Stolen Moments (18 page)

“Like a stone.” Les’s eyes followed the sway of Trey’s full breasts and her throat tightened with want. “Jesus, you’re beautiful.”

Trey straddled Les’s slim hips, hovering just above the leather-covered cock. “How bad do you want to fuck me?”

“Bad—so fucking bad,” Les moaned, trying to push her hips up into Trey’s wetness.

“I’ll bet you do.” Trey leaned forward and settled onto Les’s stomach, arching her back as her clitoris encountered hot skin for the first time.
Oh God. Careful. Careful.
Gritting her teeth against the instant surge of pleasure, she dangled her breasts just out of reach of Les’s searching lips. Les’s swift intake of breath, an almost hungry, desperate sound, made her clitoris twitch, and again, she fought back a warning twinge of arousal.
I will not come. Not until...oh yes, that’s so nice...not until I’m ready.

Trey lowered her head to take one tight, hard nipple into her mouth. As she bit down, she settled firmly onto the ridge of leather over Les’s cock, sliding slowly along its length. Her moan melted into Les’s, their bodies jerking as one.

“Oh man,” Les gasped. “That’ll make me come.” The muscles in her neck stood out beneath satin skin as she arched higher, trying to get more of her breast into Trey’s mouth. “Please,” she cried sharply as Trey pulled on her nipple with her teeth, then abruptly released it to the cool night air.

“Not yet,” Trey directed thickly, struggling to ignore the urgent tingling in her clitoris where it dragged over the prominence in Les’s pants. “I’ll...tell you when.”

“Soon,” Les implored. The pressure on and in her clit was approaching the boiling point as Trey kept up the steady slide. “I won’t last.”

Pinching Les’s nipple with one hand, Trey lifted her hips, reached down with her other hand, and worked Les’s zipper down. “
Now
how much do you want to fuck me?”

“More than I want to breathe.” Les was close to weeping. “Please take it out. Please touch it. Please let me fuck you. Oh God...
please.
”

Trey slipped her fingers inside Les’s fly and grasped the pliable cock, warm with Les’s body heat. She pulled it free until it projected upward between the spread folds of Les’s fly. Gripping the shaft, she rubbed the head between her own soaked lips.

Les watched Trey fist her cock and whimpered.

“Ah—yes, baby,” Trey groaned as she slid the smooth head over and around the exposed tip of her clitoris. Her eyes closed against her will as she began to thrust rhythmically against it. She wanted to come badly, had wanted to from the first moment she’d seen the outline of the cock nestled against Les’s belly. She wanted to ride Les until they were both coming, uncertain—uncaring—of who fucked whom. “Oh yes.”

Les panted in the near darkness, a prisoner of the relentless motion mercilessly working her clit to the bursting point. “I’m...gonna...comeyou’remakingmecome...”

“
Don’t.
” Trey forced her eyes open and bent her head to watch as she slowly slid the long cock into herself. As she took it in, swallowed it deep inside, the intense pressure filled her pelvis and her muscles spasmed rapidly around it. “Oh yeah, oh yeah, that’s so nice, baby.”

Trey leaned forward, lacing her fingers through Les’s above the cuffs, one nipple level with Les’s lips. “Suck it,” she gasped as she rocked her hips up and down the shaft, pushing and pulling her clit along its length. She was very close to coming already, but oh, how she wanted it to last. She hadn’t counted on Les being able to move.

“Oh—sweet God!” Trey cried in surprise as Les jerked her hips, burying the cock just a little deeper. “Don’t... Wait—”

“Can’t,” Les grunted, increasing the tempo of her thrusts. “Gotta come...now.”

No, not until I say. Not until I... Oh yes. There. There... Just like that.
Trey was lost, the swirling ribbons of release escaping her control as her hips flailed, her body erupting. The orgasm raced down her legs, streaked through her spine, and burst into a rainbow of color behind her eyes. “Oh noooo...”

“Oh
yeah.
” Les surrendered with a deep groan of her own, and for a moment all was motion and sound as they fought their way to peace.

