I work for a firm of K-street lobbyists. I don’t like it much, but I’m good at my job and I need one. They send me out to placate, smoothen, sweeten up, whatever you want to call it, some bunch of clients who are not getting what they want from Washington. They never get what they think they deserve and they blame the lobbyists, not the politicians. So there is no shortage of business for me. Naturally, women are preferred for this kind of work, young women who look good and can whistle a good tune. That’s me, if I do say it as I shouldn’t. Honey blonde, 31, slim and pretty.
Hey, you use what you’ve got, and the money’s good. It’s keeping your job is the problem. Washington is flooded with good-looking women who can string a few sentences together, and a lot of them are willing to go much further than I am when it comes to ‘soothing’ angry clients, if you get my meaning. I don’t do that. First, because if you do it once, you have to do it the next time, and the next. Word gets around. In no time, you’re spending more time on your back than in the hotel lobby, where you’re supposed to be. Seen it happen. Isn’t pretty.
The second reason I don’t do it is because I just don’t. I’m not like that.
I’m not a prude, mind you. My sex-life with Herman was, well let’s call it fulfilling and leave it at that. If anything it was too fulfilling. One of those love-hate relationships that end with things being thrown and words being said that can’t be taken back. I don’t blame Herman. There was this chemistry between us that I have never seen adequately described in any novel, and probably can’t be. You know it when you encounter it.
But could we live together? No way! When we weren’t having sex we were fighting, about nothing and everything. The opposite way round from my first relationship, which lasted six years — of utter boredom. We lived together harmoniously, no lows, no highs. Then Herman came along and my life changed.
It’s been two years since we split and I have not met a man in the interim who did anything for me. I had lots of ‘dates’, but I had not ‘dated’, if you get my meaning. If you had asked me did I miss sex, I’d probably say ‘Yes!’ but add the caveat ‘in a solid relationship’.
That’s more than you wanted to know about me, I’m sure. I’ll get on with the story.
It happened in San Diego, a popular venue for company conventions and meetings, so I knew the city well. I always stayed at a hotel in Old Town because this was a good taxi ride from Downtown, where most conventioneers stayed, where the action was. (No! I’m not going to reveal which hotel because I still use it, even after all these years.)
It had been a rough day. (If I can give you a spot of advice, don’t go anywhere near Big Oil. It’s a nightmare.) I was sitting in the bar sipping on a g&t and trying to smooth out the wrinkles a full day of ‘soothing’ at the Convention Center had drawn on my brow. Some days are like that. You just have to get through them on the ‘tomorrow is another day’ principle.
There was plenty of space at the bar, but a single female has to expect and learn to deal with it, that a guy will choose the barstool next to hers and say, in a friendly voice,
This one was no different.
I said ‘Hi!’ back.
A quick glance revealed a fresh, innocent face, almost baby-like, twenty something, decent build.
I lit a cigarette. You could in those days, it’s that long ago. The guy ordered a Bud light, and as it was brought to him turned and asked,
“What are you drinking?”
They all did that. I had my answer. A hand over the glass. No thanks, buster. Try something else.
“I’m from Houston,” he said, after a brief silence.
They all said that too (well, not Houston, you get my meaning).
“Occidental petroleum. Big Convention. Wow! What a day. Wow!”
I did not say I knew very well that Big Oil was holding a Convention, nor that I had been embroiled up to my neck in it.
There was another silence. Maybe it had dawned on him that I just wanted to sit in peace, finish my drink and head for my room.
“Listen. Can I ask you something?”
I had to turn to him then. He’d loosened his tie and looked rather nice. Definitely junior ranks, one of those who dance to the whip of his boss.
“Sure,” I replied
“Erm, well it’s this. Will you sleep with me tonight?”
That was a new one! He said it full face, and he did not look away. I was stunned. I had stock responses to every chat-up line in the book. But this one was not in the book.
Twenty five improvisations rattled around in my head. But before any of them were enacted I heard myself say
Now he was stunned.
“Erm… Did I hear that right?” He did not say ‘ma’am’, but it was in his tone.
“I guess so. I said it plainly enough.”
Was this my voice?
“Listen, now I don’t want you to think I do this .. er .. all the time.”
“I don’t. It’s a good way to get your face slapped and your beer tipped down your shirt.”
“You yalnızım mesut bey izle did hear what I asked?” He was looking almost apologetic.
