightened vocal fervor, "the 1995 showgirl of the year . . ." I perked up a
bit. In a place like this, I thought, the showgirl of the year, even from a
couple of years ago, should be worth a look. ". . . and the 1996 and 1997
Po'Lympics champion . . ." What the fuck is a Po'Lympics? But I had no time to
puzzle that out. ". . . this is . . ." A long dramatic pause, then, in a voice
lowered half an octave in pitch and reduced to a hoarse whisper, ". . .
Tabitha!" I watched a slim woman stride confidently up onto the stage on
open-toe spike-heeled mules, the difference between heel and platform heights at
least five inches, and I knew instantly that Tabitha was as different from the
other dancers as night from day. Blonde hair a shoulder-length shag rather than
a mane, disdaining a lingerie-style outfit in favor of a short, shimmery dress,
older, more mature, and totally comfortable in her milieu, Tabitha moved with a
poised, vibrant energy. She quickly demonstrated, with feline grace and lithe
athleticism, what the term Po'Lympics meant; some girls had used the
stage-to-rafters brass poles as occasional dance props, but for Tabitha they
were erotic weapons, and her charismatic blend of bold sauciness and sinuous
sensuality was bewitching. The ambient tension had suddenly become electric;
conversations died, and I sensed the atmospheric change as her animal magnetism
grabbed and held the focus of every person in the room, dancers and customers
alike. Five breathtaking minutes later, Tabitha slipped back into her dress and
left the stage. I pushed my heart back down from my throat by sheer will-power,
sipped at my coke, and tried to redirect my thoughts by asking the Domme wannabe
still seated beside me, "Do any of the girls working here bottom?" "A few." She
mentioned a couple of names, and then she blew me completely away when she said,
". . . and Tabitha, from time to time." I couldn't believe my ears. "Tabitha?
Tabitha bottoms?" "That's right," she confirmed, and I discovered that the
minimum time needed for the mind to transform a mild vanilla attraction into a
raging D/s-bdsm fantasy can be too short to measure with anything less precise
than an atomic clock. I declined to buy the collared lady another drink, so she
left to prowl the rest of the room. When Tabitha came out of the dressing room,
I offered to buy her a drink and she sat down beside me. She drank coffee as we
talked, and I learned some things about her. Eventually, I turned our
conversation in the direction of my fantasies. "I understand you sometimes
bottom," I said as casually as I could manage. Tabitha nodded. "I love a good
flogging. The endorphins cut in and I just drift away; I have no idea where I am
or what's happening around me." We talked about different kinds of play, she
shared a couple of her previous experiences, and we discussed creative ways to
avoid, for obvious reasons, marking her during a scene. I had no idea where the
conversation might end up, but I do have one unusual method of putting
prospective play-partners at ease. "I write scene stories," I told her. "Would
you be interested in reading some of them?" "Sure," she replied. "I like to
read, but I haven't found much along those lines." "Wait here," I said, "I'll be
right back." I went out to my rental car, grabbed a manila envelope, and was
back inside in less than a minute. As I handed her the envelope, I explained,
"Both of these stories are reality-based." Tabitha surprised me by opening the
envelope, pulling out the pages, and starting to read. She quickly became
absorbed, and I could tell from her non-verbal reactions that she was relating
to the female narrator of my first-meeting story. After a few minutes, she
stopped reading and put the stories back in the envelope. I looked at her
questioningly, and she said, "I'll finish reading it later, at home. I'm getting
to the good part now." I had to chuckle at that; she had gotten past the
build-up to the actual first-meeting scene, and it was apparently starting to
turn her on. A few more customers had drifted in, and I wanted to spend more
time with her. One feature of this club is that a customer can "rent" a dancer
for a half-hour of relatively private interaction. All within the rules, of
course, but there's a back room with a small stage, leather couches, and lower
volume from the sound system. When I told Tabitha I wanted a rental, her
response gave me a warm feeling. "I don't like to do that when the club is
busy," she told me. "I can usually make more in the time of 10 to 12 songs out
here, but for you I'll do it." She took my hand and led me to the room, pointed
out her favorite couch, and sat on the edge of the stage across from me while we
sipped our drinks. We continued our conversation, and after about twenty minutes
she asked if I wanted her to dance for me. I'd not yet seen Tabitha do a couch
dance, and I was eagerly anticipating the experience, but I had been sitting a
long way from the stage and my eyesight is not the greatest. "I'd like you to
dance nude for one song," I told her, "so I can see all of your beauty up close.
