Nik Satyr
01-26-2004, 02:08 AM
For my muse. . .
The first time I saw her I was nineteen years old. She was in a bookstore on Lee street that has closed down now; one that I frequented at the time because it had an amazing selection of classic erotica--My Secret Life, The Pearl, Autobiography of a Flea. I came into the aisle containing all the works by Anonymous and she was standing there, engrossed in a copy of Fanny Hill. She didn't fit this college town at all--mid-30's when everyone else was either under 25 or over 45; dressed in heels, a long, black sheath skirt slit up far enough to catch a glimpse of the top of her black stocking, and a tight, shiny silver scoop-neck that showed much more than a glimpse of cleavage when in this town, sweatpants are considered evening wear. She looked as though she had dropped in from another, sexier, more sophisticated city. Not wanting to disturb her (and a little intimidated) I started to back away thinking of heading to the travel section. As I did so, she glanced up, looked straight at me and smiled without a trace of embarassment. I returned the smile a little sheepishly. She kept her gaze on me for a long moment. Getting the feeling I was being evaluated, I smirked a little and leant (I hoped nonchalantly) against the bookcase. After a second she broke the gaze and looked back down at the book, making me wonder if I had passed or failed the test. As I watched, she took a pen, wrote something in the inside cover of the book and returned it to the shelf. Then, without a word or a look, she walked past me toward the front of the store, brushing against me and leaving me in a cloud of (I guessed) expensive perfume. I watched her go, her shoulders back, her hips swivelling and I knew she knew I was watching.
As soon as she was out of sight, I went over to the shelf to look for the book she had written in. On the inside cover were a phone number and the admonition, "Buy this book." Never one to reject advice (especially from someone like that) I waited a few minutes to make sure she had left and bought the book. I called the number as soon as I returned to my room. She answered on the first ring,
"Hello," she said.
"Hi, um, this is. . . I'm the guy from the bookstore. My name's. . ."
"Don't tell me your name, child. Tomorrow at two o'clock come to my house. 218 Clinton street. I'll be waiting for you." She spoke curtly, as if somewhat annoyed by my eagerness.
I had to skip an anthropology class in order to be on time to meet her, but I reckoned that this was going to be a far more anthropologically enlightening experience than listening to Professor Schneider for an hour. I agonized for hours over what to wear, deciding in the end on a pair of jeans, motorcycle boots and a tight plain black T-shirt--simple but (hopefully) with a hint of elegance. If I had hoped to somehow compliment what she was wearing, I needn't have bothered. She answered the door stark naked but for a pair of stocking and black high heels. I was speechless, not only because she was naked (although that was surprising); but because her body--heavy, full breasted, round-hipped and with a thick triangle of curly black hair on her mound--was so very different from the narrow-hipped, high-breasted, cleanly-shaven girls I had been with. It was the first time I had been in a situation that was so brazenly sexual with a woman who looked like, well, a woman.
As minutely as I was examining her, however, she was doing the same to me; fixing me with the same cool gaze that she had used at the bookstore. For a long time we looked at each other and after a while I realized that she was standing in full view of anyone walking down the street. The realization brought a prickle of fear along the hairs on the back of my neck but it seemed not to bother her at all.
"Would you like to come in, Child?" she purred, smiling faintly. (Apparently I had again passed the test.) Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded and followed her inside.
As we walked down the hallway I found myself mesmerized by her walk, the way she so casually turned her back on a complete stranger, how her hips and ass moved with each step. My breathing became a little strangled; I tried (I think successfully) to hide it. Glancing around, I began to notice the house; it was large and modern but seemed oddly empty of things--furniture, bric-a-brac, art. It was almost as if this were a stage set waiting for props or a place someone was about to move out of. This didn't strike one as a house anyone lived in.
She didn't say anything at all as she led me through the house, apparently not the least uncomfortable with the silence, but when we entered her bedroom she turned around and holding a finger to my lips to silence me, she said,
"There are only two rules--one, no names, and two, you do exactly as I say--do you agree to these conditions?" I nodded, her finger still on my lips.
