Four Erotic Tales (5 page)

Stunned, body buzzing once more, I leaned down and kissed her, enjoying the taste of cinnamon and Margarita. The hand she’d been nibbling on found her hair; the other found a round tit.

“Me,” she whispered huskily, “I like doggy-style. That work for you?”

Indeed it did. Also missionary. And her on top. And sixty-nine — an interesting challenge, given the difference in our heights. And fucking her against the wall, her legs wrapped around my waist. And once more with her on her hands and knees, her brown skin glistening, her round ass rippling with my thrusts, one of my hands squeezing a quivering breast and thick nipple while the other worked at her stiff, slick clit. All of those worked for me very, very well.

Good thing she had that bowl full of condoms.

Margarita screamed a lot that night.

And so did I.

Dear Allison,

I can’t tell you how glad I am that you found my story about Bridget funny. At this point, that’s how I see it – though I didn’t at the time. Dana, when I told her a couple of months later, found it hysterical, and then proceeded to tell me I had been a very good boy for not buying into the whole rape-the-virgin scenario, and even though Margarita had already rewarded me once, she saw no reason not to do so again. And again. And…

Alas, I never did hook up with Margarita again, since you asked. As she predicted, Bridget stopped talking to me after that night – if I had notes in rehearsal, she’d claim she couldn’t read Tony’s handwriting and make him read them. So I never had another excuse to go over to that dorm, and Margarita graduated that June. Besides, she had made it very clear that though she’d really enjoyed our roll in the hay (I had in fact gotten her to scream quite loudly, and several times), it was a one-time thing. Too bad. She was a nice lady — and not just for taking a very confused, very horny freshman and straightening him out.

You also asked if I’m going to tell you about every woman I ever slept with. I wouldn’t be so cruel as to do that to either one of us. Mind, there haven’t been
that
many. More to the point, I’m trying to give you a sense, as I think I said before, of how I got to where I am now. So I was planning on mostly sticking to the high points. If really you want to hear some really
dreary
stories of some one-night stands I wish I hadn’t bothered with, I guess I could. But I promise that would be even less fun than what I’ve been sending you.

I dated a couple of women sophomore year – one of them a third-year law school student who was nearly as old as Dana. There isn’t a whole lot to tell you about them – they came (over and over – there, I beat you to the joke) and they went, leaving nothing but increasingly hazy memories.

And before you ask if I’m going to forget
you
, please believe me: when I forget you and what we’ve done together, you’ll know it’s past time to ship me off to assisted living.

My next serious relationship was the first woman I asked to marry me. Thank god she turned me down.

Cindy was the first actress I fell for, though not the last, was five years my senior, was tall, athletic, and Eurasian, though she’d been adopted by the kind of A. R. Gurney New England family that deals with emotion by mixing up a nice, cold batch of martinis.

I’ve tried to write a story for you about Cindy; the problem is that, though I was in love with her for two years, there wasn’t a whole lot of fun involved. She slept with everything that moved; ironically, though, sex with her wasn’t terribly exciting.

She called herself bisexual, but she was uncomfortable with her attraction to other women. In fact, however, she was far more attracted to women than she was to men. Certainly more attracted to them than she was to me. I got pushed away and told no so many times; it’s amazing (or perhaps ridiculous) that I still kept coming back.

In a way, she wasn’t that different from Bridget. When she finally, finally fell in love herself, it was of course with a woman – one of my teachers, a grad student in the drama department. By that point, Cindy had shredded my ego. I didn’t care that she’d fallen for a women; I just hated that she had, as I saw it then, cheated on me.

Even Dana couldn’t get my head straight. In love with Cindy as I was, I’d stopped sleeping with Dana, but kept asking her advice, which was mostly that Cindy sounded like an emotional mess, that love wasn’t about saving the other person from him or herself – a lesson Dana said that she had learned the hard way – and that I should run, not walk. Best advice I ever got; too bad I didn’t take it.

I will say this: Cindy taught me things about pleasing a woman with my mouth that even Dana hadn’t.

In any case, by the winter of my senior year, I was an absolute mess.