Then you have to get dressed again, because I want to be even closer to you."
How corny can you get? I told myself. Still, her smile looks awfully genuine;
under the circumstances, perhaps she can accept sincere, non-drooling flattery
as a compliment. Beauty is in the eyes and the mind of the beholder, and I won't
even attempt to describe how beautiful Tabitha looked to me as she stepped onto
that small stage and started to move in a slow, sensual way. The dancer out on
the main stage who had selected the next song unwittingly cooperated; the music
was a soft, gentle ballad that was just what my fantasy needed. She teasingly
lifted her skirt for just a moment, flashing the thong she wore underneath, then
made love to the brass pole in a way that made me achingly aware of my fantasy
desire. When she whisked the dress up and off over her head, I saw for the first
time that Tabitha had more than just a tongue piercing; there was a delicate
silver dumbbell at the base of her semi-erect left nipple. She turned her back,
bending over to waggle her firm behind at me, and slowly slid the thong down
over her sleek thighs and shapely calves. When she gracefully collapsed onto the
stage and opened her legs in a startlingly shy-like manner, I caught sight of a
second delightful surprise, a tiny gold ring at the midpoint of her left inner
labium. I leaned forward, straining to memorize every line, every curve, every
square inch of her body. After that song ended, she dressed quickly. I confess
that I remember few details of her physical movements during one of the most
enjoyable experiences I've ever had. My most vivid recollections are of her
face, so close that I could count the tiny pores in her skin; her bright blue
eyes, gleaming with the inner knowledge of the gift she was bestowing by her
presence; her hair, brushing lightly along my arm as she changed positions
across my lap; her lips, moist and oh-so-kissable with their bright pink gloss;
and the heady ambrosia that is the scent of a woman who is keenly aware of her
own sexuality.
Part 2
Tabitha had told me she would be working on a specific night a few days in the
future, and I had been sitting in the club for about an hour when she arrived
just after ten that evening. She came directly to where I was sitting; I rose to
greet her, and she offered her cheek for a quick kiss. "I've had a few drinks,"
she confided. "Would you order a coffee for me? I've got to do a couple of
things, but I'll be back in a few minutes." She hesitated, then added softly, "I
finished reading your stories." There was alcohol on her breath, not
overpowering but noticeable. "Did they work for you?" I swear I saw a hint of a
blush in her cheeks. "Definitely," she told me, then headed for the area where
the dancers' dressing room and club office are located. I caught occasional
glimpses of her as she moved about that area, and I became concerned when she
did not return. The DJ started to announce her as the next dancer, then broke
off and quickly covered when he realized she was not standing by the stage ready
to perform. I motioned to one of the club managers, using the rapidly-cooling
coffee on the table before me as my reason for inquiring. "Is Tabitha all right?
She asked me to order her a coffee, but she's been in the back for quite a
while." After giving me a quick eye-flickering checkout, he assured me that she
would be right out. Then he headed for the club office, and a few minutes later
Tabitha walked over and sat down next to me with a bit of a sheepish expression.