"Good," she said, smiling wolfishly, "Now the rules for today are as follows: You may not touch me with your hands, you will keep your pants on. You may, however, remove your shirt." This last was uttered far more as a command than a request. I immediately removed my shirt.
As I straightened up, her face changed, her expression going from cool complacency to eagerness, her eyes softening and her mouth opening slightly. She moved toward me and began to kiss my mouth, planting dozens of small open-mouth kisses on my face and along the line of my jaw. Lightly, and then not so lightly, she stroked my sides and chest with her long fingernails. Moving down, she continued to kiss my chest. Opening her mouth, she delicately trailed the tip of her tongue down my neck and chest finally sucking one of my nipples into the warm wetness of her mouth. I moaned and she laughed, reaching down to cup the bulge in my pants. I was painfully hard.
"Kiss me." She said giggling at my helplessness. I bent down to kiss her mouth but she pulled back.
"No." She said, and falling back on the bed, she spread her legs. I knelt before her like a supplicant, trailing kisses along the soft flesh of her inner thighs and blowing gently on her moist slit. She moaned and grabbed my head, pushing my mouth into her wetness. Grabbing the underside of the mattress with my hands to steady myself I started in earnest, licking and nibbling her slit moving slowly up toward her clit. Apparently, I was moving too slowly.
"Suck it," she hissed, "suck my clit into your mouth." I did as I was told without hesitation, taking her aroused flesh into my mouth, sucking it as she had done to my nipple earlier. Her response was immediate, her hips began to rise off the bed, pushing herself against my mouth, and her fingers began to tangle themselves in my hair until she was pulling it painfully. She began to spasm against me and I knew she was coming.
After a few seconds, she fell back limp against the bed. Her breathing was labored and as I stood up I could she the flush of blood coming into her face and the tops of her breasts. Unsure of what to do, I stood, somewhat self-consciously, watching her. She opened her eyes and looked up at me.
"Well done, Child." she said huskily, "You may come back again tomorrow, but tomorrow, bring a friend. You can see yourself out." With that she turned away.
I retrieved my shirt, and after a long look at her naked, supine body, went to leave.
As I walked through her oddly impersonal house, I realized with some discomfort that I had come in my pants.
To be continued. . .
The first time I saw her I was nineteen years old. She was in a bookstore on Lee street that has closed down now; one that I frequented at the time because it had an amazing selection of classic erotica--My Secret Life, The Pearl, Autobiography of a Flea. I came into the aisle containing all the works by Anonymous and she was standing there, engrossed in a copy of Fanny Hill. She didn't fit this college town at all--mid-30's when everyone else was either under 25 or over 45; dressed in heels, a long, black sheath skirt slit up far enough to catch a glimpse of the top of her black stocking, and a tight, shiny silver scoop-neck that showed much more than a glimpse of cleavage when in this town, sweatpants are considered evening wear. She looked as though she had dropped in from another, sexier, more sophisticated city. Not wanting to disturb her (and a little intimidated) I started to back away thinking of heading to the travel section. As I did so, she glanced up, looked straight at me and smiled without a trace of embarassment. I returned the smile a little sheepishly. She kept her gaze on me for a long moment. Getting the feeling I was being evaluated, I smirked a little and leant (I hoped nonchalantly) against the bookcase. After a second she broke the gaze and looked back down at the book, making me wonder if I had passed or failed the test. As I watched, she took a pen, wrote something in the inside cover of the book and returned it to the shelf. Then, without a word or a look, she walked past me toward the front of the store, brushing against me and leaving me in a cloud of (I guessed) expensive perfume. I watched her go, her shoulders back, her hips swivelling and I knew she knew I was watching.
As soon as she was out of sight, I went over to the shelf to look for the book she had written in. On the inside cover were a phone number and the admonition, "Buy this book." Never one to reject advice (especially from someone like that) I waited a few minutes to make sure she had left and bought the book. I called the number as soon as I returned to my room. She answered on the first ring,
"Hello," she said.
"Hi, um, this is. . . I'm the guy from the bookstore. My name's. . ."
"Don't tell me your name, child. Tomorrow at two o'clock come to my house. 218 Clinton street. I'll be waiting for you." She spoke curtly, as if somewhat annoyed by my eagerness.
