tagErotic CouplingsFirst Week in Town

First Week in Town

byParis Waterman©

Everyone depicted in a sex scene in this story is at least 18 years of age.

*

I freely admit that I was on the prowl. New to town, fully immersed in my new job and needing a release from the pent-up pressures making good at it from the start brought on.

Sexual release, that is. Accordingly, my attire that night blended with that need. I wore a light cotton sundress that ended about mid-thigh, blue with abstract white patterns, the usual sundries underneath; a bra that pushed my tits up enough to attract the attention of any man within a half-mile radius. But I'm already ahead of myself.

With a certain amount of deliberation, I avoided the seedier bars populating the Downtown scene where guys seemed to think buying a lady a beer entitled them to one night's ownership. My economic degree from Princeton assured me that I was somewhat - although not that much -- deserving of better.

I found myself in a little French café, more wine bar than eatery, overlooking the Cape Fear River. His name was Johnny. He was at least ten years older than me, but that didn't bother me in the least. The place was packed, with at least two dozen people spilled out onto the boardwalk just off the back entrance to the café itself.

We stood hip to hip sipping a decent wine.

"Nice dress," he said. It was a safe gambit on his part, innocuous I thought, until he named the store in Manhattan where I'd purchased it.

That put him in a slightly different category. Now he had my undivided attention.

"That's very perceptive of you, unless of course, you're a male who prefers running around in women's clothing."

He laughed, and I liked the sound of it.

"No, I assure you that I'm 100 percent male and all my parts work."

I thought that an odd thing to say, but after considering what I'd just said to him, reconsidered. I had deserved his remark, and it wasn't at all offensive.

His hip applied a discreet pressure to mine. I let it go without comment. He told me his name was Johnny, and I told him mine. I also provided him an opportunity to peek down my dress, but he ignored it and leaned into me, hip on hip so that I was suddenly thrown off balance. Of course he caught me and restored my equilibrium. I had no choice but to thank him.

"You're welcome, he said. "I'm more than delighted to assist a lady in distress."

"But I'm not in distress," I answered somewhat haughtily.

"Oh, but you are," he insisted.

"Oh, how so?" I asked, both amused and intrigued by his actions.

"I can see that you are in need of a good cum," he said, shattering any façade I had put up between us.

"What?" I lashed out.

"Come on, you heard me," he said.

"I'm not sure I did. Would you mind repeating it?"

I said, "It seems to me you need a good cum. Here. Now. In public."

I had to fight to keep my knees from buckling. He wanted to make me come in public! I hadn't realized it, but that was precisely what I wanted.

After taking a large gulp of wine, I managed to say you're either completely insane, or the most perceptive man I've ever met."

"I'm not crazy," he said with a grin. Then with his hand round my waist, he steered us over to a just vacated candlelit booth against the wall on the far side of the café.

We ordered a bottle of red, (after finishing off two glasses of a wonderful Riesling) from a passing waiter, and the wine flowed generously as the conversation advanced, well, actually we moved much slower, beginning with the more mundane topics -- how I liked Wilmington having just moved in the week before; had I seen the current play at Thalian Hall, (I hadn't); and a brief discussion on which beach was the best in the area. (I had yet to venture out to any, and I filed Johnny's information upstairs under things to do and soon.)

It occurred to me that I was in love with his voice, a strong, vibrant baritone. I learned that he had sung in the church choir as a young man, and played Curly, in a high school rendition of Oklahoma. I was suitably impressed enough to ask that he sing something for me.

He stunned me by doing just that. Leaning in close, as he didn't want to cause a scene in the crowded café, he thrilled me with the first few bars of Some Enchanted Evening from South Pacific.

I had grown up listening to my father's LP of that soundtrack. He had loved it, and never stopped telling me what a distinct voice Ezio Pinza had. While Johnny wasn't Ezio Pinza, and who is? He sent a shiver up and down my spine, and a tingling sensation to my clit. The guy could really sing!

I kicked off my strappy pair of shoes within a minute of sitting down in the booth.

Instinctively, I snuck my toes under the bottoms of his trousers and pressed the pads of my feet against the muscles of his leg. I liked the soft cushion of hair that tickled my feet.

