a surprise.

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I do not remember the beginning of this story so well as I remember the middle and end of it.

Grant and I had come home from a day out, probably exploring the woods somewhere to the south of our fair city, and we showered and ate and wandered up to my room. We have made a habit of watching old episodes of Star Trek—from season 1, episode 1, on through the end, in sequential order, thank you SO much for that, Netflix—at night before bed. This night was no exception. We stripped to our skivvies and spooned while listening to the dulcet tones of a young William Shatner’s voice.

It isn’t so much that I really go for a young Captain Kirk (though I must admit he was a beautiful man) as the fact that I melt when Grant’s hand wanders across my bare breast. This is the familiar touch from a partner who simultaneously wants to show his affection and who is also aware that the right kind of caress will make my back arch and press my hips to his groin.

Grant’s left arm holds up his head while his right snakes over my waist to hold my breast and play with my nipple. This calculated touch has its desired effect as I squirm against him and lose my ability to focus on the computer screen. Grant’s breath against my ears and neck makes my nipples harden further, and I am not even attempting to pay attention to our TV show. I reach over and close the laptop and roll over to face him. Grant does not waste time, and after he returns my kiss he pushes me onto my back.

Grant is on top of me, using his weight to pin me in place. My hips press into his belly as he slides down my body, stopping at my neck and shoulders to suck and bite, and again at my nipples. He kneads one breast while kissing the other. I am incapable of silence. He moves further down my belly and lands between my thighs. He peels my panties down from my hips.

“Margot,” he says. “Is that a wet spot on your panties?”

I laugh and wink. “I’m ovulating.”

Grant lands between my thighs again. He approximates his face against the skin between my legs; he inhales deeply, and flicks his tongue over the fold of flesh to either side of my labia, between my leg and my mons. I sigh. I am quivering and aching. Grant is taking his time, and turning his attentions into agony. His eyes are closed in focus.

When he finally parts my cleft, it is with his tongue. He is light at first, and then firmer, but always slow. By now I am so sensitive that a touch even half so pressing as this would overwhelm me. Grants hands alternate between gripping my ass and seeming to pull me into his mouth, like he wants to devour me whole from my pelvis outwards, to crawling up my torso to twist and flick my nipples. He occasionally slaps my breast, which after I gasp makes my skin so sensitive to his advances that I feel like I might orgasm from a flick of his fingers on my tits alone.

When I orgasm I pull his hair. I use it to steer his face into me, while my back arches and my legs flex. My hips crack in response to all my opposing forces. Grant sucks on my clit and concurrently flicks his tongue across it, and I dissolve into his mouth.

He pulls away from me and returns my panties to me. I reach for his body and am surprised when he rebuffs me:

“Margot,” he says, “I’m really tired.”

“Oh,” I am surprised. “Ok. Nothing, then?”

“That wasn’t nothing for me.” His boxers have a tiny, tiny wet spot over the fly that betrays a certain amount of fluid, but nothing even approaching an orgasm.

“Ok. I would love to fuck you. Let me know if you change your mind.” I say, pulling my panties up over my hips. I’m satisfied with his explanation: Grant occasionally goes through periods where all he wants to do is eat pussy, nothing else. This is one of the reasons why he’s delightful.

It’s cool in my bedroom. We embrace under the covers, spooning again: this time with one of his arms under my neck and the other around my waist, with his beard tickling my neck when he breathes. He runs his hands across my belly and thighs as I press back into his torso. Eventually we are still.

I am about to sleep when I feel his hands moving again, running up to my breast and down to my legs, pressing and pulling my flesh as he explores. His hand finds its way to the elastic of my panties, while the hand under my neck grips my tit and flicks my nipple. I am immediately cognizant of the fact that Grants cock is pressing against my ass and is growing more and more insistent. His fingers slide down to my still-damp pussy and begin to massage my clit.

The sensation of his breath on my earlobe, his beard on my neck, and his hands exploring me combine into a tension that seems to pull everything towards the center of my back and down to the middle of body.

Grant’s hand pulls away from my pussy and reaches to the back of my panties. He pulls them halfway down my thighs before freeing his cock from his boxers. He grabs my hipbone and pulls it back, and tilts his pelvis just so he can slide inside me. He grunts. The hand that was under my neck to fondle my breast is now pressing against my shoulder and holding my torso in place while Grant fucks me.

He is rough with me. He is urgent. He pulls my panties further down my legs, and I can slip one foot out of them.

Without words or preamble, Grant pulls his arms out from around me, and pushes my hips and shoulders so I am face down on the bed.  Without exiting my body, he has positioned himself on top of me, his knees between my thighs and his weight pressing down on me. He continues to fuck me as he repositions me into a shallow doggystyle pose. I am moaning into a pillow as his breathing grows more labored. His hands are now free to spank my ass as hard as he wants.

When he hikes my hips a little further up, he repositions me just enough that his dick presses against my cervix and g-spot with every thrust. I don’t suppress the orgasm that this forces me to have, and I feel myself drenching the bed as my pussy tightens around Grant’s cock.

Grant is about 30 seconds behind me. When he comes I can feel his ejaculate leaking out of my pussy around his dick.  His hands are gripping my hips, and he gasps my name. These are the only words spoken between the two of us for the last 20 minutes.

When he is done, he slides forward and lies on top of me and his hands cover mine. I turn my face to kiss his lips and he runs a hand through my hair. After a minute or two, he rolls off of me and I press my body to his, with my head in the space where his arm joins his chest. I will sleep here, my naked body pressed to his, with his arms wrapped around me.

“That was definitely not nothing for you,” I say. I am, at best, a quarter awake.