I had to skip an anthropology class in order to be on time to meet her, but I reckoned that this was going to be a far more anthropologically enlightening experience than listening to Professor Schneider for an hour. I agonized for hours over what to wear, deciding in the end on a pair of jeans, motorcycle boots and a tight plain black T-shirt--simple but (hopefully) with a hint of elegance. If I had hoped to somehow compliment what she was wearing, I needn't have bothered. She answered the door stark naked but for a pair of stocking and black high heels. I was speechless, not only because she was naked (although that was surprising); but because her body--heavy, full breasted, round-hipped and with a thick triangle of curly black hair on her mound--was so very different from the narrow-hipped, high-breasted, cleanly-shaven girls I had been with. It was the first time I had been in a situation that was so brazenly sexual with a woman who looked like, well, a woman.
As minutely as I was examining her, however, she was doing the same to me; fixing me with the same cool gaze that she had used at the bookstore. For a long time we looked at each other and after a while I realized that she was standing in full view of anyone walking down the street. The realization brought a prickle of fear along the hairs on the back of my neck but it seemed not to bother her at all.
"Would you like to come in, Child?" she purred, smiling faintly. (Apparently I had again passed the test.) Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded and followed her inside.
As we walked down the hallway I found myself mesmerized by her walk, the way she so casually turned her back on a complete stranger, how her hips and ass moved with each step. My breathing became a little strangled; I tried (I think successfully) to hide it. Glancing around, I began to notice the house; it was large and modern but seemed oddly empty of things--furniture, bric-a-brac, art. It was almost as if this were a stage set waiting for props or a place someone was about to move out of. This didn't strike one as a house anyone lived in.
She didn't say anything at all as she led me through the house, apparently not the least uncomfortable with the silence, but when we entered her bedroom she turned around and holding a finger to my lips to silence me, she said,
"There are only two rules--one, no names, and two, you do exactly as I say--do you agree to these conditions?" I nodded, her finger still on my lips.
"Good," she said, smiling wolfishly, "Now the rules for today are as follows: You may not touch me with your hands, you will keep your pants on. You may, however, remove your shirt." This last was uttered far more as a command than a request. I immediately removed my shirt.
As I straightened up, her face changed, her expression going from cool complacency to eagerness, her eyes softening and her mouth opening slightly. She moved toward me and began to kiss my mouth, planting dozens of small open-mouth kisses on my face and along the line of my jaw. Lightly, and then not so lightly, she stroked my sides and chest with her long fingernails. Moving down, she continued to kiss my chest. Opening her mouth, she delicately trailed the tip of her tongue down my neck and chest finally sucking one of my nipples into the warm wetness of her mouth. I moaned and she laughed, reaching down to cup the bulge in my pants. I was painfully hard.
"Kiss me." She said giggling at my helplessness. I bent down to kiss her mouth but she pulled back.
"No." She said, and falling back on the bed, she spread her legs. I knelt before her like a supplicant, trailing kisses along the soft flesh of her inner thighs and blowing gently on her moist slit. She moaned and grabbed my head, pushing my mouth into her wetness. Grabbing the underside of the mattress with my hands to steady myself I started in earnest, licking and nibbling her slit moving slowly up toward her clit. Apparently, I was moving too slowly.
"Suck it," she hissed, "suck my clit into your mouth." I did as I was told without hesitation, taking her aroused flesh into my mouth, sucking it as she had done to my nipple earlier. Her response was immediate, her hips began to rise off the bed, pushing herself against my mouth, and her fingers began to tangle themselves in my hair until she was pulling it painfully. She began to spasm against me and I knew she was coming.
After a few seconds, she fell back limp against the bed. Her breathing was labored and as I stood up I could she the flush of blood coming into her face and the tops of her breasts. Unsure of what to do, I stood, somewhat self-consciously, watching her. She opened her eyes and looked up at me.
"Well done, Child." she said huskily, "You may come back again tomorrow, but tomorrow, bring a friend. You can see yourself out." With that she turned away.
I retrieved my shirt, and after a long look at her naked, supine body, went to leave.
As I walked through her oddly impersonal house, I realized with some discomfort that I had come in my pants.
To be continued. . .