“And you heard how I answered. So where do we go from here?”
I almost felt sorry for the man. He looked as though he would have preferred to have had his face slapped and beer tipped down his shirt.
“My room?” he said, at length.
“My room,” I replied. “206. Give me ten minutes.”
I drained the remains of my g&t in one swallow, picked up my handbag from the bar, turned and without a backward glance walked away.
Of course, I had not gone five steps before the ‘real me’ returned from wherever she had been hiding. I should go back. Explain. It was a joke. No hard feelings. But I did not do this. I just kept on walking, all the way to my room.
What had I done? I should lock the friggin’ door! Shout at him through the door.
Maybe he would get cold feet? Yes! He was not the kind of guy who approached women at bars and asked them if they wanted to sleep with him. His reactions were too honest, too innocent. It had just been blurted out, like my ‘Yes!’ Both were mistakes. He would realize this.
My heart was beating furiously as the minutes ticked away. Five, then ten, eleven, twelve … Relief flooded over me. As I thought! He’d got cold feet.
A timid knock.
Oh Jesus! I was rooted to the spot, a yard behind the door. What to do? There was only one thing I could do. Lock the door and shout through it. Yes, that is what I had to do…..
“Hi!” he said, as he stepped into the room, a wine bottle, half uncorked, in his hand.
“You didn’t buy that at the bar?” I asked, snappily.
“No, no! Do I really look that dumb? Had it in my room. Sometimes, evenings get lonely. I uncorked it in case you didn’t have an opener.”
I must have been staring at the bottle.
“It’s Chianti. Pretty neutral. I thought you might like it.”
“Yes. Yes. Chianti is fine. There’ll be some glasses in the mini-bar.”
What was I saying? ‘Throw the guy out’, said my inner voice. ‘You don’t do this.’
“Listen,” I actually said. “I need to take a shower. It’s been a long day.”
“Me too,” the fresh-faced man from Houston said, brightly.
“I’ll just be a moment. Make yourself at home,” I said, as though he had not spoken.
I headed for the bathroom, closed the door and sat on the toilet. Was I really going to shower? Take off my clothes? With a man I did not know in the next room?
I really can’t say what came over me that night, but this is precisely what I did. I stripped, even checking myself in the mirror, noting that for some reason my nipples had stiffened. I had nice breasts, mid-size, still firm (they’ve drooped a bit since). I stepped into the shower and turned it on.
The warm water soothed me. I let it run all over my body, my breasts, my back, my legs. For a moment, I forgot. Then, over the rush of water from the shower I heard,
“Mind if I join you?”
This was not what I’d meant by ‘make yourself comfortable’, but you can’t blame the guy for thinking that it was.
I slid back the shower’s partition a notch and the shadow turned into the body of a naked man. I turned my back, quickly. But he was there, in the shower, behind me. I knew he was watching. His eyes burned holes in my body.
“Jesus! You’re gorgeous.”
“Soap my back,” I guess I said, handing him the shower gel.
Gentle hands rubbed in the gel, up and down my back, across my shoulders, down my arms, my thighs….
I had to turn and face him. I mean, was he going to do that for ever?
A soft touch spread gel over my neck and breasts.
I tried not to look down. But I knew from that moment that I was going through with this — this thing I did not do. A stranger, a younger man about whom I knew nothing, except that he worked for Occidental Petroleum, he lived in Houston and his penis was half erect.
His hand moved down between my thighs, always gentle, never pressing, as though he were stroking the petals of a flower.
I took the gel and spread it over his body, naked of hair, nude, as innocent as his face. When I stroked his penis, it responded instantly, and it seemed like he was Herman. Yes, a younger version, but Herman had come back to me.
I raised a leg, placed its foot on the edge of the tub and leaned back, open to him.
The tip of his penis nuzzled the outer lips of my vagina, pushing gently until he had entered me, edging slowly deeper. And deeper. As he began to thrust in and out of me I closed my eyes and dreamt of Herman.
The shower gushed on, immune to the entwinement as our bodies adjusted. The penis of the man I did not know penetrated me yet further, deeper and deeper, driving me against the wall of the shower. I clung to him, Herman, as the pace quickened, laying my head on his shoulder, winding my arms around his neck, giving myself up to being wanted, and wanting. Oh Yes! I wanted.