“Definitely not,” Grant replies. 

all you need is one

It is New Year’s Eve and unseasonably warm, and I am out to begin celebrating with some close friends. My girlfriends and I, we are all grad students and we are all in that special hell that’s populated exclusively with the smart, the miserable, and the not particularly self-aware.

We start off our evening with a heavyish meal, as our plans for later involve more whiskey than I like to remember. We are at a greasy sandwich shop, enjoying falafel and hummus wraps coupled with fries covered in jalapeños, with a side of champagne for my girlfriends and a diet coke with Jim Beam from my flask for me. We laugh, not realizing that this moment is one of those perfect times that I can look back at now and see how beautiful our friendships were in the midst of a sea of more professional bullshit than I had ever imagined. We toast all the horrible things that are finally ending with 2010: problems with our exes, problems with our families, problems with our schooling, problems with our credit card bills, and to the glimmer of hope that’s promised ever year on this day in the few hours before midnight. We inhale our meal and hail a cab to a party in the northern part of our fair city that we like to joke will be populated with about two hundred women, seven hundred gay men, and maybe 5 straight(ish) ones, and more sequins than you could find in the costumes for Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. We are ultimately very correct in our assessment.

Over dinner, I have been telling Siobhán just how badly I want to fuck someone else to get the bitter taste of Adam out of my mouth. She teases me about the words I use, she teases me about my sex drive, she teases me about going to the gayest new year’s party in the city if what I really want is to fuck a man.  I take it in stride and return the jokes to her.

“All I need is one dude who’s willing to take my pants off,” I tell her, “and then it really doesn’t matter just how little the rest of them care about my junk.”

“Fair,” she says. “After all, if the incidence of something is 1 in 1,000 in the real world, but it happens to you, the incidence for you is 1 in 1.”

“Siobhán, that’s the nerdiest way I’ve ever heard a hookup described. Ever.”

“You’re welcome.”

We snag a cab and arrive just in time to beat a mass of fashionably late types to our new year’s event. We shed our coats. We get drinks. We strengthen them from my flask that’s tucked into the top of my boot.  We assess the crowd and find a blank spot for dancing.

My friends and I take sweaty, smiling pictures of each other all night. My outfit for the evening (black tanktop, black tights, black boots, black leather miniskirt, and a poorly-thought-out, visible through my shirt only in a camera flash, turquoise bra) is well documented next to my friends’ flashy party dresses and broad grins. There are photos of women embracing whose relationships—romantic or otherwise—have since dissolved, and photos of new friendships in their awkward beginnings before a deeper, more intimate connection is later forged.

I love these photos. I hate these photos.

After 45 minutes or so, I see a tall, boyish-faced man from the corner of my eye.

He looks at me, smiles, and looks away; he tells something to one of his friends.

I look at Siobhán: “All I need is one,” I remind her. She laughs and continues her dancing, which is a charming mix of voguing and gyrations over a beatific smile that never fails to attract a suitor.

I look up and see that stranger’s grin, this time with a wink. I look him in the face, raise an eyebrow in his direction, and keep up my dancing.

This tango goes on for longer than I anticipate.

I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn around to see someone other than who I expect, who happens to be standing about 3 feet away and talking to some other friend. The stranger I want to see is completely oblivious to this exchange.

This suitor is not a beautiful man, wearing not a beautiful hat, using not exactly eloquent words and covered in not particularly alluring sweat, and I think he might be hitting on me.

I may only need one to meet my goal for the evening, but just because an opportunity presents itself does not mean I am obligated to take it.

In equal parts desperation and irritation, I swing around to the tall, boyish man that I was hoping was seeking my attention. I tap his shoulder, square my shoulders and squeeze my breasts together with my upper arms, and when he turns to me I ask him, very bluntly:

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Yes.”

The other suitor is completely crestfallen. I really don’t care.

His arm slides around my waist and I place my hands on his shoulders. We are far enough apart to be acceptable for a middle school party.

“What’s your name?”

“Margot. You?”

“I’m Louis.”

We dance for the next hour between now and midnight. He tells me what he does for a living. I tell him what I do. He tells me that he is from my fair city, I tell him that my hometown is several hundred miles away and I am surprised to discover that he used to work there. He is smart and charming and a little bit grabbier than I expect.

When midnight rolls around he pulls me in and kisses me with one hand exploring the texture of my woven tights under the short hemline of my leather miniskirt.

For the next 45 minutes we continue this dance. He kisses me and gropes me, he tells me that he expects me to slap him at any minute and is surprised when I don’t. I see my friends over his shoulder and they are keeping a watchful, yet encouraging, eye on my activities. Siobhán has wandered off somewhere with one of Louis’s group and I don’t hear from her until the next day.

When he tries to cup my pussy under my skirt on the dance floor, I draw a line.

“For that,” I inform him, “you better just take me home.”

“Ok.”

We leave. We scamper out of the club like we’re getting away with something. We get a cab driven by a dry old man who could not care less about our excitement as long as we don’t destroy his backseat.

“Unicorn Lane and la Ravaudeuse Road,” I yelp, crashing into the cab and on top of my newfound paramour.

“Ok.” The cab driver has clearly been a witness to this scene several times over in just this one evening.

In the relative privacy of the backseat, Louis bites my earlobes and my neck, he pulls down the tops of my tights and his aggressive hand is immediately exploring my anatomy.

“Margot, when we get to your house I am going to eat your pussy for at least an hour.”

I spread my thighs and stifle a moan, I tell him not to make me come in the cab because the driver would probably hate it. He laughs. I unzip his pants and wrap my free hand around the base of his cock.

