A Day & Two Nights

She pushed herself from me soon after the last tremor left her body. More to say she laid herself flat under my body, her arms at her side, her body slick with perspiration, her breasts rising and falling with her quickly regulated breaths. I kept my hand very still in her then, careful not to move anything for fear of jarring her. With a final sigh, she moved her right hand to between her legs and gingerly pulled my fingers from her ass. I rested my hand on her hip and waited for her to regain the power of speech. Her eyes focused on mine first, then she closed her legs and moved to her side facing me.

"You never took them off." She said, noticing the band from my thong under her hand on my hip.

"It didn't seem necessary." I stated the obvious.

"No, I suppose not." She agreed with me, and then rolled me over to my tummy. She pulled herself up, resting on her left arm, and running her right hand down my back. Her fingers gently touched along the red lines I am sure crisscrossed my back. "I'm afraid I've left some marks on you."

"They'll heal," I said, "the may be noticed but nobody will question them." A quick translation formed in her mind, as I knew it would, that I knew I could not have marked her as she had me, and that I was fine with that. My lovers know I sometimes 'like it rough', and I know that they know. Besides, I do not have a significant other who would question how I got these marks, and who placed them there. I laid my head flat on the bed, picked up her scent and the scent of her perfume on my sheets, and deeply inhaled both. I liked that this woman wore perfume when biking in the park, looking for lovers, and we let the mood ease down from an erotic inferno to this nice sensual flicker.

She continued stroking her hand along my back, to my hips, feeling the curves of my ass, played with my thong. "Do you let many lovers in here?" She suddenly asked, cupping my ass with her hand as she did.

"In where?" I asked, her comment jarring me from my reverie.

"Into your apartment, your bed." She explained.

"Are you asking me how many lovers I have?" I pressed her, genuinely curious about what she wanted to know.

She cocked her head to the side, then continued: "I know you have lovers, Susan. With your looks and body, how could you not? What I am wondering is... how many do you let in here? How many do you let see the real you?"

I pulled my head up and faced her. "Tell me what you mean, June."

She smiled the kind of smile one often sees when predators have they prey cornered. "Do you spit in your other lovers' mouths and pull their hair? Do you let them dig their nails into your back?"

"Sure." I said, annoyed with her tone, and dropped my head to the bed.

"Do you do that because that is what they want, or because of what you want?" She continued, "Or do you first have to play coy and naive before you get what you want?"

I smiled when I finally understood her point. The number of times I had had a woman in my bed, or me in hers, where I tried to introduce things considered kinky only to be rebuffed with a protestation on her part indicating I had given offense. Then I saw the connection she drew between my apartment and my passion. I kept "friends" at arm's length, until I sensed in them the desire to share these more... explicit pleasures. Then, they became my lovers. Of course, it next occurred me that this is what she had just done with me. This realization I shared with her by lifting myself up again, smiling then kissing her. She smiled back then pulled my hair from the side of my face.

"It's late," she announced, "and I have to go."

Yes, I knew that was coming next. As they say... better to leave them wanting more than to overstay your welcome. Besides, I could tell from the dimming light coming through my bedroom window that twilight was descending upon the city.

"When can I see you again?" I hated this part of me, the needy part, and even though it so infrequently manifests itself in my actions, still I hated that I had asked her that. Yes, I wanted to see her again. Yes, I wanted to fuck her again. Maybe next time I might actually get my panties off. Yes, she was erotic, exciting, and all of that, but why had I shown her that needy side of me? Shit!

She rose off the bed and stretched. I took a pillow and slid it under me, hugging it to me as if she still lay under me. It was not enough that my words betrayed my mood but by actions did as well. I still watched her though. I watched her regain her footing, slip her panties up until they again hugged her hips, and place her breasts back into her bra. She found her pants and top where she had placed them and quickly finished getting dressed. She came over to me then. She leaned over the bed, stroked my head, bent over, and kissed my cheek. Peevishly, I had not bothered offering her more to kiss than my cheek.

"Don't worry, Susan. I will be in touch with you." She announced as if stating the obvious, smiled again, turned and left my bedroom. I heard the sounds of her in my foyer, slipping her biking shoes back on, grabbing her bike, opening the door, and then she left. I lay on my bed, alone, with her scent in the air, her taste in my mouth, and her promise on my mind. I closed my eyes and tried to push all this from me, found I could not, then got up, dressed for the gym, and then went over and joined all those other women exercising my body while exorcising demons from my mind.

I came home from work the next day, and found a package awaited me at the concierge's desk. A cream monogrammed vanilla envelope appeared, obviously from her, obviously delivered by courier service, and my spirits rose as the elevator lifted me to my apartment. The bills and Vanity Faire could wait.

"Susan,

You are a lovely and passionate woman. It's so rare for women like us to find each other; like orchids we are tender and strong, striving to bring our own special form of beauty to this city. Did you think I would not contact you? Of course you did. Do I fear you will not answer this invitation? Of course I do. But I hope you will.

A friend from the fashion world is throwing a party at the Cellar Bar two days from now. They are closing the place for this, and your name will be on a guest list. I do not know your real last name so I have given you one: Susan St. Martin.