Sighing, Trey collapsed onto Les’s chest, her face pressed to Les’s neck, her body trembling around the cock inside her. She managed to raise one hand and release the snaps on the arm restraints. “You pack quite a punch,” she whispered in Les’s ear, feeling herself contract around the cock in a small series of aftershocks.

“Yeah.” Les stroked Trey’s back, holding her close. “And
you
fuck like a girl.”

“
Perfectly,
” they said in unison.

There’s a bar on the outskirts of town that I like to frequent. If this were Texas you’d call it a saloon, but here in Jersey—a land with no quaintness or jargon—a bar is a bar is a bar. Hell, a 7-Eleven could pass for a bar if you happen to be driving through Secaucus on a Saturday night.

It’s not a big place. There’s a jukebox next to the entrance that plays Springsteen, Bon Jovi, and other assorted Jersey classics. It’s playing “Born to Run” when I walk in and it will play “Born to Run” at least a half dozen more times before I leave. The bar itself is a circular wooden island in the middle of the room. The bartenders are nice to look at but impossible to get the attention of. They serve two beers on tap: lukewarm Miller Lite and some overpriced local swill that passes for lager. They do have about fifty different bottled beers on the menu, including some impressive Belgian lambics, but when you look around the room, most of the women have Coors longnecks in their hands.

I like to hang out at the back of the bar, near the ratty pool table where the butches like to posture with their pool sticks while overdone femmes fawn and hang all over them. Nobody actually plays pool, since the felt’s all torn up and the even-numbered balls have been missing since the early nineties. But those butches sure look extra butchy twirling those cues like some dyke Tom Cruise out of
The Color of Money.
It’s a predominantly bridge-and-tunnel clientele, but the kind of B&T that can’t quite get their acts together to actually make it over the bridges or through the tunnels to Manhattan, where the real action lies.

On good days, this place is packed with fine women who don’t take no for an answer. On bad days, like today, the place is teeming with floozies who don’t
give
no as an answer.

In short, good day or bad, this is the best place to get laid this side of the Hudson.

I’m just about to call it a night when I see her standing across the room, her eyes telegraphing an invitation and a threat. There’s an empty stool next to her and already I can see the floozies circling. Silly girls. Don’t they realize what they’re courting? Surely they must know that to be taken into her space, to be enveloped by the energy that is rippling outward from her like tremors from a fault line, is to surrender to danger wrapped in a cloak of sexual electricity. And even as my mind fumbles around that thought, my body draws ever closer to her.

I’m not sure exactly when it happens—probably soon after we make eye contact—but there’s a distinctive sensation, like a tightening in my chest, when I know I’m doomed. She inclines her head slightly and I drop eagerly, wordlessly, into the seat next to her. Most of the other girls begin to disperse at this point. Although a few of them stay around, whether out of curiosity or spite, I’m not sure.

She lets me buy her a fancy German beer although I sense that she is more amused than flattered by my gallantry. I love the way she holds her bottle: so dangerously loose that it might drop and shatter, yet elegantly indifferent, as if that would be someone else’s problem. Her fingers are long and slender, her skin tanned and smooth. She’s taller than I am with the long, lean frame of a distance runner. Her shoulder-length hair is an unremarkable shade of brown but her eyes—a mercurial hazel that shades continuously from dark amber to vivid green—more than compensate as her most arresting feature.

I talk extensively about nothing of consequence and our bodies draw closer with each drink. She doesn’t say much but I can tell she’s listening. Or rather, she’s absorbing my words and measuring them like she’s biding her time or waiting for a signal. I must have babbled the right thing because her hand, which started intimately on my knee, is now resting possessively on my inner thigh. There’s a molten heat radiating from the spot where her hand meets my leg that, paradoxically, causes me to shiver. She leans in and asks me if I want to leave. Hastily, I throw a few crumpled bills onto the bar.

I pause at the threshold to look around the room at the women I’m leaving behind, little Lolita-girls in their skintight skirts and fuck-me pumps. I look over at my companion, deadly in threadbare denim and Doc Martens boots. More fuck you than fuck me. I entertain for a moment the notion that there might be a decision I should be considering at this point or a caution I should be heeding. But one look in her eyes, now a shade of green that you only find in rare emeralds or poisonous snakes, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what I should be careful about. I follow her out the door.

