From Topspace4@aol.com Sat May 10 17:51:52 1997
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Subject: NEW STORY: 'Tabitha' (MountainTop) (MF M^F span slow) [1!2]
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DISCLAIMERS: This story is written for an adult audience and contains
graphic language and explicit sexual material. If you are underage,
if it is illegal for you to possess such material in the jurisdiction
in which you are reading this, or if adult sexuality of this type
offends you, STOP READING NOW!
This story is a work of fiction. It is not a true story, it is pure
fantasy.
Other than as specifically explained in the author's notes below, any
resemblance to any person, real or fictitious, living or dead, is
purely coincidental and unintended.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Copyright [C-in-a-Circle Copyright Symbol] 1997, by
MountainTop Productions. The material contained herein is intended
for the personal use of the reader.
Permission is hereby granted for duplication, without additions,
changes, or omissions, for personal, non-profit use, provided that the
entire contents of the disclaimers, copyright notice, and author's
notes are included in the duplicated complete work or, if the work is
segmented as part of the duplication, in each duplicated segment. All
other rights are reserved, and making copies of this material or any
portion thereof in any form for any purpose other than that for which
permission has been granted is a violation of United States copyright
laws.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The background and setting in the first part of this
story are real. The club in San Diego exists, and a dancer there uses
the stage name "Tabitha". I have used that name with her permission
and at her request; with some compression for literary reasons, the
verbal exchanges and other interactions in the first part of this
story actually happened.
The second part of the story, however, is my own personal fantasy.
After considerable conversation with her, I am profoundly convinced
that the woman known as Tabitha is neither a prostitute nor an easy
lay; she is an honest, hard-working single parent who is willing, and
fortunately for her able, to support herself and her child as an
entertainer who takes off her clothes and dances. We did not discuss
this point, but I suspect that she spends a lot of time fending off
unwanted advances from men, many of them too young to legally consume
alcohol, who confuse fantasy with reality. I have the utmost respect
for her, and I am honored to have made her acquaintance.
In editing this work I removed over 900 expository words from the
first part that mostly describe the interior of the club and various
aspects of its operation but are not essential to the overall story.
I will be happy to e-mail an RTF copy of the longer version of this
work, which also retains the italics used for inner thoughts and
emphasis, to anyone who requests it; the text of the second part of
both versions is identical.
Aside from reflecting my philosophy with regard to erotic power
exchange, and my perceptions of, reactions to, and interactions with
Tabitha in the first part of this story, all other aspects of the
characters, and their activities as depicted in this work, are
completely fictitious.
Comments and feedback to Topspace4@aol.com are welcome.
***** ***** ***** ***** Tabitha
By MountainTop
***** *****
San Diego is a Navy town, and, like most military towns, it has
its share of strip clubs. I was there on a business trip, and I
needed some R&R, so I browsed through the phone book and picked a club
by the simple expedient of being able to find its street on my Hertz
map of the city.
The local law in San Diego is that nudity means no alcohol in the
club and the dancers, when exposing even as much skin as one would see
at the beach, must be at least six feet from their customers. When
doing a non-nude couch dance, a girl can brush her hands or body
against or otherwise touch a customer, but the converse is absolutely
verboten; these clubs are paranoid about losing their licenses, and
touching the girls is a surefire way for a customer to get himself
bounced.
The Beach Boys got it right; California girls are special. While
this club has a sprinkling of thunder-thighs and pneumatic centerfold
candidates, the majority of the dancers here are slender, firmly-toned
hardbodies. Some of them dance to slow songs, while others choose
more up-tempo cuts, but the end result is the same, an impressive
display of luscious young female flesh for an overwhelmingly male
audience.
I'm happily married, and I visit such clubs when I travel to pass
some otherwise lonely time. I watch the girls dance, I buy a few
drinks for some of them, and I try to strike up intelligent
conversations; the chances are that at least one is kinked the way I
am. Occasionally I get lucky; some dancers advertise their
orientations, and I thought things might be looking up when a girl
mounted the stage wearing a spiked collar. After she had danced her
way down to the bare essentials, she was wearing the collar, high
heels, and a set of chain-connected, tweezer-type nipple clamps. I
tipped her as she left the stage and invited her to join me for a
drink. Initial appearances can be misleading, though, and I've found
it's a good idea to proceed with caution.
