Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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Author’s note: – This is my first submission so constructive feedbacks are welcome.
Here was this mystery woman, standing at my bedroom door, her carefully matched white panties and perhaps too small sports bra hinting at the shape of things to come. Her hair was short but wavy, falling over her black-rimmed glasses. She was attractive, until you peered beneath the surface.
She demurely raised her hand to the light switch and flicked it up. I was lying in my bed, my shirt off and my jeans becoming tighter and tighter. She moved her foot. I noticed her thigh trembling. She was nervous.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ cool.” More to herself than to me, it seemed. I blinked my eyes and she walked towards the bed. She crawled onto the end of it, her breasts grazing my feet as she moved up, towards me.
“So this is not what you expected huh?” She smiled, timidly. No, it wasn’t. I had heard of her for almost a year and a half. When we first spoke on the phone, I asked her out immediately. A movie, restaurant, play….I don’t remember where it was and it doesn’t matter. She soundly refused me and that was that. She was the friend of a friend of a friend, a roommate’s colleague’s girlfriend…..some sort of twisted social chain.
Over the months we’d become phone buddies. She was faint heart and between anti- depressants, therapist visits and panic attacks. She filled her time with booze and men. It just turned out that I was the flavor of the night.
She moved up my body like a hot shower, leaving any exposed flesh tickly and tingly. I reached up and touched, explored for the first time. Earlier in the evening, I had a quick glimpse of cleavage through her blouse and a casual examination of her figure as she walked towards me in the crowed mall and introduced herself. I knew, intellectually, what I was about to experience.
She kissed and kissed well. Not the happy- sloppy lap with tongue that some women do. Not the pinch-lipped, defensive, virginal kisses. But even, enticing, welcoming kisses. She stopped and took off her black-rimmed glasses.
“You are blurry now,” She giggled and dove into my chest, searching and exploring with her hands. Quietly, without much enthusiasm, I returned the favor.
Her sports bra was next to depart, bored with the scene. I threw out all pretenses and scoured her body with my eyes. Every curve and line, her hardening nipples, the sleek line of her shoulders I committed to memory in a single moonlit second.
My hands found her trembling things. I ran my hand along them.
“Relax,” I said, not too shortly.
I didn’t want her to think I liked her. I did, but not forever. I was going to like her very much for this night. But tomorrow, I’d like her as much as yesterday. She straddled me and sat back.
My excitement was obvious and that gave her power, certain leverage. And I could see she liked that. She sat with a wicked grin, swaying slowly. Feeling frustrated and vulnerable, I sat up and canlı bahis flipped her over; I put my weight on her and held her down. She responded by arching her back and opening her legs. So, I thought, now we understand one another. Not that I had any doubts as to her particular brand of kink. You can sense it on women usually. Smell it on them.
“You like them?” she asked, wiggling her medium-small breasts, back and forth, like bait for a lion.
“Yes,” I said stupidly, grabbing a breast and squeezing it, rolling my thumb across her nipple. She smiled.
“My mom has huge tits,” she said, quite matter-of-factly. I wasn’t sure how to react. My first thought was what I was doing with her then. But my brain filter kicked in and I said, “Oh?”
“Yes, huge. I wish I had tits like her.”
I pinched her nipple. Me too, I thought.
“Pinch harder if you want, or suck,’ she urged. “It’s no big deal.”
I considered. To my regret she went on, “It doesn’t do much for me. But I know guys like it.”
I pushed in my tongue and finger assault and looked at her. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I’m drunk. That’s no surprise, but this girl is bizarre. Quick, say something.
“No pleasure at all?” I asked.
“None.” Came here reply.
I unceremoniously gripped the waistband of her contrived white panties and pulled them down. She lifted herself to accommodate my desire and in one moment, they’d gone, joining the sports bra on the floor.
What I found was no surprise. Fashionable as she was, she and her razor gad endeavored to emulate the late 90’s trend in pornography, keeping everything sleek-smooth, everyday, because you never know.
Moments passed strangely. She closed her eyes and I cursed I suddenly cursed my self for not trimming my fingernails, you know, because you never know. I got over it. When I called her earlier in the evening, I said, “You, me, drink until someone fall.” And here we were both of us on our backs. So my fingers flashed back through every girl I’d ever touched and every lecture I’d ever heard and every drunken conversation with anyone who’s ever touched a woman. Every woman is different! A thousand voices slurred in my head.
I focused my efforts. Every woman is different, but this one like it rough and is drunk. She put her hand on my shoulder, pushed gently. I smiled to myself. I knew that push. It was a push I’d given to many women in my life time. It was the subtle way of saying “Put it in your mouth.”
So I played dumb, until she finally broke down and asked. Time is an odd thing when you’re fooling around with someone. You want to get in as much of everything as possible, but ultimately, you want to screw. And eventually, someone will break, give in and just get to the act. She broke before me.
“Let me see it?” she asked.
Again I considered. I sensed the warning signals. My drunkenness was fading. No, I decided. Better not add this one to the list.
“Sorry, let’s not, it’ll make our bahis siteleri friendship weird”, I said as if it wasn’t already.