She leads me to the back of the parking lot, where it’s dark and private, to what looks like a light-colored Honda Accord under the guttering lamplight.

“This your car?” Arousal and a twinge of nervousness make my voice high and tight.

All thoughts of the absurdity in this situation are immediately abandoned as she forces me backward onto the car and presses her body along the length of mine. I feel the hood buckle slightly beneath my back as she leans in. Her face is close to mine, close enough for me to see the dark hunger in her eyes.

“Something wrong with that?”

I hesitate, not wanting to insult her, and I choke back the moan that is threatening to erupt from my chest from the feel of her—all muscle and sinew—pressing up against me. She laughs and brings her lips a whisper away from mine.

“Never…” Her voice is soft and deadly.

“…ever…” She licks her lips and the moan escapes.

“…mock the ride.” Her mouth descends on mine and if I had a reply, it’s lost in a melee of dueling tongues and bruised lips. She has a tongue ring, a metal barbell with a smooth ball on top, which she strokes with practiced skill along the length of my tongue.

I’m not sure whose hands start wandering first. But I’m brought sharply out of my lust-filled haze by the sensation of strong hands on my breasts, only to find that my own have unbuckled her belt and are working their way down the buttons of her jeans. My task is hindered when her hips begin to grind against me. And it is altogether forgotten as her errant fingers start to pinch and pull my nipples through my shirt in time with her thrusts. She is warm against my thigh and I feel a rush of wetness between my legs in response.

There is no grace. Only raw, carnal desire as her hips pick up an erratic pace. Her fingers have stopped moving, my breasts forgotten. I hear her ragged breathing and the rhythmic creaking of the shocks as her car absorbs the brunt of her need. My clit is pounding in sympathy and I want to thrust back against her, relieve some of the pressure that is building excruciatingly in me. Instead, I lean back and let it happen. And when she comes, I am transfixed by her beauty: the flush in her cheeks, the swell of her lips, the thin-corded muscle in her neck twitching with each wave of her orgasm.

She rests against me for only a minute before looking up and into my eyes. I have to remind myself to breathe as she crawls up the length of my body, once again bringing her face so close to mine.

“Your turn.”

Her lips find mine again and her tongue claims my mouth. Her tongue-ring slides against the roof of my mouth and I melt with pleasure. I swallow a cry of surprise as her hand slips under the waistband of my trousers. Without breaking the kiss, she positions herself between my legs and, using her knees, eases them apart. She slides her hands down farther and pauses, pulling her face away from mine. Moments pass before I open my eyes to the sight of her looking down on me with passion, pleasure, and triumph. And then she is pushing into me, her hips driving her fingers even deeper, her body rocking against mine.

I try to hold back, prolonging the inevitable for as long as possible while she pounds into me with the force of her weight. But the pressure is too great—and the pain too sweet—such that when she grinds the heel of her palm into my clit, I orgasm immediately. Hard.

I realize as she backs away from me, buttoning her jeans and buckling her belt, that she hadn’t removed one article of my clothing during the entire encounter. I slide off the hood of her car, wincing slightly at the dent we leave behind.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble.

“Not a problem.” She pulls me into a long, slow, thorough kiss. My eyes close involuntarily, blissfully. She pulls away but I can still feel the ghost of her against me, inside of me.

By the time I open my eyes again, she is halfway across the lot.

“That’s not my car,” she calls back over her shoulder as she disappears into the night.

The waning day tentatively offers its pale light through the window behind me, warming my bare shoulder with a soft caress. I am really growing bored with this job, stacking books every single day—albeit for only five hours, but for five long hours I must straighten and restraighten. Arrange—stack—lift—place. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.
The Politics of Sex
. Gee, now where is call number 155.3? I lift the book with my right hand from its place on the pile atop the trolley and with my left I widen the space between
The Pocket Book of Sexual Positions
and
Popping the Cherry: A Guide to Your First Time
and fill the vacant spot with
The Politics of Sex
. I step to my left slowly. Once, then again. I scan the shelves from the one at eye level, up one, then, rounding my back, lean over to check the shelf closest to the floor.