"You were wearing some interesting adornments. Are they for real,
or just for show?"
"Oh, they're for real," she said. "Do you play?"
Nothing subtle here, I thought, but I never hesitate to make my
situation known. "My wife and I both play," I told her. "How long
have you been in the scene?"
"A couple of years," she replied. "I started when I was sixteen."
Then I fell into the first-impression trap. "Do you have a
regular top?"
"I used to bottom," she said with a smile, "but I just top now.
I'm thinking of becoming a pro Domme. Which way do you play?"
This eighteen-year-old with visions of sugar-plum dollar-signs
still has a few things to learn, I thought to myself. Like the fact
that collars are a symbol of submission, and Dominants who understand
what they're into don't wear them.
"I top," I said dryly. We had now ruled out any possibility of mutual
play-interest.
Each DJ at the club is a combination of a music-and-lights
controller and a carnival barker. I had pretty much tuned out the
current one's pitch until something changed in his tone. "And now,"
he announced with a heightened vocal fervor, "the 1995 showgirl of the
year . . ." I perked up a bit. In a place like this, I thought, the
showgirl of the year, even from a couple of years ago, should be worth
a look. ". . . and the 1996 and 1997 Po'Lympics champion . . ." What
the fuck is a Po'Lympics? But I had no time to puzzle that out. ". .
. this is . . ." A long dramatic pause, then, in a voice lowered half
an octave in pitch and reduced to a hoarse whisper, ". . . Tabitha!"
I watched a slim woman stride confidently up onto the stage on
open-toe spike-heeled mules, the difference between heel and platform
heights at least five inches, and I knew instantly that Tabitha was as
different from the other dancers as night from day. Blonde hair a
shoulder-length shag rather than a mane, disdaining a lingerie-style
outfit in favor of a short, shimmery dress, older, more mature, and
totally comfortable in her milieu, Tabitha moved with a poised,
vibrant energy. She quickly demonstrated, with feline grace and lithe
athleticism, what the term Po'Lympics meant; some girls had used the
stage-to-rafters brass poles as occasional dance props, but for
Tabitha they were erotic weapons, and her charismatic blend of bold
sauciness and sinuous sensuality was bewitching.
The ambient tension had suddenly become electric; conversations died,
and I sensed the atmospheric change as her animal magnetism grabbed
and held the focus of every person in the room, dancers and customers
alike.
Five breathtaking minutes later, Tabitha slipped back into her
dress and left the stage. I pushed my heart back down from my throat
by sheer will-power, sipped at my coke, and tried to redirect my
thoughts by asking the Domme wannabe still seated beside me, "Do any
of the girls working here bottom?"
"A few." She mentioned a couple of names, and then she blew me
completely away when she said, ". . . and Tabitha, from time to time."
I couldn't believe my ears. "Tabitha? Tabitha bottoms?"
"That's right," she confirmed, and I discovered that the minimum
time needed for the mind to transform a mild vanilla attraction into a
raging D/s-bdsm fantasy can be too short to measure with anything less
precise than an atomic clock.
I declined to buy the collared lady another drink, so she left to
prowl the rest of the room. When Tabitha came out of the dressing
room, I offered to buy her a drink and she sat down beside me. She
drank coffee as we talked, and I learned some things about her.
Eventually, I turned our conversation in the direction of my
fantasies.
"I understand you sometimes bottom," I said as casually as I could
manage.
Tabitha nodded. "I love a good flogging. The endorphins cut in
and I just drift away; I have no idea where I am or what's happening
around me."
We talked about different kinds of play, she shared a couple of
her previous experiences, and we discussed creative ways to avoid, for
obvious reasons, marking her during a scene. I had no idea where the
conversation might end up, but I do have one unusual method of putting
prospective play-partners at ease. "I write scene stories," I told
her. "Would you be interested in reading some of them?"
"Sure," she replied. "I like to read, but I haven't found much
along those lines."
"Wait here," I said, "I'll be right back." I went out to my
rental car, grabbed a manila envelope, and was back inside in less
than a minute. As I handed her the envelope, I explained, "Both of
these stories are reality-based."
Tabitha surprised me by opening the envelope, pulling out the
pages, and starting to read. She quickly became absorbed, and I could
tell from her non-verbal reactions that she was relating to the female
narrator of my first-meeting story. After a few minutes, she stopped
reading and put the stories back in the envelope. I looked at her
questioningly, and she said, "I'll finish reading it later, at home.