Many months later, Louis tells me that the comment that I make, that he is thicker than I anticipate, was so unexpected to him that he struggled not to come into my palm at that moment.

We put ourselves together when the cab careens to a halt at the designated corner. Louis flings some money at the driver as we tumble out. I lead him halfway down the block to the front door of my building. His hands are up my skirt as he follows me up the stairs to my apartment’s front door. I let us in and shed all my clothes on the walk back to my room. I hear astonished comments from behind me.

We arrive at the back of the apartment. Louis is naked too, he presses against me in a heated, urgent kiss. I drop to my knees and take his cock into my mouth as he grabs my hair, in part to steady his bulk and in part from the thrill of dominating a relatively unknown woman. This only last a minute before he pulls me up by the underarms and presses me towards the bed. I land on my back.

It is his turn to drop to his knees. He makes good on the promise he made me in the cab: while it isn’t anywhere approaching an hour, it is plenty of time for me to come with my pussy squeezing the three fingers he has shoved inside me while I arch my back and pant.

I breathlessly tell him that the condoms are, of course, in the bedside drawer. He grabs one and rolls it on. As soon as he is done, I am on top of him and riding him while he squeezes my ass. He pulls me forward by the waist and lands his face between my breasts. He pinches and bites my nipples when I ask him to. I pull his hair when he asks me to. I come in a flood across his pelvis.

He rolls me over on my back without missing a beat and bends me in half to put my legs over his shoulders. He bites me and sucks my earlobes, his nails scratch into my waist and hips as deeply as mine do into his back. When he comes he lets out a guttural sound that shakes my diaphragm.

We are silent except for our heavy breath.

After, we talk. I discover that Louis is a good person, or at least he passes for one on what I expect is a one-night stand. He tells me more intimate details about his life that night than he will ever be comfortable telling me later, because I am a perfect stranger to him. I tell him fewer of my own and am generally cooler than I ever could normally be, because he is a perfect stranger to me. He is older than he looks, and more complex than he likes to be.

“Happy new year,” he mutters to me before we fall asleep. It is 4am.

The next morning, a thick hand parting my labia and exploring my clit coupled with a hard dick pressing into my back awakens me, and I am exactly on the edge of orgasm. When another hand finds my now-sore breast and stimulates an aching nipple, I moan and shudder into consciousness.

When I am a thinking person again, I roll over onto my belly and place myself between this stranger’s thighs. He is hard again. I take him into my mouth, with one hand gripping the base of his cock and the other fondling his balls. Louis is not yet friendly enough to call me names, so instead he grabs my hair and complements my skills before he orgasms down my throat.

After a few minutes we are both calm. We are both finding out more about each other, these two relative unknowns who will, we find out later, be perfectly unmatched.

I offer him a shower, and ask if he wants to get brunch. He politely declines, saying that he has to meet his friends from last night. I check my phone to find about ten texts from last night, ranging from friends reminding me to be safe and careful to complimenting me, to Siobhán asking if I want to get our customary New Year’s meal of lo mein, which is an invitation that I accept.

Louis reassembles himself in his sweaty clothes. I put on some pajamas and make coffee. He kisses me on the cheek in the kitchen before we trade phone numbers. As I see him out the door, my roommate wanders out of her room and looks at Louis, then back at me, and then promptly goes back to bed.

I wrongly expect to never see him again.

in media res

Grant is tall and has hazel eyes, which when we are alone he embellishes with glasses, but in public he uses contacts. He wears a beard to make me happy, and his hair is unruly and brown. He is the smartest person I’ve ever met, and also one of the most reserved. He holds my hand in public and nuzzles his face into my pillow when he sleeps. He likes to take me to museums, and we watch sci-fi from the 1960s and 70s on a semi-regular basis. He suffers my horrible schedule and obliges my need for human contact.

Some number of weeks ago, I dragged Grant out of the house for a reconstruction of our first date: Indian food from the wrong side of the western river in our fair city—all the really good places are in some other neighborhood, except for the one—followed by wandering through a picturesque park and stopping by a bookstore. I am wearing a full skirt with a long jacket, with some stockings that are entirely more elaborate than necessary. It is a little too cool out for my attire.

The restaurant has a perfect wine list, and we are tottering through the park. We laugh, we make jokes, and as we walk arm in arm our hands explored more than would have comfortable in more revealing light. As we walk down the street and back to my house, the stockings grip the tops of my thighs exactly where my legs slide past each other as I walk. I am wearing red lace panties over the garters that suspend my hosiery. This costume is a secret known to the two of us alone as we stride down the street to my two-story home.

Grant and I arrive at my front door. I let us in. I am delighted that the lights are off and the house is silent: nobody is home but us. I head up the stairs ahead of him. The bend of my waist is mildly exaggerated by the angle; I imagine that the tops of my stockings may be just visible to my partner as he follows me up the incline. At the next hallway, I turn left to the bedroom. He excuses himself to brush his teeth. I debate how much to undress, and I have gotten as far as my skirt by the time he returns. He returns to find me in a black t-shirt, black stockings, a black garter belt, the aforementioned red lace panties, and black boots. Grant laughs and gives me a half-smile. He sits on the bed as I bend over to unzip my footwear. I feel his eyes on my ass before I feel his hand.

“Grant,” I say, raising my head and putting my face in close approximation with his, “What do you mean by that?”

He kisses me and licks my lower lip; he tugs at the hem of my shirt to suggest that I remove it. I comply.

“Margot,” he replies, “I think tonight I would really love to go down on you.”

This is not so rare an occurrence that it requires any kind of fanfare or announcement.

