Almost. Getting there. This time. Oh, dear god, have him take me . . . there . . . this time! Panting hard, rubbing her clit to beat the band, concentrating on him moving inside her, she began to emit little yipping sounds. Tightening up, just . . . about . . .
And then Kurt jerked and shuddered and rolled off to the side and stared up at the ceiling.
"I . . . almost . . . that time I—"
"Yeah, well, I couldn't hold off. You're such a sexy doll."
Linda didn't know whether he was being sarcastic or what. She often couldn't tell. She did know, though, that Kurt was pouting. She was holding the tickets to the Wizard's game over his head, insisting that he do something unselfish, possibly for the first time in his life.
She felt the springs of the bed groan as he rolled out of the bed and onto the floor and headed, bare assed to the bathroom. If it wasn't for that beautiful ass and various other parts of him, she'd throw him out—except that this was his apartment, even though she paid a quarter of the rent. She lived in the dorm, but he said they had to have someplace they could go to, so she'd been dumb enough to suggest that she pay part of the rent.
Half the women on campus would have done the same, she knew. He was a real hunk and knew it. But she knew what half of the women on campus didn't know—that he was a spoiled, self-centered deadbeat.
She heard the shower start. When they'd first moved in here, they had showered together, and he'd done her gloriously under the cascading water. So, he could make her melt—if he wanted to. If he wanted something from her. Well, he sure wanted something from her now. He wanted those tickets to the Washington Wizard's basketball game. The team was on a winning streak, and tickets were increasingly hard to find.
Laying there, she considered just what an orgasm was worth to her. Should she give in? She'd laid her foot down this time, telling him he had to go to the homeless shelter with her to help serve breakfast on Valentine's Day morning. It was something her sorority had agreed to do, and the women were supposed to rope their boyfriends into helping. Kurt had made it quite obvious that he didn't want to help with that—or with very much else. The other women were having trouble getting their men to participate too, but with Linda and Kurt it had become a war. She'd held the tickets over his head as a reward only if he went with her to the homeless shelter.
He had railed and sweet talked her just like every other time. And every other time she'd backed down. That usually was because he gave her good sex—when he wanted to. Well, he'd tried that with her this time too, but she'd stood her ground. Just once she wanted Kurt to do something that didn't serve himself. And when the good sex had failed, he went in the opposite direction—pouting and denying her.
She'd gone longer than usual and it was driving her nuts. She put her fingers to work, trying to achieve what Kurt hadn't done for her. She was getting into it and writhing a bit on the bed when he came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, and stood at the foot of the bed and watched her. And she watched him. He was a real hunk. Not just with a handsome, clean-cut face surrounded by a mop of honey-blood hair with golden highlights, but he had a musculature to die for. Just watching him while she worked her clit was helping. She was panting and arching her back and feeling the world move inside her.
Obviously what she was doing was turning Kurt on too, because he dropped the towel. He was in full erection. His knees came down on the end of the bed and he was crawling up the bed and hovering over her. His face was right above hers; he was looking down into her eyes through milky blues that never ceased to stop her breath. She felt a strong arm go under her waist, and he was lifting her waist up. His knees had come between her thighs. His mouth came down to take her lips, and she moaned deeply as she felt the long slide of him into her cunt. She went limp as, still holding her mouth captive, he pulled nearly out and then slid in again, out and in again. She went limp under him, every nerve cell of hers concentrating on the shaft working inside her, feeling her flow, all of the tension in her body centered where he was slowly pumping her. Her ears were ringing and she felt herself moving toward what she'd wanted for days.
He withdraw, only to slide the cock up further, pushing the bulb between her folds, searching for and finding her clit and rubbing over that with his cock head. She was trembling and felt him trembling too. He slid back down and into her cunt, slow pumping twice and back out to punish the clit. Then repeat.
She tore away from the kiss, threw her head back and cried out, "Oh, yeah, baby. Baby, baby, baby. Be good to me." she was digging her claws into his shoulder blades and writhing under him. The cock dove inside her, short staccato jabs deep inside her. She was building to it. Groaning heavily, egging him on.