I'm getting to the good part now." I had to chuckle at that; she had
gotten past the build-up to the actual first-meeting scene, and it was
apparently starting to turn her on.
A few more customers had drifted in, and I wanted to spend more
time with her. One feature of this club is that a customer can "rent"
a dancer for a half-hour of relatively private interaction. All
within the rules, of course, but there's a back room with a small
stage, leather couches, and lower volume from the sound system. When
I told Tabitha I wanted a rental, her response gave me a warm feeling.
"I don't like to do that when the club is busy," she told me. "I
can usually make more in the time of 10 to 12 songs out here, but for
you I'll do it."
She took my hand and led me to the room, pointed out her favorite
couch, and sat on the edge of the stage across from me while we sipped
our drinks. We continued our conversation, and after about twenty
minutes she asked if I wanted her to dance for me.
I'd not yet seen Tabitha do a couch dance, and I was eagerly
anticipating the experience, but I had been sitting a long way from
the stage and my eyesight is not the greatest. "I'd like you to dance
nude for one song," I told her, "so I can see all of your beauty up
close. Then you have to get dressed again, because I want to be even
closer to you." How corny can you get? I told myself. Still, her
smile looks awfully genuine; under the circumstances, perhaps she can
accept sincere, non-drooling flattery as a compliment.
Beauty is in the eyes and the mind of the beholder, and I won't
even attempt to describe how beautiful Tabitha looked to me as she
stepped onto that small stage and started to move in a slow, sensual
way. The dancer out on the main stage who had selected the next song
unwittingly cooperated; the music was a soft, gentle ballad that was
just what my fantasy needed. She teasingly lifted her skirt for just
a moment, flashing the thong she wore underneath, then made love to
the brass pole in a way that made me achingly aware of my fantasy
desire.
When she whisked the dress up and off over her head, I saw for the
first time that Tabitha had more than just a tongue piercing; there
was a delicate silver dumbbell at the base of her semi-erect left
nipple. She turned her back, bending over to waggle her firm behind
at me, and slowly slid the thong down over her sleek thighs and
shapely calves. When she gracefully collapsed onto the stage and
opened her legs in a startlingly shy-like manner, I caught sight of a
second delightful surprise, a tiny gold ring at the midpoint of her
left inner labium. I leaned forward, straining to memorize every
line, every curve, every square inch of her body.
After that song ended, she dressed quickly. I confess that I
remember few details of her physical movements during one of the most
enjoyable experiences I've ever had. My most vivid recollections are
of her face, so close that I could count the tiny pores in her skin;
her bright blue eyes, gleaming with the inner knowledge of the gift
she was bestowing by her presence; her hair, brushing lightly along my
arm as she changed positions across my lap; her lips, moist and
oh-so-kissable with their bright pink gloss; and the heady ambrosia
that is the scent of a woman who is keenly aware of her own sexuality.
***** Continued in part 2 . . .
--
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From Topspace4@aol.com Sat May 10 17:55:20 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!Sprint!feed1.news.erols.com!news1.netusa.net!qz!news.accessus.net!not-for-mail
From: Topspace4@aol.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Subject: NEW STORY: 'Tabitha' (MountainTop) (MF M^F span slow) [2!2]
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Date: 10 May 1997 21:55:20 GMT
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Xref: news1.infoave.net alt.sex.stories.moderated:685 alt.sex.stories:192960
DISCLAIMERS: This story is written for an adult audience and contains
graphic language and explicit sexual material. If you are underage,
if it is illegal for you to possess such material in the jurisdiction
in which you are reading this, or if adult sexuality of this type
offends you, STOP READING NOW!
This story is a work of fiction. It is not a true story, it is pure
fantasy.
Other than as specifically explained in the author's notes below, any
resemblance to any person, real or fictitious, living or dead, is
purely coincidental and unintended.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Copyright [C-in-a-Circle Copyright Symbol] 1997, by
MountainTop Productions. The material contained herein is intended
for the personal use of the reader.
