A 'B' or not a 'B'

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tarkatony
tarkatony
252 Followers

I don't know how long I can last and I don't know if I'll flee after my next orgasm so I pull my fingers from her wet panties and get to something that has been really bothering me. "One of the big knocks on marriage is that the men tend to get lazy, the women tend to get fat, the sex tends to get boring and life tends to get predictable. Why would you want that?"

She is still leaning back on her arms, her wonderfully sexy breasts spill over her ribs, her stiff nipples point south but her eyes are focused on me, intently. "I wouldn't. I'd like to be like your mother, the way you described her and I'd like to be like mine. She's not fat, she's not lazy and she's anything but boring."

I pull back a little and deliberately study her, looking for the big picture. She lets me, she just leans back on those arms with her eyes staring into mine, her mouth pinched in concentration. I took in every nook and cranny I can find, I take my time and she doesn't move a muscle. "So I don't have to sell myself to you? Is that the way it goes? You're entirely sold on me. It's just you who has to be won over? All I've got to do is decide if I want you."

She still isn't moving. "Yep. That's the last step in the process."

"And, according to you, I'm a B so we fuck and it's 'til death do we part.'"

"Preeeecisely," she smiles.

"That's weird." Weird that she would admit her strategy.

"Why?" She sits up and reaches for my hand. "I'm ready to settle down and so are you. You've only got three years before you graduate and you're going to have to work like hell to do that ... and work like hell at the beginning of your career. I'll be there to look after you, you'll be there to look after me. I'm not the fuck around type, Mike and nor are you. So let's not fuck around. Let's just be together. I'm not pushing for marriage now, that can happen in the future but we should be with each other now."

"So, you're thinking let's just fuck and get it over with."

She smiles. "Good idea."

I study her hand in mine. It's a strange sight; it's kind of erotic, but it just doesn't look like it belongs there. "I may not be the fuck around type, Marta, you're right. But I am the honest type. Do you know what I've decided?"

The pinched pucker is clearly a grimace now. She pulls her hand from mine. She expects the worst, that couldn't be more obvious. "I'd hoped for a little more thought on this, Mike, a little more time, a little more consideration ... experimentation before a decision. Are you sure you want to rush into that?"

I've never been a prick. I have to tell her the truth. "I decided an orgasm ago that I might be three orgasms away from leaving."

Pain is unmistakably in her eyes. "So, obviously, none of them will be in me."

I feel like a shit. "No."

Her shoulders sink, she puts her hands in her lap; she is staring at them. "What happened after that first orgasm, Mike, the one on my leg?"

"I decided to stick around for another."

She looks up briefly, tears are welling in her eyes. She quickly looks down at her hands. "Stick around for another," she repeats, then I can see her make a decision. She looks up at me. "OK, let's find out what happens after that one." When she springs to her knees and moves toward my half-stiff dink I try to roll away. "Don't," she demands, angrily pressing her hands against my hips. "I'm going to give this everything I've got so you just lie there and take it." She takes my prick and is about to put it in her mouth. "And remember," she kisses it, "the woman doing this is the one woman on this entire fucking planet who will do absolutely anything to get you." She takes me in her mouth and gives me a tentative suck, then she pulls away, sits up straight so I can get the full impact of her breasts, then she goes back on me but turns sideways so I can see them bounce and sway as she gives me everything she has.

I warn her when it's coming (after pathetically few sucks) but she stays with it and keeps at it until it's all out of me and I start to shrink. Then she sits up, sits back on her heels and looks down on me, more defiantly than anything. The pursed mouth that puckers so sourly is perilously close to a scowl. It's the mouth that only seconds before had been sucking me; the mouth that has told me all those masturbatory fantasies she has about me; the mouth that has told me, even convinced me, how much she loves me; the mouth that has kissed me lovingly. That mouth. The one I've always hated.

"You have beautiful breasts, Marta." I am trying to be nice, but it's true, she does. "I can see why I didn't want you to wear a bra."

"And why I have to wear one." Her nipples are unbelievably long and stiff. "Verdict?"