Then he stopped dead, held her tightly, put his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Show me where the tickets are, sweetheart, and I'll finish you right."
"You cock-sucking piece of shit," Linda screamed, pulling away from him and retreating to the headboard. She pulled into a defensive fetal position and hugged a pillow in front of her.
"When . . . in the . . . fuck . . . did you start to use sex as a bargaining tool?"
"Somewhere around the age of eighteen," he answered. Then he laughed. The "oh-my-gosh" smile he flashed at her—the one that had always gotten women to lay down and open their legs to him—only served to infuriate Linda. "They are just tickets," he said. "Why are you holding back? I want to fuck as much as you do."
"I told you. I want you to do this one good thing—to show me that there's some sign of concern for others in you. It's just a breakfast on Valentine's Day morning. You'll have the rest of the day. And you'll have your ticket to the game. If you don't want to go, I can find someone else to go. In fact, if you don't want to—"
"I wouldn't go any further than that with that sentence," he said, holding his smile on his lips, but she could clearly see he wasn't smiling in his eyes. "I want to be a couple as much as you do, but I don't like these games."
"It's not a game, Kurt. It's symbolic. What's so difficult for you about going down and helping serve a few homeless people on Valentine's Day?"
"We'll discuss this later. I've got a class," he said. He moved off the bed, grabbed up his clothes from a chair, and headed into the other room.
Linda waited for the door to the apartment hall to shut before she let her breath out, and then she laid down on the bed and shed a few tears. Only a few, though, deciding he wasn't worth it. At least not now. Maybe when he grew up. Her thoughts went back to repeatedly calling him baby while he was fucking her, and that made her laugh. That was exactly what he was, a baby. Doing this service project was what he needed. She was convinced that it would make him feel so good helping others—with very little real effort—that it would put him on the road to being a caring human being.
She looked around the bedroom at all the glumpy piles of clothes. She wondered how he even knew which ones to pick up and put on. All of the mess was his. In fact, that's what she was doing there. She didn't have morning classes on Tuesday. So, this was the day she came over to do his laundry and clean his apartment. Already just his drudge.
She rolled out of the bed, went to the closet, pulled out a shift, and shrugged it over her head. She walked out to the door between the bedroom and the living room and did a sweep of the living, dining, kitchen combination room with her eyes. It looked like a war zone. And she had just two hours to clean it up—for another week.
When Kurt had rented this apartment, he had told her that this was their home, their first home. Then why, heavy of heart, did she feel so homeless here? And not for the first time, the thought hit her that maybe this wasn't just home to Kurt and her. Maybe some other women were paying slices of his rent. If nothing else, that got her motivated to start cleaning up the room—and looking for evidence of another woman.
* * * *
"If you're going to mope like that, you might as well just go into the kitchen and hide there. These people have enough problems of their own. They don't need to see you acting hurt."
"Suits me," Kurt said. "All I have to do is stick it out here and I get those tickets, though, right?"
"Right, OK, just don't make this any worse for these people," Linda answered, exasperated. She'd gotten Kurt here, after days of pouting and infighting. She'd almost given up a couple of times and given him the basketball tickets. And she was frazzled and frustrated. There had been no sex, and after some teasing she just stopped coming around to his—to their—apartment. If Kurt had noticed that, he hadn't said anything.
She watched Kurt fade into the kitchen, passing another trapped guy wearing an apron and giving Kurt a look of sympathy. Fighting down a flash of exasperation, Linda turned and looked at the tables laid out for the Valentine's Day breakfast. The table decorations looked a little chintzy, but they did the best they could with what they had. She smoothed down her skirt and did a little tug on the T-shirt they'd given all of the volunteers to wear—so they'd all look essentially the same and could be easily identified as staff. She was a bit too curvy for either of these styles. She didn't often wear a T-shirt and thought she was too full-breasted to be wearing this one, but it was what she was given. Kurt had refused to wear his at first. She'd only gotten him to agree to by telling him he could wear it over the jersey Henley shirt he thought he looked so sexy in. Well, he did look sexy in it. But they weren't here to be sexy.