Permission is hereby granted for duplication, without additions,
changes, or omissions, for personal, non-profit use, provided that the
entire contents of the disclaimers, copyright notice, and author's
notes are included in the duplicated complete work or, if the work is
segmented as part of the duplication, in each duplicated segment. All
other rights are reserved, and making copies of this material or any
portion thereof in any form for any purpose other than that for which
permission has been granted is a violation of United States copyright
laws.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The background and setting in the first part of this
story are real. The club in San Diego exists, and a dancer there uses
the stage name "Tabitha". I have used that name with her permission
and at her request; with some compression for literary reasons, the
verbal exchanges and other interactions in the first part of this
story actually happened.
The second part of the story, however, is my own personal fantasy.
After considerable conversation with her, I am profoundly convinced
that the woman known as Tabitha is neither a prostitute nor an easy
lay; she is an honest, hard-working single parent who is willing, and
fortunately for her able, to support herself and her child as an
entertainer who takes off her clothes and dances. We did not discuss
this point, but I suspect that she spends a lot of time fending off
unwanted advances from men, many of them too young to legally consume
alcohol, who confuse fantasy with reality. I have the utmost respect
for her, and I am honored to have made her acquaintance.
In editing this work I removed over 900 expository words from the
first part that mostly describe the interior of the club and various
aspects of its operation but are not essential to the overall story.
I will be happy to e-mail an RTF copy of the longer version of this
work, which also retains the italics used for inner thoughts and
emphasis, to anyone who requests it; the text of the second part of
both versions is identical.
Aside from reflecting my philosophy with regard to erotic power
exchange, and my perceptions of, reactions to, and interactions with
Tabitha in the first part of this story, all other aspects of the
characters, and their activities as depicted in this work, are
completely fictitious.
Comments and feedback to Topspace4@aol.com are welcome.
***** ***** ***** ***** Tabitha
By MountainTop
***** ***** Continued from part 1 . . .
*****
Tabitha had told me she would be working on a specific night a few
days in the future, and I had been sitting in the club for about an
hour when she arrived just after ten that evening. She came directly
to where I was sitting; I rose to greet her, and she offered her cheek
for a quick kiss.
"I've had a few drinks," she confided. "Would you order a coffee for
me?
I've got to do a couple of things, but I'll be back in a few minutes."
She hesitated, then added softly, "I finished reading your stories."
There was alcohol on her breath, not overpowering but noticeable.
"Did they work for you?"
I swear I saw a hint of a blush in her cheeks. "Definitely," she
told me, then headed for the area where the dancers' dressing room and
club office are located. I caught occasional glimpses of her as she
moved about that area, and I became concerned when she did not return.
The DJ started to announce her as the next dancer, then broke off and
quickly covered when he realized she was not standing by the stage
ready to perform. I motioned to one of the club managers, using the
rapidly-cooling coffee on the table before me as my reason for
inquiring.
"Is Tabitha all right? She asked me to order her a coffee, but she's
been in the back for quite a while."
After giving me a quick eye-flickering checkout, he assured me that
she would be right out. Then he headed for the club office, and a few
minutes later Tabitha walked over and sat down next to me with a bit
of a sheepish expression.
"Are you OK?" I asked her.
"I'm fine," she replied, "but I don't really feel like getting up on
that stage tonight."
I wasn't sure whether I really believed the first part of her
response; alcohol can affect people in lots of different ways.
Nevertheless, she clearly wasn't completely under the influence, and
if the second part of what she said was true, I was possibly in luck.
"How about going in the back room?" I asked her.
"Sure, let's do that," she replied, and she sounded happy that I had
suggested it. In the brighter lighting of that space, more like a
well-lit living room, I saw that her skin, a light golden tan only a
few days earlier, was bright red; she had, she whispered, spent too
long in the club's tanning bed. Then Tabitha was stretched out across
my lap on her tummy, her pert bottom tilted up, moving slowly in time
with the music. I was again enjoying that up-close view of her
undulating body when she put her lips next to my ear and whispered,
"Do something a little bit naughty."
I was stunned. Fantasy was one thing, but she was inviting me to
touch her. As discreetly as possible I moved my left hand and slid my
fingertips up the soft surface of her thigh; her skin was hot from the
sunburn and as smooth as a baby's behind. As my hand moved past the
crease where her thigh joined her buttock, I felt her press upward
against my palm. Emboldened, I raised my hand a few inches and then
brought it down, lightly but smartly, across the sweet spot of her
left ass cheek.