Grant pushes me onto the bed by my shoulders. He lands on top of me, and bites my lip while pulling my hair. His palm is against my skull and the pads of his fingers massage scalp. He pulls my head to one side and kisses and bites my neck and shoulders while traveling south to my breasts. He bites my nipples through my bra, then he pinches and twists them through the thin fabric. My hips press into his chest in response.  His attentions linger on my bust. My pussy aches. The smell of his head and chest overwhelm me. I am panting.

He pulls my panties off. His mouth wanders down to my mons. His hands continue to manipulate my breasts. His tongue starts to trace the outline of the union of my labia through the thin, red lace that encases it. I am making guttural, primitive sounds. His mouth traces from my pussy to the top of my stockings: he licks from my thighs to behind my knees and back up again. During this motion, his hands press into my flesh, and in sliding over my skin they remove my inconvenient panties. My hands run through his hair and press his face into my pelvis.

Grant’s tongue glides over my clit while his hands travel back to my breasts to roll my nipples. My thighs internally rotate and my feet flex, my belly tightens and my neck extends. I am making sounds without meaning and my partner echoes them into my body.

My mind is more peacefully blank than it has been in ages.  Grant arises from the cleft between my thighs. He is still fully clothed. He pulls his sweater over his head and unbuckles his belt; his clothing is shed in short order. There is no pretense. He picks up my left leg and throws it over his right shoulder; he kisses and licks the arch of my foot through my stocking as his perfectly curved dick pushes into my still-tight cunt.

Grant exhales and groans. He pulls on my hair. He presses his torso into mine. His tongue fills my mouth and he sighs into me. When he approaches orgasm, his mouth starts making words that are clearly divorced from his conscious thought. He begs me to choke him. His neck is in my hand. I avoid the trachea while I gently press the external carotids. His face is red from exertion. My free hand scratches his back. His right hand grips and kneads my ass. My name escapes his mouth as his cock pulsates inside me.

The weight of Grant’s torso as it presses into mine, when he is covered in sweat and exhausted from the work of fucking me, is overwhelming. My face is pressed into his chest hair, I breathe in his scent and run my hands over the expanse of his back. I study the three freckles in his right iris; he returns my gaze and we kiss.

We sleep naked next to each other. His head works onto my pillow in his sleep, his arm is thrown across my hips and his breath is a soft exhale on the nape of my neck. When he sleeps his face is softened, and if I wake before him he wraps his body around mine when I stir.  The serenity that the morning offers is the perfect counterpart to our evening before, but even in a more tranquil atmosphere the sentiments that governed our previous activities persists. 

"Your hands. Here."

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myfaircity.craigslist.org

myfaircity craigslist > personals > casual encounters

a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

Date: 2011-06-18, 8:49AM EDT

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I have a very specific fantasy that I’ve decided I’d like to realize. I would like to meet a man between the ages of 22 and 40 (ish) in a bar that is mutually convenient to both of us. I would like to see him from across the bar. I would like him to see me. I would like to watch him drink a drink with someone else—another woman, another man, someone he came with, or someone he didn’t—while stealing glances at me. I will be by myself. I will be wearing a short skirt or dress, and a low neckline. I will not be wearing a lot of panties. I can wear heels upon request, but I really prefer boots.

After we have this exchange of glances for approximately 20 minutes, I will get up and head for a bathroom. He will follow me. We will lock the door, it will be just the two of us—no stalls, please—and he will fuck me from behind, while standing, and pressing me either against the sink or the door. He will lift up my skirt and unzip his jeans. He will rub my clit until I orgasm with his cock buried inside my pussy. He will spank my hips and ass hard enough to leave hand-shaped bruises.

There are some non-negotiable aspects to this fantasy:
1)  There will be no sexual contact without a condom. The end.
2) There will be no talking. A major aspect of this fantasy for me is anonymity. The only sounds out of his lips should be the wordless noises we make while fucking, and we can make those in abundance.
3) We can both reserve the right to abandon ship at any time, end our activities, and call it off. If the man choses, he doesn’t even have to follow me to the bathroom and start at all. I can walk out the front door of the bar instead of fucking. Free will is extremely important to me.

A little about me: I am a graduate student in my mid-20s, medium-tall, voluptuous-muscular build, with short blond hair, green eyes, and clear skin. I have breasts that have been described by a number of people as “epic.” As this ad is clearly a little bit more verbose than the average one, I promise I’m not a bot, but I AM extraordinarily picky.

About you: You are between 22-40, you have meticulous hygiene, you are in decent shape, you don’t dress terribly, and you don’t wear tons of cologne. At some point during our communications, you’ll send me a photo of your face, and I’ll send you one of mine if I decide I’d like to. Any photos of penises or headless torsos are grounds for immediate disqualification.

Depending on how well this encounter goes, there can be more like it. I’m not necessarily looking for something more regular, but I’m not NOT looking, either.

from    A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 10:35 AM

subject            a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 10:35 AM (13 minutes ago)

For years, I’ve had a fantasy about a former classmate: she’s a tall, voluptuous woman, with a toothy grin and a sharp wit. I am in her apartment, we are kissing and clawing: her at my collar and me at her skirt; I turn her around, pull up her hem and down her panties as I press her against a wall. Her breath has a beat in the middle when her chest hits the plaster. I unzip my jeans with one hand and the other is in her, I am biting her neck as we fuck. In this fantasy, there aren’t words, and a condom is a fine price to pay for realizing this story.

I’m 6’2”, broad-chested, brown hair, sharp dresser. I’m happy to talk to you about the long-term ramifications of recent political decisions after this meeting. The attached photo is from a recent trip for work. I have a bachelor’s degree and work in a competitive field. My field requires an aggressive nature, which I’m happy to bring to the floor.