Love,

Ken

In the mid-eighties, I was driving my grandfather’s car back from Florida to California, where I was in my last year of college. My grandfather was dying — I had visited him, twisted and shrunken, in the hospital, and my grandmother, who didn’t drive, had offered me their enormous yellow Olds — and I had just had to break off a two-year relationship with my bisexual girlfriend. That she left me for a woman was irrelevant. That she trashed me to my core had left me a very wounded puppy.

On my second day out of Miami, full of intimations of mortality and emasculation, I drove into New Orleans. Now, I was and am a lover of the blues, Tennessee Williams, and spicy food, so New Orleans seemed like a good place to forget my sorrows for a day or two on my way cross-country. I had no idea how right I was.

My student guidebook recommended a large hotel just outside of the French Quarter, so I pulled in and wandered into the lobby. There a group of attractive people who were just a bit older than me was checking in. As I waited behind them, one of the women caught my eye — a tall, dark-haired beauty with a knockout body.

“Are you staying here?” she asked.

I said I hoped so. After meeting her, I really did.

She and her compatriots were actors with a professional theatre in New York that toured to schools around the country. I told her that I was an actor too — I was thinking of heading off to a graduate school the next fall. As I stepped up to the register, she stayed with me while her friends went up to their rooms. I found out that her name was Rachel, that, like me, she had never been to New Orleans, and that she was looking forward to exploring the city.

When I finally talked to the clerk, he told me that, in fact, the hotel was booked that night. I was disappointed, in part because I was hoping to get to know Rachel better. The clerk suggested a hotel close to the Superdome — out of football season, they were sure to have rooms.

As I stepped away from the desk, Rachel put her hand on my shoulder. “We’re going out on a riverboat cruise tonight. Once you’ve checked in to your hotel, do you want to join us?”

Oh, yes, indeed, I wanted that very much. We made a date to meet up in a couple of hours and I headed off to find a room for the night.

When I reached the hotel that the clerk had recommended, they only had king-sized beds available. Well, that was okay with me. I showered, put on a fresh shirt, and went off to meet up with Rachel and her cast-mates.

The riverboat ride was magical. It was a beautiful night, the Mississippi rolled lazily around us, and Rachel was gorgeous. Her skin was so pale that it seemed to glow in the Louisiana night. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes sparkled and her wide, sensuous mouth seemed to be inviting more than just conversation.

But conversation was all that I was good for at the moment. I was still feeling so damaged by Cindy’s departure that I didn’t feel like I could make the first move. We chatted about theatre, about acting schools, about New York. She mentioned that she and her long-time boyfriend had had a huge fight and that she was furious with him. We swapped war stories — her fucked-up alcoholic, my fucked-up bisexual. We nibbled on jambalaya and watched the river slide by, and still I couldn’t make a move.

When the cruise was over, I drove Rachel and her friends back to the hotel, but Rachel said she wanted to explore the French Quarter. Well, that sounded good to me. On foot, we set off into the heart of old New Orleans.

It was just a random Saturday night in March — Mardi Gras was weeks past — but it might as well have been New Year’s Eve on Times Square. I think it was Italian-American night, or some such excuse for throwing a party. Bourbon Street was throbbing with action. We grabbed Hurricanes from a street vendor and wandered through the crowd. A parade rolled noisily by, and one of the supposedly Italian-American partiers — if I remember correctly he was black — tossed Rachel a string of plastic beads. I placed the necklace around her neck. She smiled, and we wandered on through the wild night.

We visited a couple of blues clubs, had another drink or three, caught “The Saints Come Marching In” at the Preservation Hall, and ended up around one in the morning at the French Market, drinking chicory coffee and eating beignets.

It was a fabulous night, but as it wore on Rachel was talking more and more and I was talking less and less. I had had my hand figuratively slapped by Cindy so hard and so often that I was totally incapable of reaching out to this beautiful young woman who was clearly doing her best literally to charm my pants off.

I don’t know what we were talking about — or rather, what she was talking about — but I remember thinking, I should just kiss you and stop you talking. And dying because, for no good reason, I couldn’t get myself to do it.

At just that moment, a young guy at the table next door tossed the powdered sugar they provide for the beignets onto my shirt. I looked at Rachel; her mouth was rounded in a perfect O of surprise. Without even thinking I grabbed the sugar shaker on our table and fired a salvo at our neighbor. For a couple of minutes, confectioners sugar flew like a blizzard of snow.