"Are you OK?" I asked her. "I'm fine," she replied, "but I don't really feel
like getting up on that stage tonight." I wasn't sure whether I really believed
the first part of her response; alcohol can affect people in lots of different
ways. Nevertheless, she clearly wasn't completely under the influence, and if
the second part of what she said was true, I was possibly in luck. "How about
going in the back room?" I asked her. "Sure, let's do that," she replied, and
she sounded happy that I had suggested it. In the brighter lighting of that
space, more like a well-lit living room, I saw that her skin, a light golden tan
only a few days earlier, was bright red; she had, she whispered, spent too long
in the club's tanning bed. Then Tabitha was stretched out across my lap on her
tummy, her pert bottom tilted up, moving slowly in time with the music. I was
again enjoying that up-close view of her undulating body when she put her lips
next to my ear and whispered, "Do something a little bit naughty." I was
stunned. Fantasy was one thing, but she was inviting me to touch her. As
discreetly as possible I moved my left hand and slid my fingertips up the soft
surface of her thigh; her skin was hot from the sunburn and as smooth as a
baby's behind. As my hand moved past the crease where her thigh joined her
buttock, I felt her press upward against my palm. Emboldened, I raised my hand a
few inches and then brought it down, lightly but smartly, across the sweet spot
of her left ass cheek. "Aaaaaaahhhhhhhmmmmmmmm." It was halfway between a hum
and a moan, and as I glanced down and to the right I saw her eyes close and her
lips part. I swatted her again, then continued in a slow, steady rhythm, and
each time my hand landed she writhed on my lap and made little throaty sounds
that seemed part contentment and part arousal. After about a minute, she raised
her head and shifted position, rolling slightly away from me so her left hip was
cradled by the tops of my legs. "We have to be careful not to get caught," she
whispered. "I want to be totally submissive right now. We can go into one of the
corner booths, but we still need to be careful." "I'd rather go someplace where
we won't be concerned about that," I told her. "I didn't bring any of my toys on
this trip, but I'm sure I can figure something out." She thought about what I'd
said for an endless moment, and I was pretty sure she would decline my
suggestion. But then she nodded and said, "OK, and you can fuck me, but if you
want to do my ass you have to go slowly and use plenty of lube." "I won't fuck
you," I told her firmly. "That's not what this is about." She nodded again. "Let
me make some arrangements." She handed me a paper coaster and a pen. "Write down
where you're staying and directions; I'll be right back. Can you give me cab
fare?" "Of course," I replied, well aware of the need for discretion; it
wouldn't do for the two of us to be seen leaving the club together. I scribbled
the name of the hotel, my room number, and sketchy directions; the hotel was
right along one of the major area freeways. Then I took a twenty out of my
wallet and folded the coaster around it, and when she returned, I handed it to
her. She glanced quickly at what I'd written, then said, "I have to make a safe
call in two hours. You go ahead, and I'll be right behind you." "I'll be waiting
in the lobby," I told her. I left the club and drove the few miles to my hotel.
Rather than take the time to go up to my room and possibly not be downstairs
when she arrived, I took my briefcase and sat in the deserted hotel lobby. I
pulled out the paperback I'd been reading during lunches and at other odd times;
it was, by a marvelous coincidence, The Loving Dominant by John Warren.
Precisely at one o'clock a cab pulled up under the hotel portico, and I stood as
she got out and walked toward the doors dressed in a V-neck pullover sweater,
hip-hugging slacks, and high-heeled ankle-strap sandals. The hotel bar was
closed, so we couldn't stop for the glass of wine she suggested. I offered her
my arm, which she took, and we reviewed the safewords we would use as we headed
for the elevators. Tabitha appeared to be a little nervous, and her next words
confirmed my perception. "I've never done this kind of scene before with someone
I just met," she said. "I understand, and I know you're feeling a little tense
right now. Despite the safe-call arrangement, you're taking a real risk, and my
telling you that you're perfectly safe doesn't do much to reassure you. So we'll
start very slowly and see what happens. How long since you've had sex?" "Three
or four weeks, I guess." "That's quite a while," I ventured. "Surely you've done
yourself during that time." "Well, yes, but that's not the same." We were in the
elevator by then, and I opened my arms and waited for her to step into them. I
hugged her, careful to not press her too tightly, and she seemed to relax a
little. I released her as the car neared my floor, and she stepped back with an
audible sigh. One milestone passed, I thought. Easy does it. We walked side by
side down the hall; I fished the electronic key out of my wallet, opened the
door, reached for the light switch just inside, and motioned for her to precede
me. We stood at the foot of the bed, facing each other. "What do you want me to
call you?" she asked. "'Sir' will be fine," I replied. "I've never called anyone
'Sir'. Is it OK if I call you Daddy, and I'm your little girl?" My thoughts
raced. That's an interesting fantasy she has. Given the difference in our ages,
it could be a pretty realistic one. "Sure, you can call me that if you like."