--A

from    Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

to         A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:00 AM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 11:00 AM (just now)

Dear A,

Your email has spectacular grammar, and your photo is both of an attractive man and does not feature a penis! Well done. I think your fantasy meshes well with mine: your height and build are very much in line with men that I am attracted to, and I love aggressive men who both know when to stop and push me to that limit. Please don’t leave any marks on my neck, but I want you to bruise my hips and scratch my thighs. Is that in line with your fantasy?

I’ve enclosed a photo. I hope I resemble the object of your desires.

Best,

Margot.

from    A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:15 AM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 11:15 AM (3 minutes ago)

Margot,

It’s funny, when I opened your email I had a moment where I thought you were the woman I’ve been fucking every night in my thoughts for the past few years. You’re not her, but you are extraordinary.  I would be flattered to help you realize your fantasy, to the letter.

How do you feel about Old McFlannery’s Brewhouse, at 14^th and jones, at 8pm? I don’t live too close to there, you don’t have to, but they have bathrooms that I think would work well and an excellent gin and tonic.

Best,

A (do you need more of a name?)

from    Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

to         A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:36 AM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 11:36 AM (just now)

Dear A,

A is plenty for me, 8pm works fine for me. Old McF’s is exactly where I had in mind. I promise not to wear a lot of panties.

--m

I am at Old McF’s at 7:50.  I am wearing a short, pale green dress, with pockets and a plunging neck. I wear a black gstring under the skirt, a small wallet tucked into the top of a boot, and a kerchief in my hair (it’s disposable). I am drinking a gin and tonic.

The door opens. It’s june: there is a gush of hot air from the outside world that accompanies A as he walks into the bar. He is as advertised: 6’2”, brown beard, salt-and-pepper Kennedy hair, impeccably tailored pants. He is out of place by about a $50 a month dry cleaning bill. He looks at me, winks, and walks to the bar without further acknowledgement.

I fidget in the booth. My nipples harden against the tight fabric held against them. I pinch one when I rest my hand on the table. I shudder; I sigh involuntarily at my own touch. I notice through the corner of my eyes that A is the only person who saw all of this. He is standing slightly off from exactly across the bar from me and he sips a porter. He is observing me over the rim of his glass. It is my turn to wink.

I finish my drink.

I stand.

My skirt has crept too far over my thighs, I pull it down a few instants later than I should after I stand up. A raises a solitary eyebrow when I slink across the room to the bathroom before he follows me there.

I open the door to the bathroom: there’s one toilet, and across the room one sink, with a stack of paper towels. A pushes the door open again before it has a chance to hit its frame. His pupils are enormous. He grabs me around the waist, pulls me in, kisses me, and his hands are immediately under my skirt. His movements are choreatic: impulsive, brisk, flexed, and erratic. My lips swell with his aggression.

He breaks the kiss and pulls out a condom at the same moment as he unzips. He hands the condom to me, I rip it open and sheath him. He spins me around, presses me against the unlocked door, and bends me over: my short skirt hikes up, and he rips off my suggestion of underwear.

I am surprised: A pulls back on my thighs while pushing down my shoulders as his knees spread apart my thighs. He kneels behind me, spreads apart my ass and presses his face against my swollen pussy. He licks my folds, moans into my body, and I feel the rhythm that his arm is defining against his shoulder, his cock, my thigh. My back arches and my hips press into his mouth: this is a welcome surprise.

A stands. He is miraculously hard as he penetrates me with no further preamble. Our moans are deeper and throatier. He slaps my hip: it echoes and I shriek. He is kissing my back, his free hand is wrapped around my hip: he pinches, rolls, and flicks my clit.

The bar sounds on the other side of the door have hushed considerably in the last ten minutes.

A is relentless. His hips move faster, I feel him drip sweat that rolls down to the cleft at the bottom of my back. I do not notice that his voice is becoming louder and deeper due to my own wailing against the cheep wood of the bathroom door. My pussy tightens and relaxes; it clenches and releases his cock while I gush all over his hand.

Thirty seconds later, the ringing in my ears quiets enough to allow me to hear him grunting and sighing against my neck with his orgasm.

We are still for a moment.

He pulls out of me, and pulls down my hem. I turn around and face him.

He kisses me and stands to one side as he pulls open the door.

I step out.

The 35 people in the bar are silent: 70 eyes stare at me, 35 mouths are slack-jawed. I walk out the front door of a bar I don’t frequent.

from    A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

date    Sun, Jun 20, 2011 at 3:07 PM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 3:07 PM (5 hours ago)

Margot,

Thank you.

xxx-xxx-xxxx.

Best,

A

to         A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

date    Sun, Jun 20, 2011 at 8:32 PM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 8:32 PM (21 minutes ago)

Dear A,

Of course I will.

--mlr

how to end a dry spell.

Louis meets me at the southwest corner of the block where I am at a supreme-court-themed party (my friends are VERY specific people), because I insisted that he walk me home because my skirt is too short, it is too late, and I am too drunk. We walk arm in arm, catching up with each other about the events of the past few weeks: his huge work upgrade, my finally finishing the most challenging year of my academic existence. His hand slides across my waist to rest on the curve of my ass.

He tells me he wants to bend me over a car parked on the street.

He asks me if I can tell how hard he is from where I am, pulled to his right as we briskly march down a cobblestone sidewalk.

I feel my pussy tingling, waking up from a hiatus. I lick his earlobe and tell him to walk faster.