As I walked Rachel back to her hotel, we were both giddy with amusement and desire. She brushed the remains of the sugar off of my shirt and then linked her arm in mine.

When we got to her room, I started to sweat. I wanted her desperately but I couldn’t make my tongue or my hands work. “I can’t ask you in,” she said. “My roommate is probably sleeping.” She leaned back against her door and became very serious and very quiet for the first time all night. “Do you want some company tonight?”

I willed my thick tongue to speak. “Yes,” I said, “yes, I do want that.”

We wandered silently down to where my car was parked and rode the mile or so to where I was staying. As we entered my room we kissed and I started to shake. I hadn’t actually made love to a woman in three months and combination of need and emotional pain overwhelmed me. God bless Rachel. She took me by the hand and led me to the bathroom of all places. “Let’s take a shower,” she said, and pulled her shirt over her head.

The sight of her ample body broke the spell that Cindy had lain on me in the months that we had drifted apart.

Rachel stepped into the bath, turned on the water and let it run over her long neck and large, full breasts. I stepped in behind her and wrapped my arms around her, filling each hand with a soft, heavy tit.

“Do you like them?” she asked, coyly.

“I love them. They’re so firm.” I kissed my way up the back of her neck and nibbled on her ear.

“Firm?” she laughed. “I wish they were firmer. They’re so…” I rolled her nipples between my fingers and she let out a low moan, “…
fluffy
…”

She arched her back and wrapped her arms around my neck. The warm water and her soft heat were dispersing the last of my tremors. I moved my hands down to her lithe waist and turned her towards me. Our mouths, hungry, found each other and we pressed up against each other under the hot spray.

Rachel’s hand moved down and circled my cock, which was straining against her belly.

“Mmm,” she said, “nice and thick. Want to show me what he can do?”

“Yes,” I said,
yes I will, yes.

We jumped out of the shower, toweled off, and meandered, our mouths locked again, over to the enormous bed. We tumbled onto it, still kissing, still groping. “Nice bed,” she said.

“Nice company,” I replied, grinning.

Her elegant, wide mouth twisted in a wicked smile, and she pushed me back on the bed. She wrapped her long fingers around the base of my swollen cock and wrapped her lips around its head.

I let out a deep groan of pleasure as she smoothly sucked the full length of my seven-inch hard-on into her hot throat. As she began to pull back, running the length of her tongue up my over-stimulated dick, I knew that if I didn’t do something, I’d come in about two seconds — and this was a blowjob I wanted to savor. I started to do some of the deep-breathing relaxation exercises I’d learned in acting classes — and from Dana. When the initial crisis had settled a bit, and I could enjoy the incredible sensations of Rachel’s deep-throating, I reached over and pulled her hips so that her gorgeous, compact cunt was right over my face.

She had trimmed her pubic hair into a tight little landing strip and I flew right in, tongue first. Now it was her turn to groan as I ran my tongue up the length of her labia. The vibration of that moan — her tongue tight around my shaft, her nose nestled in my balls — nearly set me off again, but I kept breathing and focused on pleasing her as much as she was pleasing me. Her lips opened, flower-like, and soon my tongue was flicking over Rachel’s diamond-tight clit. She moaned again and started sucking me faster.

One good thing about having had a bisexual girlfriend — she had built on Dana’s instruction; I was well on the way to being a master cunnilinguist.

Breathing or no breathing, I was going to come soon. Rachel ran her mouth and fist up and down my cock until I felt like I was going to drill a hole in the back of her throat. An explosion began to build up in the space above my balls and suddenly I let loose, a monumental, heart-stopping orgasm. I arched my back like a wrestler, but she wouldn’t break her hold, as I pumped an enormous load down her throat. I screamed into her cunt, which made her begin to shiver and buck. She leaned back, pressing herself into my face, as I desperately sucked and licked her quivering clit. Within a minute, I was gratified to feel her cunt pulse against my tongue and to hear Rachel let loose a scream even louder (and less muffled) than mine. One thing I love about fucking an actress — there’s nothing quiet about them.