“Come on”, she insisted, “Let me see it.”
She pushed me off her, rolling onto me. “Come on.” She began to tug my jeans.
“No. I’m not going to make love to you”, I said a little assertively.
“What, why not? What’s the matter? Decide it’s too loose for you?”
On top of me, completely naked, she ground herself against my crotch and tore at my jeans.
“Cut it out!” I said, grabbing her wrist. Her other hand pulled the snap on my pants loose and pulled at the zipper clumsily. I grabbed both her wrists.
“NO”, I said to her, squeezing her wrists.
“Come on.” She licked her top lip just a little and pushed her shoulders back, her breasts jutting forward. “I’m pretty good.”
“Listen, the sun will be out soon. Let’s sleep or if you want, I’ll work you over with one of your toys, but I’m not going to make love to you.”
Her eyes narrowed. Rejection, that’s what I read in her eyes, cold and clear. Then I read hate. She pulled at my pants, hoping to slide them down before I could get then refastened.
She fought over my pants for a while then anger crept up on me like a hangover. Slow at first, a simple feeling of discomfort and vague nausea, then full on sickness. In this case it was rage. She would rape me if I let her.
“No means NO.” I said, thinking back to all those public announcements, those anti-date-rape articles in women’s magazines. It worked; she stopped instantly, frozen by words. My anger subsided; I knew I’d chosen my words correctly. She lay down on top of me.
“It’s okay. Let’s just lay here, close”, she purred.
I watched her curl up and close her eyes. The next morning I found a note: “Had a good time. I’ll call you tonight.”
That night, I got an email from her “I’m sorry for my behavior. I hope we can still be friends.”
I felt bad for her. I called her promptly, suggesting we meet over dinner at a restaurant close to her place. She readily agreed.
It was raining that evening and it took me longer to cut through the late hour traffic to reach the restaurant. She was already there on an empty table. I apologized profusely before pulling a chair.
“You think a lot”, she said, studying me. Her eyes were pretty, but vacant.
“Isn’t that what you do?” I asked.
“Not like you do.” She stared at me. I stared back. Who was this woman? What did she think of herself? She was not my wife. A girlfriend? No, not even that. She was just a girl. A companion for the evening, nothing more, probably much less. No need to explain the complexities of my thought processes to her. No need to explain what I thought about the nature of reality. None of that mattered to her.
What did matter to her then? I resigned myself to trying to take another look at her. Try to figure out what she was interested in. What was she thinking about?
I took a sip of my drink and lit bahis şirketleri a cigarette. It was a way for me to occupy myself without making eye contact.
“What do you think about?” I asked finally.
She looked shocked, stunned even. It was as though I had asked her what color panties she had on or is she spits or swallows.
“What do you think about?” I repeated, trying to break through her disbelief.
“Lots of things…” she started to say.
I looked at her fingernails as she reached for her pineapple juice. This was for prissy women who are too ashamed to admit they actually want to get drunk and have sex. It was an excuse drink. They can drink three of them and act like they are drunk.
I decided to press her for what she did indeed think about.
“You must certainly think about your fingernails.” I commented absently.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, they are manicured to near perfection.” I told her matter-of-factly. She seemed to be upset that I’d said near.
“Do you do them yourself?”
“No, I go to a parlor,” She said excitedly, but a little contemptuously. Was I supposed to have know where she had her nails done by the shine of them?
“I see”, I said.
I didn’t really. Not at all. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate beauty and a woman who takes care of herself. But the void in this girls head was astounding. If she spent half as much time thinking as she did fussing with her nails, she’s de an astrophysicist. I’ve decided this whole operation is a bust, so I might as well have fun with it.
“Do you know any interesting trivia?” I ask her innocently.
“Some. I know the names of all the boys in Boy zone.” She was serious.
“Wow.” I said as evenly as I can, suppressing gag
“What about you?” she asked
“Well, did you know only one in five men wash their hands in wash room?”
She stared at me. I pounced
“It’s true. After the third beer, most men barely even bother pissing in the urinals. In fact, that lack of hand washing is the number one reason for yeast infection in women’s.” She stared at me.
I stood saying, “I’ve got to use the rest room. If the waiter comes by, order me a beer huh? I said gesturing to the two empty bottles on our table. I walked away, snickering.
In the rest room, I find a guy sniffing coke in the mirror, talking on his cell phone. Part of me wants to slam him against the mirror and pretend I’m a cop. You know, shake him down, take his coke and maybe even his wallet. What’s he going to do? Call the cops and say someone took his coke? Not if I take cell phone too!
The part of me that just wants to piss wins out and I go stand in from of the urinal. As I piss, I listen in to his conversation. “Yeah, I finished the painting. No, man. That last batch we baked just knocked me out.”
I roll my eyes as hard as I can and finish up. I have to push him aside to wash my hands before I return to my table.
I find her sitting where I left her, looking somewhat lost. I decided to press my luck. I reached out and grabbed her hands. “Your nails are nice.” I say, being sure to run my fingers all over hers.
To Be Continued…
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32