"Aaaaaaahhhhhhhmmmmmmmm." It was halfway between a hum and a moan,
and as I glanced down and to the right I saw her eyes close and her
lips part. I swatted her again, then continued in a slow, steady
rhythm, and each time my hand landed she writhed on my lap and made
little throaty sounds that seemed part contentment and part arousal.
After about a minute, she raised her head and shifted position,
rolling slightly away from me so her left hip was cradled by the tops
of my legs. "We have to be careful not to get caught," she whispered.
"I want to be totally submissive right now. We can go into one of the
corner booths, but we still need to be careful."
"I'd rather go someplace where we won't be concerned about that," I
told her. "I didn't bring any of my toys on this trip, but I'm sure I
can figure something out."
She thought about what I'd said for an endless moment, and I was
pretty sure she would decline my suggestion. But then she nodded and
said, "OK, and you can fuck me, but if you want to do my ass you have
to go slowly and use plenty of lube."
"I won't fuck you," I told her firmly. "That's not what this is
about."
She nodded again. "Let me make some arrangements." She handed me a
paper coaster and a pen. "Write down where you're staying and
directions; I'll be right back. Can you give me cab fare?"
"Of course," I replied, well aware of the need for discretion; it
wouldn't do for the two of us to be seen leaving the club together. I
scribbled the name of the hotel, my room number, and sketchy
directions; the hotel was right along one of the major area freeways.
Then I took a twenty out of my wallet and folded the coaster around
it, and when she returned, I handed it to her.
She glanced quickly at what I'd written, then said, "I have to make a
safe call in two hours. You go ahead, and I'll be right behind you."
"I'll be waiting in the lobby," I told her.
I left the club and drove the few miles to my hotel. Rather than
take the time to go up to my room and possibly not be downstairs when
she arrived, I took my briefcase and sat in the deserted hotel lobby.
I pulled out the paperback I'd been reading during lunches and at
other odd times; it was, by a marvelous coincidence, The Loving
Dominant by John Warren.
Precisely at one o'clock a cab pulled up under the hotel portico, and
I stood as she got out and walked toward the doors dressed in a V-neck
pullover sweater, hip-hugging slacks, and high-heeled ankle-strap
sandals. The hotel bar was closed, so we couldn't stop for the glass
of wine she suggested. I offered her my arm, which she took, and we
reviewed the safewords we would use as we headed for the elevators.
Tabitha appeared to be a little nervous, and her next words confirmed
my perception.
"I've never done this kind of scene before with someone I just met,"
she said.
"I understand, and I know you're feeling a little tense right now.
Despite the safe-call arrangement, you're taking a real risk, and my
telling you that you're perfectly safe doesn't do much to reassure
you. So we'll start very slowly and see what happens. How long since
you've had sex?"
"Three or four weeks, I guess."
"That's quite a while," I ventured. "Surely you've done yourself
during that time."
"Well, yes, but that's not the same."
We were in the elevator by then, and I opened my arms and waited for
her to step into them. I hugged her, careful to not press her too
tightly, and she seemed to relax a little. I released her as the car
neared my floor, and she stepped back with an audible sigh. One
milestone passed, I thought. Easy does it. We walked side by side
down the hall; I fished the electronic key out of my wallet, opened
the door, reached for the light switch just inside, and motioned for
her to precede me.
We stood at the foot of the bed, facing each other.
"What do you want me to call you?" she asked.
"'Sir' will be fine," I replied.
"I've never called anyone 'Sir'. Is it OK if I call you Daddy, and
I'm your little girl?"
My thoughts raced. That's an interesting fantasy she has. Given the
difference in our ages, it could be a pretty realistic one. "Sure,
you can call me that if you like."
She got immediately into her fantasy head-space. "I've been good,
Daddy."
"I don't know about that, little girl. You were naughty back at the
club; I think you need to be punished."
"No, no, Daddy, I've been good," she protested, completely in
character for the role she was playing. I sat down on the end of the
bed and reached for her waist to pull her, still fully clothed, across
my lap. She resisted, continuing to profess innocence, but I pulled a
little harder and she flopped down into position.
I put my right hand on the small of her back and gave her a very light
swat on her fabric-covered left ass cheek with my other hand. When
she didn't object or struggle to lift herself up, I continued in a
slow rhythm, alternating on her two sweet spots and very gradually
increasing the force of my spanks. I was gratified to see her start
to claw at the bedspread with her outstretched hands, pulling the
heavy material towards her and bunching it up in front of her face as
she lay there.