Too soon, that gush yüzüklerin efendisi güç yüzükleri izle of semen shooting into me, too soon. The thrusts continued, but the flesh became weak. Still I clung to him, wanting him more.
“I’m sorry,” he said, as we toweled each other off. “I came too fast. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ll make it up to you. That’s a promise.”
He picked me up in strong arms, this different Herman, carried me into the bedroom and laid me gently on the bed.
“I’ve never done this before. Honest. You have to tell me if it’s ok.”
His tongue began to flutter about the inner walls of vaginal lips still moist from the shower, pressing, caressing.
Yes, it was ok. My eyes were closed, my thighs stretched wide. I gave myself to his tongue, his lips, his mouth when it closed around my labia or sucked on a vaginal lip. I opened myself to him.
Herman would do this to me, for ever, it seemed. I entered a different universe, where all the cares and worries of the one I knew too well were expunged. My being focused on the sensation and my body reacted of its own accord; to long strokes of the tongue from the base of my vagina up to the tender flesh beneath my clit; to pressure on my clit hood from a tentative finger; to flicks of a rough tongue across the tip of my clit, bolts of electricity
A hand went to my breast, my hand, the one the always went to my breast when I masturbated. The right nipple was more sensitive than the left. I squeezed it and stroked my breasts. Beneath, the tongue worked on, moving deeper into my vagina, opening out the secret garden.
Ohyes, do that, do it, keep on doing it….
I suppose I was moaning and grunting. It’s not conscious, so I can’t be sure, just like I can’t be sure that my groin had began to move, seeking that tongue, those sweet lips, thrusting itself into their embrace.
The sensation changed. The tip of Herman’s penis stroked the walls of my vagina, massaged my clit, then pushed slowly into me. Slow thrusts. Deeper and deeper into the inside of me.
The thrusts became more powerful, more urgent, driving me into the bed.
Ohyes, Herman, do it, keep on doing it, don’t stop….
I was conscious of the rhythmic twang of the bedsprings, my body responding to the thrusting of the penis as it entered and left my vagina.
Do it, do it, don’t stop…..
A gasp, a shout. Hot fluid shot deep inside me….
I clung to him, digging my nails into his back.
‘Don’t stop’, they said.
He tried, valiantly, this new Herman.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You didn’t come, or did you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. It matters to me.”
We lay side by side on our backs. Neither looked at the other.
“Why does it matter to you?”
“I want to please you.”
“So did you come, or didn’t you?”
“I enjoyed what you did. Very much. Isn’t that enough?”
Houston did not speak, but his silence was eloquent.
“What happened to the wine?” I asked, seeking to cover the awkward silence.
“Cheez. I forgot all about that.”
“A glass of Chianti would go down a treat right now.”
Give a man who is upset in his mind something to do. Works every time.
We sat now, propped up on pillows, sipping Chianti.
“You’re an amazing woman,” Houston said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well…. when you said ‘Yes’. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe I’d said what I said.”
“Why did you?”
“I honestly don’t know. And it’s completely true. I’ve never ever done anything like that before.”
“That’s good. Don’t do it too often.”
“When you said ‘Yes’, I really couldn’t believe it.”
“Sometimes you get lucky.”
“This lucky? Hey, this lucky you get once in a lifetime. I still can’t believe it”
“You can’t believe what?”
“That a gorgeous woman, which you are — that’s not an empty compliment — would accept a crude advance by a rank amateur.”
“The approach may have been unusual, shall we say. But it worked. And I haven’t since noticed anything I would describe as ‘amateur’.”
“You don’t believe me?” Houston said, after a brief pause.
“In what respect?’ I said, after holding out my wine glass for replenishment.
“That this is the first time I ever did this.”
“I believe you.”
“And it sure is the first time I’ve ever – gone down on a woman.”
“It’s called cunnilingus,” I said. “And you did just fine.”
He thought about this.
“But not long enough, huh?”
“Not long enough for what?”
“To make you come.”
“Was that what you wanted?”
“Yes! I wanted to see your body shake, for you to lose control, the way I do when I come.”
“So you were thinking of yourself, not me?”
“No! No!” he said, almost choking on a mouthful of Chianti. “I wanted to give you pleasure.”
“You did. So what’s your problem?”
“That you did not come.”
“I didn’t say that, and anyway, it doesn’t matter. You wanted to give me pleasure and you did.”
Houston fell silent for a while. Then he said,
“Tell me how to make you come.”