Just a few more minutes and the doors would open and they'd be busy.
Twenty minutes later they were so busy she was having trouble prioritizing what needed doing next. She was resetting places as soon as they were vacated, and still the line waiting for food—and a place to sit—was growing. They'd had no idea how many homeless there were who needed a solid meal on Valentine's Day morning.
They'd needed to go to the warehouse and bring in more supplies. Kurt had been asked to go with someone else on that run, because all he was doing was sitting next to the dishwashing machine while practicing his moves on a young blonde, who didn't need the provocative banter she was getting from a big hunk when dishes needing to be washed and back out on the line were coming at her like machinegun fire. He'd refused, though, saying he was needed here, and the sorority sister who had been helping Linda set places was pulled off to make the run with her boyfriend.
Linda was feeling she was getting more behind the more forward she went, and she almost cried when she slipped when passing the line of people just about to reach the food table and went down on the floor along with the clatter of the silverware she had been carrying on a tray.
"Woops there; can I help you?"
"No, thanks, it's OK, I . . ." Linda looked up into the eyes of the young man who had stepped out of line just before getting to the food table and was down on his haunches beside her, looking all concerned. He had hazel eyes and curly auburn hair, and if Linda was asked to describe the Angel Gabriel, it would be this young man. ". . . I can manage on my own," she finished, in a voice a little more full of awe, though, than the one she'd started the sentence in.
She had been angry that she'd fallen and especially that she'd spilled the silverware that now would have to be rewashed; and that now would slow down the resetting of the tables; and the line was getting longer, not shorter; and Sophia and her boyfriend weren't back from the warehouse; and . . . and . . . oh shit.
"Here, you obviously can use help. Let me help you pick this silverware up and back in the kitchen and then I'll set place settings with you if it will help speed the service up. I've been here before, and this is an unusual turnout. I can see that you folks are doing the best you can."
"That's OK. I'll get this . . . oh, dear, you've lost your place in line."
But he wasn't listening to her. He was scooping silverware up and getting it back on the platter. She started doing this too, but she sensed that she was more of a hindrance than a help, so she stood up, smoothed her skirt down, gave her T-shirt hem a nervous tug, and watched him.
She loved that curly auburn hair she was looking down on. And it looked clean. It wasn't what she expected from this homeless gig. His clothes looked clean too. A bit tattered, perhaps, but clean. His white T-shirt had a slit at the shoulder, and his faded jeans had cuts at the knees that weren't the result of a fashion statement, and his sneakers looked like they'd fall apart before the next 100 steps were completed. But it was all clean.
And he'd stood close enough to her that she knew he smelled nice. That certainly wasn't what she expected. They did have shower facilities here too, though, so she guessed he must have cleaned up before breakfast.
He stood and smiled at her and handed forth the tray, now covered with silverware going every which way. His hands were large, the fingers long and sensuous. But he looked thin, like he hadn't had a good meal in some time.
"Here. Not in order, but maybe there will be replacements in the kitchen we can use until these are washed again." His smile was radiant.
"I'll take these in. You need to get back in line."
They both looked around at the line. Those nearing the food table looked back defensively. It was evident that getting back in line at that point was going to cause a fuss.
"Let's get some more places set," he said. "I don't mind going to the end of the line."
"OK," Linda said, but then she smiled too, possibly the first genuine smile she'd felt like giving that day. "But the last empty place we set is yours, and I'll go get you a plate of food. By rights you should be through the line now and eating already."
"OK, it's a deal. My name's Craig."
That set her back. That was one of the things the volunteers on the dining room crew had been told not to do—not to exchange names in the dining room. They'd found that the next thing the homeless would do is assume having a volunteer's name would make them care especially for that person, and then they could get to go through the line again. It was the volunteers in the recreation room who could be more friendly with the street people—and that was after the meal.
"I'm Linda," she responded, somewhat tentatively. She waited for it to come, then, the request for extra rations. They'd been told it always would follow.
But it didn't. "The silverware. The kitchen. Should we be getting it back in there?" That smile again.
"Yes, yes, of course."
