Might Have Been Ch. 02

I broke the silence. "Is your voice as beautiful as your form?"

Courtney seemed reassured enough by the compliment to cock a hand on her hip and wag an index finger at me -- a pantomime tut-tutting for trying to coax her to talk. She turned again, both hands reaching to her hip -- undoing a clasp.

"Women usually need to know me before they want to give me the silent treatment. You must know me well."

Courtney ignored the challenge, faced away from me, and opened her skirt. She moved her hands in a flourish, holding the skirt as a shield to still conceal her secrets. With a tortuous pace, the curtain of her skirt rose -- first displaying white high heels, then toned calf muscles shrouded in white nylon. Her coiled motions emphasized the sinews of her leg, back, and shoulders. The curtain rose further, revealing the dorsal indents of her legs, the svelte lines of her thighs, and the scalloped lace fringe of her stockings. Every inch was lean, taut, and perfect. A smile played on her face as she glanced over her shoulder, speaking with her eyes. Want me. See past our fighting to the woman beneath.

She posed just long enough to inspire me to learn to sculpt her in marble, then, with all the pace of a moonrise, Courtney turned to face me. I caught my breath as she discarded her skirt to the floor. Her stockings ended in white garters, displaying the first unpainted or uncovered flesh I had seen from her tonight. I gazed at the soft pink skin of her firm flanks and proud hips. A garter belt and straps surrounded a dainty pair of white panties, framing them like they were an artistic masterpiece of sex.

I had no words. I had wanted this for ten years, kicking myself for intimidating Courtney from revealing her true self to me, and now it was happening -- at levels both personal and sexual.

She gestured to the chair, and I complied, anticipating her next move.

Courtney approached. Her heels were standing inches from my sandals. She bent down and peered into my eyes, studying me again for signs of recognition. Not seeing any, she smiled, and I saw that characteristic flick of the tongue against her pearly whites. It was only the second time I had seen the signature of her smile tonight -- she must have been suppressing it -- afraid it would give the game away. Was revealing it now a hint she wanted me to recognize her, or was she merely forgetting herself -- distracted by the sexual charge in the room?

I reached forward to draw her close for a kiss, and she retreated in the face of my advance, shaking her head. I had a flash of frustration, thinking this was indeed all a tease, but then Courtney about-faced and stepped across me to straddle my legs -- slithering her rear within inches of my face and tempting me with her runner's physique. She stood close enough for me to smell her Chanel-scented arousal. I rose my hands again to touch the arcs of her cheeks and feel the smooth power of her curves.

This time, instead of pulling away, she pressed even closer and tensed the muscles of her flanks. When I rose my hands to her waist, searching toward her breasts, I found myself thwarted -- her gloved fingers parried my advance into no-man's-land, repelling my hands south.

Against her will, Courtney was explaining the game. Despite flaunting her legs and hips, she would let me touch nothing above her waist, where all her features were hidden by paint or cloth. With Amy, concealment had been a sign of shame -- for Courtney, it was strategy. She was concerned I would more easily recognize her upper half than her lower. Anonymity was her defense -- the only thing allowing her to act freely. If I would see, feel or taste anything above her waist, her defenses must fall first. The rules were clear and it was time to play.

My hands roamed across her lower half -- fingertips tracing the lines of her hips and grazing the satin skin of her thighs. I infiltrated the contours of her curves, scouting and memorizing the terrain. The athletic girls I had known invariably clenched their glutes with such contact, to better advertise the ferocity with which their legs could embrace me, and Courtney was no exception -- she flexed and pressed against my face. I accepted the invitation and tasted her exposed skin, searching for sensual weak points that could be used to penetrate the shield of anonymity she had raised.

Through all of this, Courtney maintained her maddeningly-precise hip rotations, never missing a beat, proving her self-control. I recalled our verbal duels in high school, and once again I wanted to prove her wrong. You are not in control. "Tell me who you are," I spoke between kisses.

She broke the rhythm of her hips to shake her ass in a way that told me, "No".

I laughed. "I didn't know an ass could be so expressive."

Courtney's favored method of flirting was a choice insult, but she bit her tongue and declined to take advantage of the verbal opening I had just granted her. There is more than one kind of temptation.