Tabitha said "yellow" two or three times, reminding me once about the
sunburn hidden under her slacks, and each time I eased off on the
force of my swats more than enough for her to know I was respecting
her safeword. After several minutes and perhaps twenty-five or thirty
swats, I stopped spanking and moved my hand in slow caressing circles
over her still-clothes-protected behind. She grabbed handfuls of the
bedspread, a clear signal of enjoyment, and she made no attempt to
move away from my touch.
"I really wish I'd brought my toy-bag on this trip," I muttered.
"So do I," she whispered, and her obvious desire tore at my
heart-strings.
I'd never done this kind of a pseudo-incestuous age-play scene, but I
was determined to try to relate to her fantasy. "I don't think you're
feeling punished by this, little girl," I said quietly. "I think you
need these touches on your bare skin."
"But Daddy, I really have been good."
"I'm not convinced," I said mock-sternly. "Stand up."
Tabitha complied in silence, and I reached for the hem of her sweater
with both hands. "Arms up over your head," I commanded, and I pulled
the sweater past her perfect little breasts until it was tangled in
her hair. Her face was obscured, but covered loosely enough to avoid
breathing problems or panic, and her arms, still encased in the
sweater sleeves, were upraised. Holding the sweater with my right
hand, I slid the fingertips of my left across her breasts to lightly
tease her undecorated, but now fully erect, right nipple, and she
started to squirm, rotating her hips in a wide circle. I bent over
and placed my mouth gently over that areola, flicking my tongue across
her nipple and feeling it stiffen even more; I grabbed her wrists over
her head to preclude more violent motions, keeping her standing in
place and accepting the stimulation.
"Daddy, please," she whined. "If you're going to do this, I didn't
have a chance to shower before I left that other place; can I take a
quick shower now?"
I could think of several reasons for that in-role request, all
positive, so I quickly acquiesced. "Certainly, little girl; I want
you to be uncomfortable, but only with your punishment." I grabbed
the ends of the sweater sleeves and pulled it free of her hands, then
helped her disentangle her hair from the neck opening. She slipped
her thumbs into the top of her slacks and pushed them down over her
hips; she wasn't wearing any underwear.
"Naughty, naughty," I chided her. "Good little girls don't go
without panties. I'll have to punish you for that, too, you know."
Tabitha hung her head in non-verbal submission, then bent over,
unfastened the straps on her shoes, and walked out of them toward the
bathroom. I went around and ahead of her, turning on and adjusting
the water and pulling the curtain aside, then taking her arm to assist
her as she stepped over the front of the tub.
I peeked past the curtain a couple of times, but mostly I let her take
as long as she wanted in the shower.
Eventually she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped fetchingly in a big
towel, its bulky whiteness a sharp contrast against her sunburned
skin. She complained of a bit of a chill, so I pulled back the covers
and watched her slide into one side of the king-size bed. I brought
the covers up over her thighs, then went to the thermostat and
adjusted it for more heat.
I sat down on the edge of the bed next to her and said, "Put your
hands together behind your neck, and don't move them." Again she
responded without speaking, and I slid one hand under the covers and
began stroking her silky thighs, slowly moving my hand higher and
higher but stroking outward toward her hip and avoiding her shaved
pussy. After perhaps thirty seconds of that treatment, I saw her
hands start to move apart.
"Keep still," I directed.
"It's hard to do that," she complained, but it wasn't a serious
protest and she quickly put them back in place. The room was warmer
by then, so I pushed the covers aside and slapped lightly at the inner
surface of her right thigh.
"It's supposed to be difficult," I said, "that's part of the
punishment.
Now keep them where they're supposed to be or it'll be worse for you."
"Yes, Daddy, I'll try," she answered, and her tone now was a petulant
sort of simper. I unwrapped the towel from her body, and she raised
up so I could pull it out from under her. I reached up and tweaked
her nipples, first one and then the other, between my thumb and
forefinger, then took the right one more firmly and began to squeeze.
As I very carefully increased the pressure, her hips humped upward,
her hands started to move and then slid back into position, and she
gasped softly, but there was not the slightest negative reaction. I
was watching her face closely, and when she started to part her lips
to speak I held the pressure for just a half-second longer and then
partially released it.