I ignore her question. "Sometimes I wear my mother's panties and I fantasize about being with her. I have one of those pocket rocket things which I sometimes use in my ass when I masturbate. I'm not a homosexual but I have fantasized about being with a man, a really, really gay man. I know I would want my wife to want to be with a lesbian. Sexually, I want to be as adventurous as I can be. But you're right, I'm no cheater."

She doesn't flinch. "Trying to scare me off?"

"Telling it like it is. Warning you."

Her eyes grow wider. "So I'm still in play?"

"Do you still want to be?" She's as tenacious as a pit bull, but slightly better looking.

She falls down beside me and drops her arm and leg over me. "You don't understand, do you? This isn't an elective for me, you are an imperative. I want us to start living, start planning, start exploring together. That last orgasm has to be in me. What do I have to do to get it?"

I have no doubt she means this. She is utterly convincing and I haven't a clue why she cares. I push her arm and leg off me and sit up and when I have my fingers on the waistband of her panties, she makes it easy for me to peel them off.

She peers up at me with a look I've never seen before. "Put them on, Mike. That will excite me."

I have them in my hand; they are so wet they are almost heavy. I bring them up and press the wetness against my face, breathing in the pungent scent. "Really?"

"Put them on." When I do she presses her palm against me and smiles. "Intimacy has many expressions, Mike. I want to find them all in you and I want you to find them in me. Here's one." She lies back with her legs bent and open. She brings my leg over her and she pulls me up until we're facing each others sex. "I like to smell myself when I masturbate."

I slowly lower myself, my cock and my face and we both start licking together. I don't know if you can call it beautiful, I have nothing to compare it to but it sure stuns me and not just because it's the first one I've ever seen, not just up close and personal, I mean at all, live at least. But it isn't that. It's the way she offers it to me, like, here, take it, it's for you, it's for nobody else. It's so honest and innocent and sincere, that's the way I take it and I know right then that this intimacy kind of changes things, that her offering me herself like that kind of changes things.

And something else changes things, too. She is thrusting at me and she is screaming so loud I can feel the vibrations on my prick through her wet panties and there is a sudden gush that becomes like a long rooster tail of cum, flooding into my face like a fountain. The whole thing is like one gi-normous multi-media turn-on: the smell, taste, touch, the sounds, the flood, the energy of her driving pussy and the unbelievably femininity of it all: the breasts beating on my belly, my fingers digging into her ass, her hot, wet, smelly pussy smothering my face and then my cum explodes into her panties which are still pressing her face. It's an orgy of wet sensations that is so intoxicating I have to push her away for relief.

But I don't get much. Her lips are suddenly on mine and she is squeezing my neck like she wanted to strangle me ... but I don't care. I am completely and utterly spent.

And I don't care when she lets me go. I don't care when she pulls me into her so my head is on her breast. I don't care when she wipes away cum from my face and the sweat from my brow. I am entirely fucked.

"I'm holding you tight so you don't run," she whispers.

"I couldn't run if I tried," I murmur, my lips brushing a nipple that's as tough as leather.

"You'll recover."

"Ya," I say, as I drop off into never-never land.

It is the sudden movement that must have awakened me: her sitting on the bed.

"Coffee?" She points to the cup on the side table.

"How long was I out?" I am still feeling groggy.

"Two hours, give or take."

"Two hours!" I look around for a clock for confirmation. "Was I drugged?"

"I phoned your mother and told her you are staying here for supper. Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case you will. We still have an unresolved ..." she fishes for a word, "issue."

"Whether or not I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you. That issue?"

"Well, ya, looked on your way, sure, but looked on my way it's all about whether or not I'm going to get the boot."

"Implying that if you don't get the boot we're just going to continue on in perpetuity."

She bends down and kisses me lightly on the lips, then smiles.

I kiss her back and can already feel a hard-on growing in her sticky panties. I struggle out of them, not easy with her leaning on me, and I drop them on the floor, surprised that I'm not the least bit embarrassed. "I'm not the type to impetuously commit to something I've never thought about, just because somebody else wants it for me."

"Well, ya, but we're way beyond that now." She kisses me again. "This is no longer a case of just me wanting you. You're wanting me now, too." When she kisses me again I'm wondering what she's talking about. "There are just a few loose ends for me to tidy up. We know we're great in bed together and we're going to get better. I've showed you I can look after you. I'm just about to show you I'm a great cook. You know I can plan and organize: I've got our life together all mapped out ..."