We are at my front door. I fumble with the keys. We enter. I walk up the stairs in front of him, my impossibly short skirt riding up my hips and showing my thong-clad pussy through my tights. His hands are running up my thighs, helping my skirt on its way north.

We are at my apartment door. He presses behind me as I search for the key. My skirt is at my waist, he finds the top of my tights and pulls them down, his breath is breezing through the hairs on the back of my neck and tickling my ears. His hand spreads my thighs and fucks my pussy on the landing.

I cannot find my keys.

I press back against him. I go from the beginnings of sexual response to the edge of orgasm in approximately ten seconds.

There is a zipping sound, and the ripping of a condom wrapper. I am momentarily empty, and then his hands are on my hips again, his cock is parting my labia and entering me, I am standing on my tiptoes with my face pressed against my front door. It is 2:00am, I barely consider that my neighbors might be awake to enjoy the show. The pane of glass in my front door rattles with our thrusting.

His right hand pulls the front of my tights down and finds my engorged clit. He brings me to orgasm and I stifle my cries as best I can, hoping not to wake my roommate whose bed is approximately 8 feet away through two doors from where we screw.

He pulls out of me and pulls off the condom. I find my key in an unfamiliar pocket of the jacket I only rarely wear. I open the door. We make our way through the darkness to my bedroom, shedding clothing as we go. I turn on the light. I take his latex-tasting cock into my mouth, he moans deeply and holds my hair in fistfuls. I am kneeling on uneven hardwood. Saliva rolls out of my mouth, onto my hand, onto my thigh, down the slant of my thigh to the floor. He hardens more. He moans, pulls my head off his erection, and puts his hands under my arms as he tells me to get on the bed with my legs in the air.

His face is buried in my pussy, one hand is inside me and one is pressing apart my thigh. I am dissolving in my own orgasm.

Another condom. He stands as he penetrates me.  My legs are over his shoulders, then spread apart by his hands, then wrapped around his waist as he pushes me back on the bed. We roll over and I am on top, his face in my breasts. I slow us down. I am savoring this, the cock that stretches me out and presses against my swollen tissues, the hands that spank and spread the globes of my ass, the mouth and teeth that bite my nipples while calling me a whore.

I am lost. I try not to leave marks as I kiss him, kiss his neck, cry into his ears and come, my snatch wrapping and seizing around him.

I ask him to fuck me from behind. He is thrilled to comply. We roll over; he grabs my vibrator off my nightstand and gives it to me immediately before lunging in.  The fronts of his thighs slap against the backs of mine. His hand leaves large red marks on hips. I press the vibrator against my clit, I pant, I hold off as best I can and so does he, until he doesn’t anymore and thrusts aggressively against me while making purely primitive, purely male sounds.

He pulls out. I fall onto my stomach. My breath is rapid. His head is in the small of my back. He kisses both of the dimples on the back of waist. My hands are in his. We are like this for a minute, until we rearrange ourselves under covers, with him on his back and my head in the hollow of his arm. We sleep.

The next morning, we are on our sides, my stomach to his back and my arm around his waist. We mutter morning pleasantries to each other. He rolls on his back. We kiss, small light kisses on cheeks and noses, then heavier, more purposeful ones on mouths. I straddle him. I kiss him. I slip down between his legs.

I take him into my mouth. I feel him stiffen; I wrap a hand around his shaft and one around his balls. I alternate running my hand with my mouth and using just my hand while licking each testicle. I feel him get impossibly hard, and I back off. I feel him soften, and I apply more pressure, with my lips and tongue to the parts of his dick that make him instantly harden, with the knuckle of my hand cradling his scrotum to his perineum and indirectly to his prostate.

I bring him to an edge, and then I bring him back. I repeat.

My pussy swells and drips. I moan against his cock. His hand reaches between my legs and he half-laughs, half moans to find how wet I am. He asks me to stop sucking him off, he begs to eat my pussy, and I comply.

Sucking cock brings me close to orgasm on its own. Being flipped over and feeling a light, then slightly more substantial, tonguing, accompanied by hands that spread apart my labia and penetrate my cunt sends me over the edge much more quickly than I expect.

The climaxes that I reach with Louis’s face between my thighs are of heights that I cannot attain by myself. With him, my mind empties, my body opens and my spine enflames, every nerve from every part of me firing off. Muscles in my pelvis that are otherwise quiescent make their existence known, my throat makes sounds that come from some more basal part of my organism. The sensation from Louis’s lips and his own moans of satisfaction reverberate against my flesh.

He arises. He kisses me, his mouth tastes like my body. He puts on a condom, puts my legs around his neck and thrusts into me without preamble. I am squeaking, squealing with pleasure and oversensitivity as he fucks me and my post-orgasm pussy tightens even more around him. I move my legs down, I wrap them around his waist, he holds my arms over my head, he thrusts into me and sweats.

He pulls out. He pulls off the condom. I lift my torso, and with him straddling my thighs I take him into my mouth while cradling his balls and stroking his shaft.

“Margot, you can squeeze me harder than that.”

I accept the challenge.

His breathing changes. He thrusts against my face.  I feel him orgasm before he makes a sound, his ejaculate shooting straight to the back of my throat in a high-pressure stream. His voice is guttural, his orgasm continues. What I can’t swallow leaks out from my lips onto my hand, and falls on my stomach.

He stops. I pull my mouth off. I smile broadly. We flop over and sleep for another hour. We wake up. We make coffee. I am calmer than I have been in weeks. He seems happier than I have ever known him to be. In my kitchen, we hug like friends and kiss each other on the forehead. He leaves to meet his brother for lunch.

I go back to bed. The left side—the side he slept on—smells of man. I have no obligations today aside from enjoying anything that I want to. I smile, and run my hands across my body, thinking of all the things my lover can make me feel.

a very complex decision-making rubric.