"Aaaahhhh," she moaned, but it was a sound of pleasure, not
discomfort.
"I'm a good girl, Daddy, let me show you how good I am." She lowered
her gaze in an ostentatious display of modesty, but when she looked
back up at me there was a mischievous glint in her sparkling eyes.
"I think you're mostly good at naughty things," I said, "so show me
how naughty you can be and suck me."
Tabitha didn't hesitate at all; she was grinning like a little girl
who's just been offered the biggest lollipop in the candy store as I
started to loosen my belt. I undid the top of my pants and she swung
her body around to yank them and my shorts down in a single motion.
Then she lay across my thighs on her left side, facing me, and did an
excellent imitation of a sword-swallower, engulfing my cock into the
warm wetness of her mouth while holding the part that wouldn't fit
with both hands. As I got harder she had to rise up to keep my
length between her lips, and her head bobbed up and down as her
talented tongue bathed my stiffness. At one point she let me slip out
of her mouth and smiled up at me, her hands now moving busily.
"Want me to lick your balls?" she asked coquettishly. I shook my
head; the feel of her tongue sliding across the crown of my cock and
then tickling just below the sensitive rim was excruciatingly
pleasurable, and I didn't want her to stop for even a few seconds.
She smiled again, this time knowingly, then resumed her ardent oral
ministrations. She knows she's damn good, I said to myself. I wonder
if she suspects that "Bread cast upon the waters . . ." is an apt
quotation and that I can give better than I get.
As good as she was, I knew I wasn't close to coming and I figured it
was time for some turn-about. Sitting up, I put my hands on her head
and gently lifted her, sliding slowly out between her encircling lips.
I rolled her over onto her back and moved my body up between her legs
until my cock rested against her bald pubes, then took a handful of
her golden locks in my fist and kissed her for the first time. She
tried to pull away, but it was playful resistance; she had told me she
liked having her hair used to hold her still. I thrust my tongue into
her mouth, and she opened wider, trying to hide her tongue from mine,
but I was insistent, and when they eventually met I felt a strong
tingle in my groin.
Having achieved my immediate goal, I ended the kiss, maintaining my
grip on her hair as I lowered my head to nibble at her firm breasts
and stiffly upstanding nipples. She squirmed her lower body against
me, increasing the friction of our genital contact, and then she
tossed me a live grenade.
"Fuck me," she whispered, her tone pleading. "Please fuck me."
I lifted myself away from her, looking down at her face from a
variant of what the military types call the front-leaning-rest
position. God, I was tempted!
She knew my first-meeting rules, she'd read them in my story, and I'd
told her back at the club that fucking her was outside my limits, yet
here she was, practically begging for it. There isn't a straight man
alive of any age or temperament who wouldn't have been at least
slightly tempted by such a delicious morsel laying naked and wide open
under him. I didn't want to refuse her outright, so I reached for the
obvious barrier.
"I don't have any protection," I said.
"That's all right," she replied. "I just got my three-month shot, so
I can't get pregnant."
Oh, great, I thought, but there's another reason for using a condom,
even though I hate them. "You couldn't get pregnant anyway, I've had
a vasectomy," I replied. "But there are other reasons for using
protection."
"You don't have to worry about that," she wheedled. "I've just been
to the doctor, I had a complete check-up with all the tests, and they
were all negative."
I wasn't about to get into a debate over the counter-arguments; it
can take twelve weeks or longer for an HIV transmittal to show up on a
test, and there isn't a test for Herpes. The bottom line is both
simple and incredibly complicated, I told myself. Tabitha's telling
me that she trusts me to be safe in a health sense, and I need to deny
her request without sending the message that I don't trust her the
same way. In the end, my conscience overcame my gonads, and I fell
back on an old cliche: When all else fails, tell the truth.
"I really, really want to," I told her. "You cannot begin to imagine
how flattered I am that you want that with me, but I can't. I
promised that I wouldn't do anything like that outside my committed
relationship, and I just can't do it. But I do want to give you
pleasure, and there are other ways."
Her expression showed disappointment rather than hurt, so I can only
assume she believed it wasn't a matter of trust between us. Pushing
myself from between her legs, I swung her around until she was
sideways across the bed. Then I took her slim ankles in my hands and
raised them, causing her to bend her knees, and planted her feet at
the edge of the bed, spread far enough apart so that her legs fell
away to the sides, leaving the flower of her womanhood open and
exposed. I could see shiny traces of moisture on her labia, and her
delicate musk was the ultimate stimulant.