"I've never seen a talking ass before," I said, baiting her again.

I could almost hear the retort she was forced to swallow. Not even in the mirror, Lance? She turned to glare at me suspiciously. Maybe she sensed the trap was baited to lure a Courtney. I needed to deflect this. I ran my finger down the length of her rear crevice, following the filmy strap of her panties. "It has such a lovely accent." You see Courtney? I wasn't trying to bait you, I was setting up a compliment. She must have liked that -- she tilted her hips forward as my fingers traced the line toward the juncture of her legs.

She made her first sound since we entered the room -- a sharp exhale -- and her knees shifted to part her thighs. What was exciting her more -- my frustration at her identity, my actual touch upon the soft downy skin of her ass, or the glorious inevitability of the path of my hands?

I sensed victory as I probed her lines. Could it really be this easy? Could I succeed with Courtney and veer into an unknown future filled with hope, instead of the bleak, known tomorrows of Tasha's Black Moods? All I needed was to let Courtney win now and again?

Doubt returned to grip me. I had thought something similar with Amy, and I feared the prospect of another fall. No, I had never really known Amy. Memory and desperation had caused me to romanticize her into something she wasn't. In contrast, I had known Courtney -- the way Wellington knew Napoleon, or Grant knew Lee. She just needed to win, and she would be mine.

Courtney confirmed her excitement by chasing my fingers with her hips, spreading her legs and inviting me to touch her there, which I accepted. Her panties maintained their integrity only by two miniscule strips of Velcro, entwining each hip. I ripped them apart and brushed aside the remaining nothingness of fabric, exposing her before me. Courtney dipped her hips, encouraging the contact, as my fingers brushed and parted her damp cleft. I continued tasting the skin of her flanks, hinting at my intentions. Her hips tried to maintain the same rhythm, but I felt the hesitation and shudder brought on by my fingers.

I paused my kisses to talk. "You know who I am. I thought you were from another school when we were dancing, but you aren't."

She began a stuttered movement of her hips, increasing the friction between my fingers and her flesh -- trying to guide where she wanted me. She was opening for me, and the scent was maddening.

"Your name!" I evaded her, wanting to force more explicit communication of her desires.

Courtney replied by reaching her hands down to place my fingers exactly where she wanted them.

I noticed my words were amplifying the actions of my hands. The more curiosity I showed and the more frustrated I was, the more aroused she became. She had barely touched me since I had entered the room. This was all about her, and she loved it. This was disturbing... and fucking erotic.

I gave her the light, lubricated caresses she wanted, but kept the pace slow, to prevent an orgasm. Not yet.

Courtney would have no half-measures. She pushed my fingers hard against her, sliding them through the fleshy puddle of her labia. Her hip motions were becoming frantic, but she made no sound. More than life itself, I wanted a sound from her -- a moan, a sigh, a scream -- anything.

"It excites you that I don't know your name?" I challenged while I continued my manipulations. I knew the answer when I felt her body quiver. "You planned this. You came to this dance dressed to seduce me, but it's extremely important to you that I not know who you are." I had never dared guess the extent of the plans I had scotched ten years ago.

She still refused to moan, but her breathing was heavy, and a low hiss emanated from her mouth, sounding like she was holding her tongue between her teeth, as she liked to do when she smiled. She was now shamelessly fucking my hand, dripping her wetness down my palm. She was almost ready to come. I decided to bring her, and increased the speed and precision of my tactile artistry.

Courtney spasmed and raised her hands to play with her breasts. The bitch! She wouldn't let me touch them, but kept all the pleasure for herself.

"Look at you," I said. "Hiding your identity while getting touched by me is like a drug to you." Her hissing became a prolonged sigh as she approached the cusp of a climax. Every woman longs to be understood...

"Or is this really you? Are you using the costume to show me who you really are -- someone who desperately wants to fuck me, but lacks the courage to admit it to my face?"

...Or not. I had hit a nerve, indicating I really needed to learn when to shut up. She pulled off my fingers, frustrating her own imminent orgasm. She wheeled around with a glare -- fury and arousal blazing in her eyes. After a moment of indecision, she silenced me by thrusting her pussy against my mouth.