Once I had initiated contact, he kicked off his own shoes. Sock covered feet stepped along the insides of my calves and my shins, sometimes turning at the knees to touch the shadows of my thigh.

I made my eyes sparkle as they looked into his big brown eyes, and the conversation, turned to sex.

He asked me for stories about what I had done in public spaces. I had had enough wine to admit to having given my boyfriend head under the table at a Thai restaurant.

After further encouragement, I told him about using the toilet at a Manhattan art Gallery for a quickie. What can I say? Impressionistic art turns me on.

He asked if I had ever visited a sex club, and was surprised when I answered yes.

"I don't mean a strip club," he said, "I mean a real sex club."

I told him I knew the difference between a strip club and a sex club.

"And you've been to one?"

"Manhattan is full of them. I went to one in a cinema on 44th St one wintery night during a snow storm. I sat in the audience watching women from various points in the theatre strip naked and pick on strange men, exposing their cocks and fellating them. Later I learned that it was all pre-determined. But I was too worked up to notice and selected a promising looking partner and fucked him by straddling him as he sat in his seat. I believe we were in the fourth row. I recall we received a rousing hand of applause after we finished, since our performance had been ad-libbed."

"Jesus Christ! I had no idea." Johnny said.

But I wasn't finished impressing him. I told him about the drive-in movie theatre in Vermont when I was in my Senior Year high school. Not a sex club, per se, but there were five of us in one car, three guys, two girls, and in the adjoining SUV, there were three couples. What we did was jump back and forth from one vehicle to the other, coupling with someone, of either sex and then hopping back to the other car and doing it with a different partner.

All in all, I partnered with six different people: four guys and two girls. One of them gave me a flaring case of the clap, which took me a month to get rid of.

"You've made me very horny," he said in as husky a voice as I've ever heard in person.

I tested him by lifting my foot higher and after locating his erection, rubbed my toes over his erection.

"I'm kind of moist myself, Johnny," I said breathing rapidly. "Now, if you'll excuse me for a minute, I'll see about drying off a bit."

He gave me a quizzical look and I replied, "I'm wearing this light sundress. Anyone will be able to see how wet I am if I don't take precautions."

I gave him a quick kiss on the lips and hurried off.

Between Johnny and my stories, my crotch was dripping. When I returned, I set my purse on the table and reached for his hand. I had come back with my underwear wadded in my fist. I let go. We sat there, holding hands, my small ones atop his larger ones, our right hands cupping a scrap of cloth, slight and black, which minutes before had covered my pussy from view. I was breathing regularly now, and leaned across the table to kiss him lightly on the lips. The candle radiated heat below me.

"Why don't you sit next to me," he suggested, scrunching toward the wall, making room.

I pressed my thigh against his when I settled in next to him. Johnny draped an arm around my shoulder. I was getting very comfortable.

The fabric of my skirt had ridden up when I sat. I brought my legs open in invitation. The skirt lifted more as I straightened my posture. I tugged the hem up my thigh so that the cloth bowed and draped over my pussy, just hiding it from view.

His right hand sat over the joining of my legs. Fingers on top of the skirt touched my pubis below. They gently tapped at the skin and descended the short distance to my cunt.

Fingertips traced the outline of my lips through the thin fabric.

I shivered with delight. I loved a man who took his time and knew what he was doing.

"So where else have you partaken of licentiousness?" he asked with a wide smile as his finger slithered into my suddenly very sodden pussy.

I told him about fucking in offices and classrooms at college, the tunnels under campus, and various parks, under the stars and in the rain. I told him about bars and dance clubs, swimming pools, the back of a pickup truck on the side of a country road, and blowjobs delivered in cars speeding along highways. I told him about my mile high fantasy. I shared fond memories of several seedy alleyways. How the risk of getting caught in flagrante, excites me. Danger is a drug — but the thrill of getting away with it intoxicates me even more.

Unable to hold back, we went at one another. There was a buzz of conversation all around us. Our movements didn't go unnoticed in this. There were many other couples present, but we were the only ones making out. There was also the obvious age difference between us. The people in the bar saw us hunched together, tongues flicking at earlobes, kisses that trailed down the run of the neck, across the collar, down the shoulder.