Pervs,

I am in the midst of my longest dry spell in the last 5 years. It's not really that long--maybe a month?--but I have noticed that my friends are much happier with me when I am having sex more regularly. In light of that, I am considering taking my graphs to myfaircity.craigslist.org* to see if I can find a young man who is altruistic enough to have sex with me so I don't get all crabby at my friends (click to embiggen):

I thought a Venn just wouldn't do here. Here's to kind, giving perverts.

Bisous!
Margot

*not a real craigslist. Also, I clearly don't live at the intersection of Unicorn Lane and la Ravaudeuse Road. Don't try to find that place.

weights

I have a crush on the gym. The gym at my school is windowless and a touch dank, with a variety of machines that are fully functional about 80% of the time. Because this is a gym associated with a grad school and it is not frequented by undergrads, most of the population to be found here are less interested in checking others out and more interested in maintaining either optimum health or blowing off excess steam. It is full of beautiful, distracted people; all of them in their own worlds and forgetting their stressful careers in favor of the treadmill, the weights, or pickup basketball.

Athleticism and sexuality are deeply intertwined in my psyche, and I'm fairly certain I'm not alone in this. It's not a great leap to start at spandex on the stationery cycle and a sweaty acquaintance’s grunting with weights. At a zenith it is almost impossible to complete a workout without salivating.

**********

2:00pm is not a busy time at the gym. The people who manage to come then are people who take a late lunch, who have irregular schedules, or are students. People at the gym at 2:00pm are in the habit of sweating. They are acclimated to old tshirts and short shorts in a kind of exclusive public that is limited to only other people like themselves. The early afternoon is my favorite time to check a workout off of my task list. I walk in, exchange my membership card for my locker key and a towel from the extraordinarily bored clerk, and walk across the stationary bikes to the locker room. I stand in front of my locker for a minute, collecting myself before I strip and costume in black spandex shorts, a grey tanktop, a headband, and running shoes. I gather my water bottle, my key, and my ipod, and I head over to a stairstepper.

Exercise equipment forces a certain posture: eight inches taller, hips thrust backwards and shoulders pressed forward, a rhythmic, complimentary flex-and-release of the buttocks is a hypnotic undulation. Everyone is on a different tempo. I pick a machine and settle into my own pace*. I start to sweat. From here, I can watch people enter and leave.

There are two gentlemen who never fail to catch my eye.

They are both about four inches taller than I am. One has a darker complexion, with dark eyes that crinkle at the corner when he smiles. He has transformed over the past few years from slim and willowy to solid, with the same narrow hips and waist but with a new broadness to his back. The other is larger and square: he shows off his chest hair with a tank top and sways when he walks. His stubble perpetually offsets the apparent youth of his rounded face. They are workout partners. They are friendly. They laugh loudly in between sets and stifle grunts during reps.

They always smile and wave at me when they come in: “Hey Margot! I see you're giving it hell today!” the crinkle-eyed one says to me. He teases me like this all the time.

“I do my best, Jack!” I grin back at him. He and Ted meander over to the weight room.

I finish on my machine. I am bright pink, my hair is dripping, and my shirt sticks to me. I clean the equipment off and go to the weight room for the second half of my workout.

I am on autopilot: the routine of sweating is comforting and helps me dissipate the stress of my day to day. The moment after a normal workout is, for me, not altogether unlike a moment after an orgasm: there is clarity, tranquility, and a very particular odor. I am almost there, but not quite.

I walk into the weight room. It is empty except for me, Jack, and Ted. They are ignoring me, and spotting each other: Jack lies on the bench and Ted is over him. I get an exercise ball and some weights. As I lie on top of it—hips pointing towards the ceiling, knees spread apart for stability, chest opened with my arms at my sides, toes pointing towards the only other two people in the room—I am made acutely aware that I am ovulating by both my posture and the sounds coming from my companions.

I lift my weights. I put them down again. I do this again, with a moaning, grunting sound at the peak of exertion. My eyes are closed and I am focused on the tension in my muscles as I complete this self-assigned task.

Up. Down.

I do not immediately notice that my friends are now silent. There is no more clanking and ringing from their side of the gym, there are no more grunts, and there is just some faint chatter between the two of them. I am focused.

I complete my set.

I open my eyes and sit up.

I notice that from across the room, my two friends have barely changed posture, but they are no longer focused on bench presses and are instead focused on me. I am suddenly aware that gym shorts are an extraordinarily revealing garment on a sexually aroused man. I smile at them, and bounce a little on the  exercise ball.

“I didn't know you lifted weight like that, Margot.” Ted is half-smiling. “I didn't realize you were that strong. Would you mind coming over here and help me out with spotting Jack? I can show you how if you've never done it.”

I have spent a considerable amount of time moaning into my pillows and bringing myself to orgasm to the fantasy of this moment**. The gym is cold; my nipples harden as I step over.

I stand at the head of the bench. Ted is behind me and off to the side. He and Jack are both covered in sweat: I can smell them as I approach and now that we are so close it's overwhelming. The smell goes straight from my nostrils to my gut to my vulva.

Jack unracks the bar. There is clearly more weight on it than I can be expected to spot. He does a rep, then two, then starts to falter. I lean forward like I am useful here, and so does Ted, both his arms around me. This is completely ineffective for spotting and absolutely perfect for getting me wet. The two of us grab the bar and rerack it for Jack, who is panting heavily.

Ted pulls one hand off the equipment and puts it on my hip, pulling me back to him and breathing on the back of my ear. I inhale sharply as my lower back angles itself of its own accord to his touch. I am frozen for a moment as he puts his other hand on me and peels down my spandex without saying a word.