The tang of her slit was on my lips, and she moved her hips in time to my tongue -- first ensuring full contact with her clit, then withdrawing when the sensation intensified. I let her have the control she wanted, hoping it would give her so much pleasure she couldn't handle it.

Courtney had denied her own climax when I had unleashed her anger, and she was desperate to recover what she had lost. Her willowy leg draped over my shoulder, and I felt her runner's thigh envelop my head. Then, in a lunge borrowed from an Argentinian dance hall, her grounded leg thrust forward. She used the new leverage to fuck my face in earnest.

Long sweeps of my tongue probed and tasted her surfaces and depths -- flicking her clit at the end of each cycle. Her panting increased with her passion, although she still wouldn't say a word.

After a dozen such tongue-lashings she was ready, and I impersonated a jazz saxophonist -- improvising a syncopation with my tongue that wrought paroxysms of lust. One gloved hand held my face, and the fingernails of the other dug into my shoulder hard enough to hurt. I heard her breath catch once, twice, and hold.

A tremor traversed her limbs, and she held my face in the collective grip of her hands, hips and thighs, arcing her body toward the embrace of my mouth.

She took a breath and held it again.

And again.

The only sound she made was a sigh as she pulled away, glaring at me with a complex mix of arousal and anger.

I wanted her. I had been aching for the past fifteen minutes as she teased me and refused to touch me. This was a delicate moment -- too assertive, and she would maintain control by dressing and leaving, but I sensed she was not finished with me. Courtney was an instinctive contrarian, and I once more used my knowledge against her. "Will that be all, miss?"

Courtney's twin fires of rage and desire flared again. She leaned over me and lifted the hem of my monk's robe to my hips, discovering what so many had sought -- the answer to what this particular monk wore under his robe -- white Spider-Man briefs.

When I had searched through my dresser this morning, I had forgotten I had owned that pair, and couldn't resist wearing them.

Courtney stared at my spidey-whiteys, jaw gaping in an expression that spoke words her lips would not.

"Milady, had this lowly monk known this morning that thou wouldst so corrupt him as to make him forsake his holy vows, he would have proudly gone commando."

Courtney rolled her eyes heavenward, as Spider-Man was removed and tossed to the floor with a contemptuous flick of her wrist.

She straddled my lap. This was to be the culmination of our years of conflict, and I could see the anticipation in her eyes as she descended her hips down upon the lover she had long mistook for an enemy.

Her mouth opened, and I watched for her expressive tongue. I had often imagined her face in the throes of pleasure, and now I saw it with my own eyes. Her tongue extended out of her mouth, tasting the arousal in the air.

Courtney was wet from my oral assault, and I slid within, exulting in the feel of her walls closing around me. Her eyes, open mouth, and wayward tongue were all known to me, but her arousal cast new light on those features. The feel of hot velvet wrapped around my cock epitomized her alien familiarity. She was all I had dreamed. Our conflict had added a delicious spice to sex, making it taste more like victory than any first coupling I had experienced.

She closed her eyes and leaned forward -- her still-clothed breasts taking salient positions before my face. I advanced my mouth to lay siege to her exposed ramparts, but Courtney had anticipated the maneuver and countered with a firm but painless slap.

Dammit, I thought her eyes were closed. "Aw, come on!" I punished her by withholding my thrusts.

No, she indicated, squirming atop my cock in an effort to spite me.

"They're gorgeous and you know you want it."

Another pantomime: No fucking way.

"I want to kiss them," I growled, "with me inside you."

Her lips pouted in mock sympathy, and she performed yet another pantomime: That sounds hot as hell, and I'm on board with the sex, but no.

Damn, she was good at pantomime.

I switched tactics and thrust into her once more.

Courtney's lips pursed as her hips undulated against me, and she began forcefully blowing air in yet another of her controlled rhythms. It reminded me of something, then I recognized it -- Lamaze. The bitch was using childbirth techniques to keep control. She began touching her breasts with her own hands again, pinching and pulling herself through the cotton fabric. She looked at me and bit her lip, as if reconsidering her refusal to let me perform that duty. I saw frustration, doubt, and fear compete with desire in her eyes. She wanted to feel my fingers brushing her skin -- my lips closing in a circle around her nipple -- my teeth gently scraping her skin -- but her anonymity was priceless to her. Self-administration was a sorry substitute for the pleasure I would provide, but she drew on her reserves of discipline, and momentarily held the line against me.