She got immediately into her fantasy head-space. "I've been good, Daddy." "I
don't know about that, little girl. You were naughty back at the club; I think
you need to be punished." "No, no, Daddy, I've been good," she protested,
completely in character for the role she was playing. I sat down on the end of
the bed and reached for her waist to pull her, still fully clothed, across my
lap. She resisted, continuing to profess innocence, but I pulled a little harder
and she flopped down into position. I put my right hand on the small of her back
and gave her a very light swat on her fabric-covered left ass cheek with my
other hand. When she didn't object or struggle to lift herself up, I continued
in a slow rhythm, alternating on her two sweet spots and very gradually
increasing the force of my spanks. I was gratified to see her start to claw at
the bedspread with her outstretched hands, pulling the heavy material towards
her and bunching it up in front of her face as she lay there. Tabitha said
"yellow" two or three times, reminding me once about the sunburn hidden under
her slacks, and each time I eased off on the force of my swats more than enough
for her to know I was respecting her safeword. After several minutes and perhaps
twenty-five or thirty swats, I stopped spanking and moved my hand in slow
caressing circles over her still-clothes-protected behind. She grabbed handfuls
of the bedspread, a clear signal of enjoyment, and she made no attempt to move
away from my touch. "I really wish I'd brought my toy-bag on this trip," I
muttered. "So do I," she whispered, and her obvious desire tore at my
heart-strings. I'd never done this kind of a pseudo-incestuous age-play scene,
but I was determined to try to relate to her fantasy. "I don't think you're
feeling punished by this, little girl," I said quietly. "I think you need these
touches on your bare skin." "But Daddy, I really have been good." "I'm not
convinced," I said mock-sternly. "Stand up." Tabitha complied in silence, and I
reached for the hem of her sweater with both hands. "Arms up over your head," I
commanded, and I pulled the sweater past her perfect little breasts until it was
tangled in her hair. Her face was obscured, but covered loosely enough to avoid
breathing problems or panic, and her arms, still encased in the sweater sleeves,
were upraised. Holding the sweater with my right hand, I slid the fingertips of
my left across her breasts to lightly tease her undecorated, but now fully
erect, right nipple, and she started to squirm, rotating her hips in a wide
circle. I bent over and placed my mouth gently over that areola, flicking my
tongue across her nipple and feeling it stiffen even more; I grabbed her wrists
over her head to preclude more violent motions, keeping her standing in place
and accepting the stimulation. "Daddy, please," she whined. "If you're going to
do this, I didn't have a chance to shower before I left that other place; can I
take a quick shower now?" I could think of several reasons for that in-role
request, all positive, so I quickly acquiesced. "Certainly, little girl; I want
you to be uncomfortable, but only with your punishment." I grabbed the ends of
the sweater sleeves and pulled it free of her hands, then helped her disentangle
her hair from the neck opening. She slipped her thumbs into the top of her
slacks and pushed them down over her hips; she wasn't wearing any underwear.
"Naughty, naughty," I chided her. "Good little girls don't go without panties.
I'll have to punish you for that, too, you know." Tabitha hung her head in
non-verbal submission, then bent over, unfastened the straps on her shoes, and
walked out of them toward the bathroom. I went around and ahead of her, turning
on and adjusting the water and pulling the curtain aside, then taking her arm to
assist her as she stepped over the front of the tub. I peeked past the curtain a
couple of times, but mostly I let her take as long as she wanted in the shower.
Eventually she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped fetchingly in a big towel, its
bulky whiteness a sharp contrast against her sunburned skin. She complained of a
bit of a chill, so I pulled back the covers and watched her slide into one side
of the king-size bed. I brought the covers up over her thighs, then went to the
thermostat and adjusted it for more heat. I sat down on the edge of the bed next
to her and said, "Put your hands together behind your neck, and don't move
them." Again she responded without speaking, and I slid one hand under the
covers and began stroking her silky thighs, slowly moving my hand higher and
higher but stroking outward toward her hip and avoiding her shaved pussy. After
perhaps thirty seconds of that treatment, I saw her hands start to move apart.
"Keep still," I directed. "It's hard to do that," she complained, but it wasn't
a serious protest and she quickly put them back in place. The room was warmer by
then, so I pushed the covers aside and slapped lightly at the inner surface of
her right thigh. "It's supposed to be difficult," I said, "that's part of the
punishment. Now keep them where they're supposed to be or it'll be worse for
you." "Yes, Daddy, I'll try," she answered, and her tone now was a petulant sort
of simper. I unwrapped the towel from her body, and she raised up so I could
pull it out from under her. I reached up and tweaked her nipples, first one and
then the other, between my thumb and forefinger, then took the right one more
firmly and began to squeeze. As I very carefully increased the pressure, her
hips humped upward, her hands started to move and then slid back into position,
and she gasped softly, but there was not the slightest negative reaction. I was
watching her face closely, and when she started to part her lips to speak I held
the pressure for just a half-second longer and then partially released it.