Jack is still panting, but now he is paying attention. There is a characteristic bulge underneath the shiny nylon of his shorts. He runs his reddened hands down his body to his pelvis, under the elastic to his growing penis, which he pulls into view.

Ted is kissing my neck and rubbing my clit as he pulls down his shorts. I grind my hips into him with a rhythm from earlier in the afternoon. He asks me to turn around. I do. He pulls over a second bench and sits down.

Jack puts one hand on my thigh, and asks me to step back a little. No, a little more. He asks me to straddle his face, knees on the racks on either side of the bench. He continues to stroke himself as he guides me down. I sigh. My hips sway back and forth over his face while he sucks on my labia and clit.

Ted is staring straight through me and stroking his cock. I return his gaze, put my hands on his thighs, and bend forward. His salt-tasting erection is in my mouth, my hands are still on his legs for balance and one of his hands grips my sweaty hair, the other cupping his testicles. Jack and I make the muffled sounds of people who love the taste of orgasms, while Ted sighs and squeezes my body.

We continue like this until I cannot form a tight seal when I try to silence the moans of my orgasm. I am shaking as my pelvis gyrates at a frequency faster than the one I consciously set, despite Jack's firm grip on the bend where my hip meets my thigh. I whimper and am still for a moment.

 I stand. I take Jack's hand off of his penis, and as a gratuity for the service he just provided me, I straddle his hips and fill my pussy with his erection. I am tight from the orgasm he gave me. He gasps,  grabs me and digs his fingers in. I ride him, facing his feet.

Ted walks over, swings a leg over his friend's lower half, and feeds me his cock. I wrap one hand around his waist and pull him in and the other forms a ring that follows my mouth. His hands are in my hair. He groans and fills my mouth with come. Everything tastes of salt and musk.

My pussy starts to tighten around Jack. My thighs burn as I ride him through climaxes: first mine, then his. His fingers leave small, red bruises over the crests of my hipbones.

I stand, my legs shaky from exertion. Jack sits up and pulls me down next to him, as if he were spotting me in my unsteady stance. Ted collects my shorts hands and hands them to me with a towel. The three of us are flushed and grinning. Jack, who is so very considerate of the needs of others, grabs a rag and the bottle of spray cleaner for the bench, and wipes it down.

“Do you have plans after your shower?” Jack asks me. His voice is the same as half an hour ago, when we were friends who went to the gym at the same time.

“I was going to grab a coffee and maybe a sandwich.”

“Mind if we join?”

“I'd be delighted.”

I kiss them each on the cheek. Ted slaps my ass lightly as I walk away. I half-smile at him; he half-smiles back.

The receptionist is completely asleep at the front desk.

*Recently, this pace is almost, but not quite, entirely Girl Talk, Robyn, and Cut Copy-based. You know, if you're interested.

**How meta.

thresholds

I saw a lover today. I wore a dress with no panties. He picked me up and we went to his place, his hand stuffed under my skirt and expertly fondling my clit while driving through the city streets. I would start a sentence and not finish it when he made me breathless. It was the afternoon, and any passerby who looked in through the windows would have known exactly what we were up to: at a red light a tiny, middle-aged woman walked by--an old work acquaintance-- and I'm pretty sure she knew. I begged him not to make me come in the car at the same time as I gyrated my hips against his hand, taking him into me and covering him in my juices.

We raced into the apartment. I pulled off his jeans in the threshold: we just managed to shut the (glass) door to my floor before I had him in my mouth; the head of his cock pressing against the back of my throat, with his scrotum in my left hand and my right braced against the door jamb. He leaned into the wall, pulled my hair, and pressed me further into his crotch. I pulled my dress off over my head and stuck two fingers in my pussy while I sucked him off. Both of his hands gripped the back of my head, and he pulled my hair and massaged my scalp. He pulled back, stooped down, and pressed his cock to my sternum between my tits, which I squeezed together with my forearms. He fucked my tits slowly, then quickly, and then it was his turn to ask not to come just yet.

We left for the bedroom: him holding up his jeans; me carrying my dress over my arm, naked except for knee-high boots. He told me to leave those on as pushed me onto the bed and thrust his face between my legs while holding my thighs to my chest. I lost my words after two minutes and dissolved into moans while my pussy throbbed.

My partner put on a condom, asked me to ride him, and to hold him down while I did it. It seems that although historically he didn't favor it, he's since come around to loving lady on top sex. I slid myself over his cock and pressed my torso to his while I pinned his arms over his head. My legs were extended with my feet pressing off of his for leverage.

“Fuck me harder, Margot.”

I did. I sweated with effort on top of him, moaning and grunting in pleasure.

“Yes, that's a good slut.”

I snarled and gyrated, hair in my face and my tits pressing against his chin. I cried out as I came.

“Get on your knees, Margot.”

My body still hummed from my climax when he flipped me over. He slid into me easily: both hands were around my waist and he pulled me back onto his pelvis. I begged him to fuck my pussy as hard as he could, and he did. He called me his little whore, spanked and squeezed my ass, his cock hit my g spot with each stroke and I tightened around him. The sounds he made while he came made me shiver and sigh.

He relaxed on top of me for a moment, until I rolled over and he laid his head on my breast. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and with my free hand I combed my fingers through his hair. His bedroom has large windows that look out to nowhere and afternoon sunlight filtered in. He panted. He smells salty, warm, and a little bit of clean linen.

“I love to please you, Margot,” he said.

I kissed his forehead.

i suppose that's one good word, yes.

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