Her feet pushed off the floor, raising and lowering her hips on top of me. As the sensations filled her, Courtney's face drew closer and her hands rose to my face -- thumbs brushing my skin, while her fingers wandered through my hair. Her mouth approached mine and I readied for her kiss, but once more she stopped herself, glaring in frustration at her hands and at the gloves that numbed her sense of touch. I felt a shriek of lust and frustration building inside her.

Sensing a breakthrough, I increased her tension by pulling her down onto me, hoping the deeper penetration would force her to surrender her anonymity.

Her scream, when it came, was one of defiance, not climax. Her hips stopped and the full fury of her eyes fixed upon the light threatening to expose her features. Quick as a cobra, her right leg struck at the lamp. The bulb shattered, and shards of glass rained against the walls as the room plunged into darkness.

I felt a newly-ungloved hand reaching and fondling between my legs, as another bare hand explored my face. I searched her eyes once more to watch her desire. Her black eye sockets seemed to hold my gaze in the dim green light, as she fucked me with renewed vigor.

The lamp was broken. Where was the light coming from, and why was her face now green? I realized the answer as I stared into her ghostly visage -- the face paint -- she had used glow-in-the-dark face paint. Her features were a mask. The mascara around her eyes completely shielded them from my gaze -- I couldn't see if they were open or closed. The glowing paint extended down to her neck and breasts, and her phosphorescent rack bobbed up and down, six inches from me, hovering in the air like the Ghost of Cleavages Past.

"You're the best night light ever," I declared.

Her grin floated eerily in the dark. It moved closer to my face, and I leaned forward for the kiss she had previously denied me. She opened her hot and hungry lips, her mouth covered mine, and her tongue flicked into my mouth -- darting across to meet its match. I returned her kiss with ten years of my own frustrated lust.

Yes. This is what I wanted and needed -- to drive her beyond the range of control. It was what she wanted too, I knew. I was the only man in school she regarded as worthy of her attention -- the only one who could stand her scornful attacks and still admire her -- the only man who could defeat her and still want her. She longed to confess how she felt -- that she had always wanted me and always would. I just needed to make her say it.

Her breath was labored and raw as she loved me with every exposed inch of her flesh, from the teasing attacks of her tongue to the hot caresses of her pussy. She grabbed my hands, brought them to her breasts, and her thighs clenched me tight. With the lights out and her loins on fire, she seemed less concerned about mussing her make-up.

Surrender! I cupped her breasts in my hands and pulled them out of their confinement. Her nipples were erect with arousal and the cold air. My mouth roamed across her breasts and the valley in between, and she encouraged me with a hiss.

"I must know who you are," I demanded. "This has been an amazing night. I want it to happen again, and so do you." I captured the apex of a breast lightly between my teeth.

She did not respond, except with a faster recoil of her hips.

"Answer me!"

I heard nothing but hard breathing. I was growing angry. If she wouldn't lose control, I would force it. My hands wrapped around her ass, allowing me to control the rhythm. I raised her off my hips until my cock had almost withdrawn, and then slowly slid back in, letting her walls feel every inch of my shaft as I pushed deep inside her. Each cycle took a dozen of her breaths, and every penetration quickened her breathing.

"Come on!" Goddammit. "You think you're in control, but you aren't."

She kissed me harder and flexed her inner muscles, gripping me like a vise. God bless you, Dr. Kegel.

"I'm going to make you come."

She nodded.

"I'm going to make you scream your name!"

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then bit her lip and shook her head.

I stood, gripping her ass, and kicked the chair away. She wrapped her arms around my head and her legs around my waist, maintaining a death grip on our precious coital union. I felt her heels digging into the backs of my thighs as I laid her down on the hard floor, and I attacked her. She mewed in pleasure as she met each thrust with her own, adding a hip movement like a signature to each one: a circle, a tilt, a thrust, a squeeze.

Her phosphorescent breasts filled my vision -- I watched them rise and fall with each thrust. She began blowing her Lamaze exercises again.