"Aaaahhhh," she moaned, but it was a sound of pleasure, not discomfort. "I'm a
good girl, Daddy, let me show you how good I am." She lowered her gaze in an
ostentatious display of modesty, but when she looked back up at me there was a
mischievous glint in her sparkling eyes. "I think you're mostly good at naughty
things," I said, "so show me how naughty you can be and suck me." Tabitha didn't
hesitate at all; she was grinning like a little girl who's just been offered the
biggest lollipop in the candy store as I started to loosen my belt. I undid the
top of my pants and she swung her body around to yank them and my shorts down in
a single motion. Then she lay across my thighs on her left side, facing me, and
did an excellent imitation of a sword-swallower, engulfing my cock into the warm
wetness of her mouth while holding the part that wouldn't fit with both hands.
As I got harder she had to rise up to keep my length between her lips, and her
head bobbed up and down as her talented tongue bathed my stiffness. At one point
she let me slip out of her mouth and smiled up at me, her hands now moving
busily. "Want me to lick your balls?" she asked coquettishly. I shook my head;
the feel of her tongue sliding across the crown of my cock and then tickling
just below the sensitive rim was excruciatingly pleasurable, and I didn't want
her to stop for even a few seconds. She smiled again, this time knowingly, then
resumed her ardent oral ministrations. She knows she's damn good, I said to
myself. I wonder if she suspects that "Bread cast upon the waters . . ." is an
apt quotation and that I can give better than I get. As good as she was, I knew
I wasn't close to coming and I figured it was time for some turn-about. Sitting
up, I put my hands on her head and gently lifted her, sliding slowly out between
her encircling lips. I rolled her over onto her back and moved my body up
between her legs until my cock rested against her bald pubes, then took a
handful of her golden locks in my fist and kissed her for the first time. She
tried to pull away, but it was playful resistance; she had told me she liked
having her hair used to hold her still. I thrust my tongue into her mouth, and
she opened wider, trying to hide her tongue from mine, but I was insistent, and
when they eventually met I felt a strong tingle in my groin. Having achieved my
immediate goal, I ended the kiss, maintaining my grip on her hair as I lowered
my head to nibble at her firm breasts and stiffly upstanding nipples. She
squirmed her lower body against me, increasing the friction of our genital
contact, and then she tossed me a live grenade. "Fuck me," she whispered, her
tone pleading. "Please fuck me." I lifted myself away from her, looking down at
her face from a variant of what the military types call the front-leaning-rest
position. God, I was tempted! She knew my first-meeting rules, she'd read them
in my story, and I'd told her back at the club that fucking her was outside my
limits, yet here she was, practically begging for it. There isn't a straight man
alive of any age or temperament who wouldn't have been at least slightly tempted
by such a delicious morsel laying naked and wide open under him. I didn't want
to refuse her outright, so I reached for the obvious barrier. "I don't have any
protection," I said. "That's all right," she replied. "I just got my three-month
shot, so I can't get pregnant." Oh, great, I thought, but there's another reason
for using a condom, even though I hate them. "You couldn't get pregnant anyway,
I've had a vasectomy," I replied. "But there are other reasons for using
protection." "You don't have to worry about that," she wheedled. "I've just been
to the doctor, I had a complete check-up with all the tests, and they were all
negative." I wasn't about to get into a debate over the counter-arguments; it
can take twelve weeks or longer for an HIV transmittal to show up on a test, and
there isn't a test for Herpes. The bottom line is both simple and incredibly
complicated, I told myself. Tabitha's telling me that she trusts me to be safe
in a health sense, and I need to deny her request without sending the message
that I don't trust her the same way. In the end, my conscience overcame my
gonads, and I fell back on an old cliché: When all else fails, tell the truth.