I didn't care that we were witnessed, and neither did he. His big hand pawed at my tits while we kissed. Eyes closed, our faces turned and repositioned as we prolonged the contact of lips. His tongue spilled into my mouth. My teeth nipped at its tip. I fluttered my tongue against his. He applied pressure to the back of my neck and combed his fingers through my hair. And for his piece de resistance, he licked the sweat that had beaded over my breasts while discreetly fingering me under the table.

There had to be those voyeurs with a clear view of what was going on between us.

Looking down, I saw his hand working me by candlelight. The back of it made a visible bulge under the filmy material of my sundress. He gripped my nether lips. His talented fingers softly stroked the slit. The wetness inside me was flowing. It made his hand slick. He took a napkin from under his wine glass and patted the viscous fluids over my pubis dry. It was a temporary, but much appreciated fix.

"Um, maybe ...." I attempted, only to be cut off by his mouth returning to mine. The kiss deepened as he insinuated two fingers — the index and middle — into my cunt.

Involuntarily I tightened the muscles at the entrance. My thighs gripped his forearm between them. He wiggled his fingers, scissored them inside. He also rotated them within my folds.

"Jesus, Johnny ...."

He fingered me gently, fucking me by pistoning in and out, so, so, so slowly. After a moment, he brought his hand out to examine in the light, then wiped the wetness that coated his skin over my thigh.

I nervously glanced around me. Even a quick look told me we were the focus of most people in the room. And, although it was fast, the look revealed no face with a disapproving scowl, but several approving smiles on the mouths of at least three women.

I took a sip of my wine. We shared a laugh together as his hand toyed outside me. He undressed my clit. The nails of his fingers brought the hood down. The face of his thumb drew taut circles around my ragged bundle of nerves.

I squirmed in my seat and came. My pussy dripped its heat and I knew that despite the napkin my dress would have a large tell-tale wet spot by my ass on leaving the café.

After swimming in my arousal awhile, Johnny extracted the fingers from under my dress and raised them to his nose to sniff. He complimented me on my taste, and poked my nose with the tip of his wet finger. Four people at an adjoining table toasted his actions by raising their glasses to us while I grinned sheepishly and latched a hand on his wrist.

I kissed the heel of his palm. I licked the creases on the surface and jabbed my tongue at the webs of skin where the digits joined. I held the two long fingers that had been in my cunt to my lips and sucked them clean.

Closing my eyes, I pictured those fingers as a cock. My tongue slid along the length, spiraling round and round, teasing the edge. I forced saliva between the fingers and bathed them in the warmth and the silkiness of the spittle. Holding the back of his hand, I turned it in my mouth. My tongue curled around the bottoms of his fingers. I used my grip on the wrist and inched the fingers forward and backward. I spun my face. It was my blowjob technique applied to his fingers absent his penis. He let me suck him for what seemed an eternity, but was probably not even a minute. Dipping the fingers in the wine, he let me suck them once more.

Before long, his touch reached up my skirt again. Because I wanted to see, I pulled the cloth up and held it bunched at my waist. His body shielded my partial nudity from the voyeuristic onlookers.

I came again as his fingers stretched inside me. He had placed them facing up, so that the heel of the hand protruded against my pubis when they were in all the way. Bracing myself on the table, I brought my weight forward and angled my cunt at him. Looking down through the glass tabletop, I watched his thumb moving. He flattened it over my clit and circled as he pushed down. The sensation in the nerves was immense. I swiveled my torso to face him. My tongue flickered between his lips, and I spoke into his mouth.

"Fuck me," I whispered. "Take me somewhere and fuck my brains out."

The fingers responded. They stabbed in and out repeatedly. The rhythm was steady, fast, and unforgiving. I heard the sounds my pussy made, the suction noises going in and the wet slide out. My clitoris was thrumming non-stop.

My brow must have been furrowed in concentration and pleasure. I kept my eyes screwed tightly shut. Oxygen came to my lungs in huge and heavy gasps. I bit my bottom lip and willed myself to come silently although every fiber of my body wanted me to scream.

My thighs clamped about his hand. I gripped the edge of the table. My eyes flashed open, the pupils rolling back. My toes curled. Stars in the universe exploded. My spine stiffened. I threw my head back and stifled a scream. The muscles in my cunt contracted and released about his fingers.