For the next fifteen minutes, Craig helped Linda set tables. They established a routine, a rhythm, with him placing the napkin, with a fork on it on the right side, while she placed the knife and spoon on the left. In short order, they'd caught up with the slack and the end of the line was in sight. They'd set enough place settings to take care of the rest. The doors to the dining room were shut, marking the end of the service.
When she heard the door shut, Linda's head snapped up.
"Shit," she exclaimed. "You were supposed to be seated some time ago. I'm sorry, and, oh fuck . . . I'm not supposed to."
"You're not supposed to do what?" Craig asked, his face showing his amusement.
"I'm not supposed to curse. I think it's rule number three in the volunteers' guide here."
"Well, I don't mind. I like an earthy woman."
"Oh, well," Linda said, blushing. "Let's get you something to eat. Sit down over here and I'll bring you a plate of food." She tugged on her T-shirt and smoothed down her skirt. She could tell that he was looking at her chest. She hadn't expected this. She hadn't expected serving a meal to the homeless would be at all like this. That she'd meet someone who was such a hunk, despite the poverty of his clothes and his obvious hunger, and so considerate. He was well spoken too and had learned manners. She wondered what unfortunate circumstances had landed him here. He seemed to be all of the things she'd wanted Kurt to be and that Kurt wasn't. Well, other than Kurt not being impoverished . . . and the hunk part. She couldn't deny Kurt was that—and that he was a good and filling lover when he wanted to be.
Thinking of Kurt and what he gave her when he was behaving had Linda looking down the line of Craig's torso from his trim but well-muscled chest, showing the nubs of his nipples through the tightly drawn material, down his flat belly, to the bulge in his jeans. There was a decided bulge there. She quickly looked up into Craig's face, blushing again because she may have been caught checking him out. He was smiling directly at her again.
"How about this place right here?" He asked. He looked like he was about to laugh.
"Oh, yes, of course. Right here is fine. I'll . . . I'll . . ." she was still looking at him, drinking him in but gesturing toward the kitchen with a wave of her hand ". . . go in the kitchen and get you some food."
When she entered the kitchen, she saw that Kurt had made the most of his time. He was sitting on a counter with his legs spread, and the blonde was standing between them and was playing with the hem of his precious Henley shirt. She was cooing, and Kurt had a hand on her waist. Linda knew that if there weren't a dozen people moving around the kitchen, working on cleaning the operation up, Kurt would be pulling the girl up on his lap and have that cock he was so proud of up inside her. And the woman, one of the sorority rush candidates probably would be loving it. That was Kurt. The campus stud. As long as what he was getting pleased him.
Linda gave him a dirty look, which he at least pretended not to see, scooped up an extra big helping of everything that was on offer, hit the swinging door hard with her butt, and propelled herself out into the dining room. She stopped on the other side of the door, set a smile on her face, and turned toward the dining room. He was sitting there at a now otherwise empty table, almost at the back of the room, looking like a lost puppy dog. As soon as he saw her, though, his face lit up.
She sat at the end of the table, right at his elbow, and talked to him while he ate. Afterward she wasn't sure what she was talking to him about, but her frustration—even her sexual frustration—must have come out loud and clear, because while they were talking, she felt his hand on her knee. And when she didn't react adversely to that, she felt the hand move in between her thighs and move up.
She was flushed and shuddering, but still she didn't stop him. She just turned a look of such want on him that he gave her a knowing smile and said, "Is there anywhere in this building that's private, darlin'?"
"You're supposed to go to the recreation room from here," she said nonsensically in a gaspy voice.
"I doubt it would be too private in the recreation room," he murmured. "Is that where you want me to go? Because, if it is, I will. I don't want to do anything you don't want to do. Do you want me to go to the recreation room?"
"No," she answered breathily. And when she answered that, his hand moved up to cover her mound through the material of her panties. He felt that she already was wet, and he gave a little laugh. It wasn't an evil laugh, she didn't think, or even a "gotcha one," which she knew so well from Kurt when he was trying to master her and get her to do what he wanted her to do with sex. It seemed to be a happy little laugh.