"And you've proven you can lie."

"Lie?" She looks down on me, surprised.

I almost laugh at her confusion: finally, she is as confused as I've been from the start. "When's the last time you sniffed your panties when you masturbated. That was bullshit." It was the first thing I thought of when I woke up.

She giggles nervously and becomes defensive. "I've done it before, not for awhile, but I've done it."

"'Could do' isn't quite the same as 'want to do.'"

"Picky, picky, picky."

"Ya, well I don't appreciate you doing things just to please me." That really does bothers me.

"Get used to it, Mike" She smiles.

I'm really getting to like her smile. "I'm serious."

She stands up. "So am I. Do you want a shower or a bath?"

"Do you have any wine?"

"Gallons of it."

I knew when I slipped into the hot water that it is going to be increasingly difficult to extricate myself from Marta Glock's life. Then, when I take the glass from her, I am pretty sure I'll have to stay for at least one extra orgasm. She has changed the long, heavy brown t-shirt she had been wearing to a very light white one that stops just short of the tips of her short and curlys and it shows the contours of bra-less breasts to perfection.

"You're pulling out all the stops," I say, eyeing her chest.

She smiles, mischievously, her mouth not nearly so pouty as I once thought it. "The stops are the only thing I'm going to pull out."

"We're not there, Marta." I'm trying to nudge her onto the track that I'm on, but it doesn't seem to be working. In fact, she seems already to have us at her destination.

"No, eh?" She closes the toilet seat and sits on it, sipping her wine.

I look up at her and say what I've been thinking about for a while. "Since when did you become so horny. That's not the Marta Glock anyone knows ... anyone that I know of."

"And you're known as a swordsman?" She smiles.

I laugh. "Touche."

But she doesn't laugh, she is now deeply pensive, her lips purse in total concentration. "So do you want to know how I see this unfolding?" She reads me and quickly adds, "ya, assuming the last orgasm is in me and you're a B." But I could tell that her thinking has already moved way beyond that niggling little detail. "We get a place between the two school ... I know where ..."

"And how to pay for it?" My summer job won't even cover the next term.

"Ya, I've got that covered ... and the furniture, I can scrounge all we need. We'll be close enough so we don't need a car and we'll be close enough to our parents so we'll get all the support we need — to handle those difficult moments when you misunderstand me."

"When I misunderstand you?"

"You know what I mean. There are bound to be a few rocky bits."

"When you go crying to mummy ..."

"Or you do, yes."

I can see she entirely serious about that and that she is thinking through the next step of her plans so I take the time to take a good swallow from my glass and form the question. "So, who do you suppose would be wearing the pants in this little family?"

She looks at me and smiles, a smile that I'm learning gives her an entirely different look, something more generous, more compassionate, more understanding. "We both will, Mike, the pants and the panties."

I laugh, not feeling at all slighted, she never makes me feel slighted. "And I should accept that?"

Her face darkens. "Should you accept equality?"

"Ah," I say, sinking further into the water.

She leans forward now and fills my glass. I use the moment to cup some water on her chest so I can see a nipple. This she laughs at, then she smiles, something she has been doing a lot of ever since she decided that I'm putty. "Do you have even the slightest sense of how happy we are going to be together, Mike?"

Now, I try to throw some water on her fantasies. "I'm not there, Marta, not nearly there."

"Oh, pfffff, of course you are." I don't know how this irrational confidence started but it seems to be taking hold of her.

"What do you know that I don't?" I just can't see what she is seeing.

She puts her glass down and quickly stands up. "Be right back."

And she is, with a book which she hands me, then she places the half-full wine bottle on the edge of the tub. "I'll leave you alone to read that. Dinner is in about a half hour or so. I'll call." She leaves.

It isn't a book at all, it's a diary and it starts on her 18th birthday, just over three years ago.

She has beautiful penmanship, really lovely, she has obviously worked hard on it. And she is a beautiful writer. She effortlessly expresses herself in flowing phrases entirely devoid of flourish and doubt. And she avoids all sentiment, she's as pragmatic on paper as she appears in all her poutish concentration.