The waters I released sluiced over his hand. Eventually he removed his fingers and I slumped back into the cushions on the bench; the smell of sex overpowered permeated the air around us. Through half-opened eyes I watched as a young blonde opened her date's slacks and fondled his penis.

A few eyes caught mine and turned away. I smiled at them and began to laugh. I gulped down the rest of the wine to rehydrate myself. Johnny poured us more wine and we toasted our encounter.

"So, shall we head for my place?" said with confidence.

"As long as it's not too far, I'd go anywhere with you," I replied, already thinking about how he would feel driving in and out of my cunt. **************************************************Johnny's place was facing the ocean on Wrightsville beach. It was a palatial four-story building with what seemed like an endless array of decking surrounding it on each and every level.

As we pulled into his garage, he told me that he shared the place with his brother, currently in Argentina on business.

We took the winding stairs to his bedroom on the third floor; Johnny wanted me to lead the way.

Naturally, since I have a world class ass and wanted nothing more than to flaunt it in his face, I gladly led the way, knowing how it would appear to him, having practiced the moves countless times in front of a mirror.

The steps even served to exaggerate the sway of my ass. Halfway up the second flight, Johnny reached his hand between my legs. Fingertips extended to my pubis, his palm cupped the curve of the perineum, while the heel and the wrist rested on the upward swerve of my buttocks. The feeling was such that I froze in place, feet on different steps. I had to clutch the railing while he stroked my sopping pussy before flipping my sundress up and bestowing a wet kiss to my ass. Another ten minutes passed ... an eternity in some ways ... before we reached his bedroom.

He tilted my head and kissed me, spilling a long string of his saliva from his mouth into mine — then followed with his knowing tongue.

"Ohhhh Johnny," I moaned and not for the first time that night.

We sank into the mattress of his bed, his massive frame on top of me. The kisses continued without pause and I was nearing another heavenly climax when he griped me by the throat, his powerful fingers depressing the skin and muscle, the clutch of the hand constricting my breathing while his lips muffled my voice.

How he finished undressing me with one free hand I'll never know. But he managed it without tearing the dress. Of course, the only other things I had on were my bra and shoes.

He released my throat and I swallowed as much air as I could before he wadded my thong into a ball and stuffed it into my cunt. He left it there, leaving me full inside, while he sprawled on the bed and licked my lips and diddled my clit.

I was ready to shatter after a few short minutes of his softly insistent tongue, the silky saliva, the pads of the fingers holding my pubis taut; and the pincers of his nails and his pointed teeth, but, as he refused me permission to let go, I closed my eyes and fought the orgasm back. Hands balled into fists, I beat at the sheets as I restrained the force that yearned to burst.

It was a long ten minutes before he gave me his consent. He counted the ticks off one by one, all the while working me with his lips and fingers, until at last he acceded to my increasingly urgent pleas, moans, and tears.

It's what I deserve for telling him that there were times when orgasm denial caused me to fountain, and though this time I didn't, the orgasm nevertheless shredded through my insides and ripped me apart.

Afterwards, he stole his forefinger and thumb into the ruins of my cunt and ripped the cloth from my pussy with a sharp tug. The movement set me off again. The waters of my orgasm had drenched the fabric, turning the vivid scarlet a dark and deep burgundy.

He had me hold my mouth wide open and stick out my tongue while he wrung the drops of wetness from the cloth onto my stretched out tongue, and I drank of myself.

He lay next to me, stroking my breasts and face with his feet. I tasted the thick skin of his dusky soles, and sucked his toes five at a time. Several minutes later he painted my ass crimson with his bare hand while I stretched myself over his lap and squirmed and sobbed with renewed joy.

After the spanking, he bit my buttocks, then ran his tongue over the marks of his teeth and kissed the raw flesh to soothe the anguished nerves. My red eyes and runny nose were artifacts of the past as the lips migrated from the rump to the shadowed valley between the hills. H

e had me hanging from the bed, eyes unfocused, but staring at the ceiling while my head pointed to the floor, as my face reddened with the rush of blood, while his hands stretched my asshole open.

Then his lips teased the creased halo of muscle. Cords of spit lowered into the winking anus; my sphincter was wildly trying to grab hold of his tongue.

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