I traced the outline of her pussy with my right forefinger, then
slipped it gently inside her velvet-soft tunnel. I can't believe
she's had a baby through there, my brain raved. She's as tight as an
anxious virgin. I extended my tongue and let it seek the eventual
trigger of her release, still hidden within its protective sheath.
She tasted incredibly sweet, and when the tip of my tongue touched her
clit her juices flowed out past my finger and into my palm.
"More," she urged, and as I continued to lick her I was able to slip
a second finger in alongside the first. Her tiny joy-button was
stiffly erect now, and I was amazed to be able to insert a third
finger into her now thoroughly relaxed vagina.
"Please, use your other hand too," she groaned. One play-item I did
have was a small bottle of lubricant that I'd set discreetly behind
the nightstand clock while Tabitha was showering, and I hurried to
one-handedly douse the middle finger of my left hand. I rested its
tip against her anal pucker, waited patiently until I felt the subtle
tell-tale indication that she was ready for the invasion, then pushed
as lightly as I could. After her earlier expressed cautions, I was
inordinately proud of myself as that digit slid slowly into her slick
rear passage without a hint of discomfort for her.
Now, I told myself, it's time for what the NASA folks call main
engine start. I began a complex syncopation of motion with both
hands, locked my lips on the upper third of her pussy slit, and
thrashed my tongue back and forth over her hard little clit.
"Yes, oh, yes, that's it, lick me there, right there," she chanted,
and her entire body vibrated as she approached liftoff. Her hands
tightened on my shoulders, her chest surged with sped-up panting, and
the muscles in her legs clenched as she headed steeply up the mountain
of ecstasy. Then she released one of my shoulders and clamped down
even harder on the other, her nails digging into my skin, and without
slackening anything I was doing I looked up past her rippling belly to
see the starburst unfold.
Tabitha put the back of her free wrist against her mouth, and her
contorted facial expression was ample evidence of her struggle to
remain silent as a violent orgasm surged through her. I watched her
ride that pulsing wave higher and higher, and then she suddenly dug in
her heels and pushed herself off my still-moving tongue and fingers;
the exquisite sensations had reached the point of overload. She
pressed both her hands into her crotch, covering her pussy with
overlapping palms, and pulled her thighs together tightly to increase
the hand-pressure.
I stretched out beside her, my head propped on my left hand, and
tenderly stroked damp tendrils of hair away from her face. "My clit
is still throbbing," she whispered. "That was wonderful."
With what could have been a lot worse timing, the quiet warble of a
pager intruded on Tabitha's afterglow and my basking in its
reflection. We both glanced at the clock; it read 2:35, and she
shrugged apologetically. "I know it's early," she said, "but the
club's closed now and my friend's probably antsy." She got up,
retrieved her pager, looked at it quickly, then returned it to her
purse and gestured toward the phone. I nodded, and she lifted the
receiver and dialed; the ensuing exchange was terse.
"Hi," she said. "I'm fine, I just got here a little later. I'll be
calling a cab at three." She listened for a few seconds, then said,
"Right, bye," and hung up.
Tabitha came around the bed, unself-consciously naked, her hair
tousled, and lay down in the crook of my outstretched right arm. I
enfolded her waist, and she snuggled up against me, her head on my
shoulder. Then she reached down and took my half-hard cock in her
hand and began to slowly stroke up and down its length.
"That's not necessary," I whispered. "I've had my pleasure giving
you yours."
She gave me a last gentle caress. "Then I guess it's 'blue' now, the
end of the scene. I wish I could just go to sleep with you, but I
can't."
"I wish you could also," I answered. "There are a few things more
intimate than sex, and waking up with you next to me would be another
sort of fantasy come true. But I understand, and the thought is
taken for the deed."
Tabitha kissed the side of my neck, then my cheek, with real
tenderness, and then she lifted her head and stared at me for a long
moment. Without breaking the eye contact she'd established, she said
two brief sentences, and those seven little words were for me, as a
top, the twin peaks of personal gratification; they gave a mental
orgasm more thrilling than any physical release could possibly be.
"Thank you," she said. "I trust you totally now."
***** *****
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