"I really, really want to," I told her. "You cannot begin to imagine how
flattered I am that you want that with me, but I can't. I promised that I
wouldn't do anything like that outside my committed relationship, and I just
can't do it. But I do want to give you pleasure, and there are other ways." Her
expression showed disappointment rather than hurt, so I can only assume she
believed it wasn't a matter of trust between us. Pushing myself from between her
legs, I swung her around until she was sideways across the bed. Then I took her
slim ankles in my hands and raised them, causing her to bend her knees, and
planted her feet at the edge of the bed, spread far enough apart so that her
legs fell away to the sides, leaving the flower of her womanhood open and
exposed. I could see shiny traces of moisture on her labia, and her delicate
musk was the ultimate stimulant. I traced the outline of her pussy with my right
forefinger, then slipped it gently inside her velvet-soft tunnel. I can't
believe she's had a baby through there, my brain raved. She's as tight as an
anxious virgin. I extended my tongue and let it seek the eventual trigger of her
release, still hidden within its protective sheath. She tasted incredibly sweet,
and when the tip of my tongue touched her clit her juices flowed out past my
finger and into my palm. "More," she urged, and as I continued to lick her I was
able to slip a second finger in alongside the first. Her tiny joy-button was
stiffly erect now, and I was amazed to be able to insert a third finger into her
now thoroughly relaxed vagina. "Please, use your other hand too," she groaned.
One play-item I did have was a small bottle of lubricant that I'd set discreetly
behind the nightstand clock while Tabitha was showering, and I hurried to
one-handedly douse the middle finger of my left hand. I rested its tip against
her anal pucker, waited patiently until I felt the subtle tell-tale indication
that she was ready for the invasion, then pushed as lightly as I could. After
her earlier expressed cautions, I was inordinately proud of myself as that digit
slid slowly into her slick rear passage without a hint of discomfort for her.
Now, I told myself, it's time for what the NASA folks call main engine start. I
began a complex syncopation of motion with both hands, locked my lips on the
upper third of her pussy slit, and thrashed my tongue back and forth over her
hard little clit. "Yes, oh, yes, that's it, lick me there, right there," she
chanted, and her entire body vibrated as she approached liftoff. Her hands
tightened on my shoulders, her chest surged with sped-up panting, and the
muscles in her legs clenched as she headed steeply up the mountain of ecstasy.
Then she released one of my shoulders and clamped down even harder on the other,
her nails digging into my skin, and without slackening anything I was doing I
looked up past her rippling belly to see the starburst unfold. Tabitha put the
back of her free wrist against her mouth, and her contorted facial expression
was ample evidence of her struggle to remain silent as a violent orgasm surged
through her. I watched her ride that pulsing wave higher and higher, and then
she suddenly dug in her heels and pushed herself off my still-moving tongue and
fingers; the exquisite sensations had reached the point of overload. She pressed
both her hands into her crotch, covering her pussy with overlapping palms, and
pulled her thighs together tightly to increase the hand-pressure. I stretched
out beside her, my head propped on my left hand, and tenderly stroked damp
tendrils of hair away from her face. "My clit is still throbbing," she
whispered. "That was wonderful." With what could have been a lot worse timing,
the quiet warble of a pager intruded on Tabitha's afterglow and my basking in
its reflection. We both glanced at the clock; it read 2:35, and she shrugged
apologetically. "I know it's early," she said, "but the club's closed now and my
friend's probably antsy." She got up, retrieved her pager, looked at it quickly,
then returned it to her purse and gestured toward the phone. I nodded, and she
lifted the receiver and dialed; the ensuing exchange was terse. "Hi," she said.
"I'm fine, I just got here a little later. I'll be calling a cab at three." She
listened for a few seconds, then said, "Right, bye," and hung up. Tabitha came
around the bed, unself-consciously naked, her hair tousled, and lay down in the
crook of my outstretched right arm. I enfolded her waist, and she snuggled up
against me, her head on my shoulder. Then she reached down and took my half-hard
cock in her hand and began to slowly stroke up and down its length. "That's not
necessary," I whispered. "I've had my pleasure giving you yours." She gave me a
last gentle caress. "Then I guess it's 'blue' now, the end of the scene. I wish
I could just go to sleep with you, but I can't." "I wish you could also," I
answered. "There are a few things more intimate than sex, and waking up with you
next to me would be another sort of fantasy come true. But I understand, and the
thought is taken for the deed." Tabitha kissed the side of my neck, then my
cheek, with real tenderness, and then she lifted her head and stared at me for a
long moment. Without breaking the eye contact she'd established, she said two
brief sentences, and those seven little words were for me, as a top, the twin
peaks of personal gratification; they gave a mental orgasm more thrilling than
any physical release could possibly be. "Thank you," she said. "I trust you
totally now."
Bewertung
(0 Bewertungen)Zum Bewerten bitte einloggen oder registrieren.
Du musst eingeloggt sein um Kommentare schreiben zu können. Klicke hier um dich jetzt zu registrieren.
Impressum