“Because I don’t know myself. Sometimes I come, sometimes I don’t.”
“And you didn’t, right?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Anyway,” I said. “The night is young.”
This was me? I still have trouble relating to it. But facts are what they are and this is what I said. I remember every detail of that encounter vivdly.
“Oh cheez, No! I’ll be honest with you.”
The ma’am was again in his tone.
“I’ve never ever gotten it up more than twice.”
“But you said you’ve never been in this situation before. So how do you know what you are capable of?”
Silence. Chianti was sipped on both sides of the bed.
I really don’t know what came over me that night. If you had told me in advance I would ever say what I then said, I would have laughed in your face. This is what I said:-
“The converse of cunnilingus is called fellatio. Why don’t we try a bit of that and see whether we can waken up the sleeping giant?”
Honest to Pete! I just do not say things like this!
Houston’s penis was well and truly asleep. He had not exaggerated. Herman was never like this. Give him fifteen minutes and he was ready to go again. It was always me who called a halt. Houston was different.
Curiously, I found this attractive. I laid my head on his stomach and fellated the glans of his penis, stroking the base of its shaft with my fingers. It was strangely relaxing. Of course, I had fellated Herman, on occasion to orgasm. But this was quite different. Herman jumped to attention immediately. Feeling a limp penis grow infinitely slowly inside my mouth was a new experience.
I had lost all sense of time. It was irrelevant. Sliding Houston’s penis in and out of my mouth was strangely and delightfully erotic. I sensed that my vagina was becoming moist. The other hand slid down my stomach and began to stimulate my clit hood.
Houston lay back. He gave himself to me. The occasional groan reached my ear, but he was not a man, just a penis, and balls, which I fondled. As his penis stiffened, I moved my head down and sucked on his balls, drawing them into my mouth, one after the other. Then back to his penis, taking as much of it into my mouth as I could, sucking hard, then slowly withdrawing, grazing the shaft with my teeth.
Three or four rounds of ball and cock sucking, and Houston was alive again.
“Oh Jesus. Holy Jesus,” came from between his lips.
I worked on relentlessly.
His body began to quiver, then shake, and he was thrusting his penis into my mouth, fucking it, seeking release.
I took him to the edge, then stopped. His body was still writing as I straddled him and guided his penis into my vagina, slowly, carefully, until we were fully joined.
“Relax,” I said, in a husky tone, sitting still, impaled on his erection. I parroted a line I had heard all too often from Herman.
“It’s not coming that matters. It’s how you come.”
I waited until his body ceased shaking, then began to rock to and fro with him embedded inside.
“Hang onto it. You can!” I said, as I ground my groin over his.
“Tweak my nipples.”
He did. Oh Jesus!
My breathing grew erratic. My groin developed its own dynamic, I was so, so close…..
“Ohshit! Ohshit! Ohfuckingfuckingshit!”
His semen spurted up into me. I kept going, fucking him now, frinding my groin hard against his, seeking my own release. In vain. Houston’s penis began slowly to wilt. So near and yet so far.
I confess it. I simulated orgasm, and collapsed forward onto his body as though satiated.
“You didn’t really come, did you,” he said.
We had parted and sat again aside each other, sipping Chianti. His semen oozed out of my vagina onto the bedspread. It was, strangely, a nice feeling.
“No! But damn close.”
“Don’t say that. It was great. I’m feeling very mellow right now.”
“Well, a bit,” I said.
It was time for honesty. I owed it to him.
“But I told you the way it is with me,” I continued. “Sometimes I come, sometimes I don’t. What’s important is pleasure. That was a good fuck. I really enjoyed it.”
Houston remained unconvinced.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just could not hold out any longer.”
“No problem. Maybe next time round.”
“Next time? You gotta be joking. This thing is well and truly gone for the night.”
He was referring to his penis, which did seem to be fast asleep.
Ten minutes later, he was, too.
I lay next to him, opened my thighs wide and began to stimulate my clit. I felt so horny I was sure I would bring myself off in minutes. But it did not work out that way.
I have no explanation for it. It’s just a fact. No matter how hard I rubbed myself, and no matter how many fingers I inserted into my vagina, and no matter how hard these worked, I could not bring myself to orgasm.
I blame the Chianti. Half the bottle remained when Houston checked out, and all was consumed before I fell unwittingly asleep.