The diary has nothing to do with dates or events and everything to do with recurring themes: her family, her studies, her looks, her ambitions ... and me. Observations about me are peppered throughout the prose in no coherent order. Still, together they build a profile that seems pretty accurate. There is no mention of love in the pages. About me, at least, it's like she's building a case where she can justify inviting me into her life. There's not much about sex in there, either, not that I could find, no events, thoughts, speculations, nothing that could give me any insight into her. She does mention masturbation a few times and I'm front and centre there but there's nothing really sexy, just reports. In fact, not much has happened in her life, remarkably little, about the same as has happened in mine. Everything so far is like she has been preparing for an exam, in fact, she uses that very metaphor, prepping and cramming, but for what? That answer is on the last page. Yesterday. Preparing for the 'flight.'

When I put it down after a half hour, having just skimmed most of it, I can't figure out why she'd show it to me. It doesn't say much, just that she has taken her life seriously, really tried, really wrestled with some big themes, loved and respected her parents, gained a measure of spirituality through reading philosophy and tracked a seemingly dispassionate interest in me. Big deal. Why bother showing it to me?

She answers the question over a very tasty chicken dish which I've powered through, and a second bottle of wine, mercifully, because our glasses are empty.

I reach for the bottle but she gets there first. "Because I wanted you to know who you could have." She pours about an inch of wine into my glass. "I don't want to be too dramatic about this but as far as I've seen that's about as much effort as most girls put into building their life — the Hardys and the Marions." She nods the bottle toward the quarter-full glass. "Not a lot of preparation for another thousand months of living." Now, she fills my glass ... to the brim. "That's the effort I've put into my life so far. Sure, you can argue that I've needed to make that effort because I've had a lot less going for me. And that might be true. But who would you rather have beside you in the struggles of the next thousand months?"

She looks at me but I can see she doesn't expect an answer, not yet.

"I've decided to go off on my own, to start living as an adult. I've put in lots of effort to prepare myself, I've got lots of discipline, constructive habits, solid underpinning. I've got a great moral compass, lots of work experience, a useful database of information. I'm ready, Mike. I'm ready to take off. And I'm unbelievably excited about it. Trouble is, I need you to come with me. I've wanted that since forever."

This is her pitch? It seems a little thin to me. "A few hours ago you were going to fuck me into my future, now it's all about ... what? Teaming up with ... competence and the protestant work ethic?"

She laughs, genuinely, perhaps she's now understanding my confusion. "Think of it as fucking competence." We laugh together then she sits back, sips her wine and looks me in the eyes. "Look, I know I'm no beauty but I think I've got a lot to offer and I'm giving you first right of refusal."

"But why all the pressure for an instant decision? I don't get that."

"Because if I hook you now, you'll be hooked. If I let you get away, you'll probably wiggle away forever."

I snicker. "From fowl to fish."

"Fish to fowl?" she obviously doesn't understand me.

"You take flight, I just wiggle away."

She smiles. "But it's true, isn't it?"

"I haven't given a moment's thought to hooking or being hooked by a woman. Not a nanosecond."

"Until today."

"Until today."

"So now you have. And?"

"And ... I've had more ... action, more fun, more whatever you want to call it this afternoon than I've had in my entire life. So what? It doesn't mean that if I fuck you I'm going to marry you."

"Who said it did?"

"You did."

"No, I said you wouldn't fuck me unless you planned to spend the rest of your life with me."

"Same difference."

"No it isn't, it's an entirely different motivation."

I wave her away. "Semantics."

She smiles. "Fine. Have me and we'll see. That's all I've been saying."

My glass is half empty again which might explain why I don't quite get her argument ... but I suspect she is manipulating me. "You can cook," I say, eyeing my empty plate.

"I think I've been pretty impressive all day."

I put both elbows on the table, look at her and let her words sink in. "You have, yes, in everything you've done. Including confuse me."

"Oh, I don't know about that. You know precisely what I want."

"Yes, I just don't know why."

She leans forward and fills my glass ... to the brim. "That's why," she tilts the bottle towards my glass. "You've made as much effort in your life as I have in mine, plus you're kind of hot, in your own way. I decided a long time ago that I want you."

tarkatony
tarkatony
252 Followers