Do come to this, Susan. Say 'YES!' to this! Do not let last night be our sweet sorrow! Let us meet again, and let us smile.

June"

I smiled and smiled. Her command of Shakespeare lifted my spirits, her invitation tickled me, and I thought 'Thursday could not come quick enough!' Yes, I was still miffed she left me wanting and in a needy mood. Now I knew she shared my same needs. I wondered who would be at this party. I was reasonably sure that she would be the only person there I would know, but I could not have cared less. I quickly brought my personal schedule to mind, remembered a fun and funky couple with whom I had a pre-existing commitment, evaluated my next move for perhaps 3/10 of a second, and fired off an email to them seeking a rain check.

I had no way of sending a message to June; the envelope had no return address, I knew the courier service would not tell me who had sent her message, and her note did not contain an email address, a phone number, or even who was throwing the party at the Cellar Bar. No matter, I thought: She knew I would appear, and so did I. I sent my RSVP via ESP.

A fashion event... I tore through my closet early on that Thursday evening wondering what I should wear. I knew that nothing in my closet would be hip and trendy as anything adorning the tall thin angular bodies of the fashionistas sure to attend at this soiree, so I went basic. Basic black fuck-me pumps with a 3" heel and basic black thigh-highs, both with a smooth satin finish, served as my basic black base. I thought about and then discarded the notion of wearing panties; with luck they would not be necessary, plus since I had not had a chance to remove my panties the first time we fucked, I thought it opportune to banish this decision from her mind. I shimmied into one of my more interesting little black dresses. It was long enough to hide the tops of my thigh-highs, short enough to show ample leg, tight enough to mold itself to my body, and with a halter-top generously displaying my cleavage. The low-slung back would display some of the marks left by June, some of them fading from view like the tan lines on her ass, and my longish blonde hair would hide the rest from the hoi polloi; but June would get the signal. I put on my coat, grabbed my purse, and left.

"Name?" The living breathing porcelain doll standing guard at the entrance of the cellar asked me. She was impossibly thin, impossibly delicate, and making in a month what I make in a week, hoping someone would 'discover' her this evening. She looked at me and, after taking in my full measure and comparing it against hers, saw an older successful woman with fading beauty and sagging body. I looked at her and saw Bambi growing stale, with fading dreams and sagging prospects, and a series of creepy middle-aged married men circling her, enticing her with offers of travel and dinner and clothes and all else that is part of having a 'mutually beneficial arrangement' with such men.

We exchanged looks of pity then I gave her my nom de la soiree, "Susan St. Martin." She barely glanced up to me; already looking over my shoulder to the next in line, while the tall beefy hunk manning the velvet rope did take notice of me, as I did of him, and then let me pass.

I did not spot her at first, and did not made a point of looking too hard for her. I was there at her invitation, and she could well find me when she wanted to. I moved to the bar as the background lighting effects changed from chartreuse to vermilion. The bar truly is a cellar, with vaulted ceilings, subdued lighting, low seating, and a wait staff seemingly lifted from the pages of Vogue.

Then I spotted her. Yes, she was there, wearing a very slimming black pantsuit, the top of her multi-fabric and multi-hued bustier peeking out from behind the deep V of her jacket, on the arm of a man more than 10 years her senior. She was there with her husband. Curious, I thought, until I remembered his job. She had probably sent her RSVP for both of them weeks before, then placed it on his schedule thinking his work or some dinner or something would interfere with his attendance. She caught my eye long enough to establish a look, and then turned back to her group.

I ordered an apple martini (best in New York) and waited.

I ordered a second apple martini and waited.

Yes I talked and flirted with the men and women there, but the men were all 'modelizers'; and had no interest in schmoozing and/or hitting on a thirty-something woman with her own consulting practice. The women were more interesting, which is to say interesting to look at, for since I am not in the fashion business I had little in common with those there. Certainly, I had little to offer in the way of professional contacts. Besides, I was there to meet someone... else. Therefore, I contented myself with surveying the canvas of wool crepe and bare skin and getting drunk.

I caught June's eye when I could and found her still occupied by her husband and their friends. He was holding forth, as Master's of the Universe will do, flapping his fish-like lips, pontificating on some subject, which apparently did not interest anyone else assembled before him, including June. She managed a smile when he looked away, and I smiled back.

I was about to order a third apple martini when I decided a trip to the Ladies would be in order. I flashed a look over my shoulder to June, noticed she had noticed my movements, and then disappeared stage right. June made her appearance after my third time washing my hands. Our eyes met in the mirror then she walked past me and into the far stall, and closed the door. The other woman primping herself in the mirror did notice this; and shot me a smile and a look on her way back out to the bar. I walked loudly to the far stall and pushed the door back. June was there, standing, waiting for me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think he would be here." She said as she pulled me into the fully enclosed stall, pulled my body to hers, and locked the door. It was as if we were in a closet, away from prying eyes.

"I know, don't worry, it's fine." I hugged her back assuaging her fears. She looked imposing and fabulous; her Gucci pumps added an additional 4" to her height, she now stood two inches above me. I leaned over to kiss her when she stopped me, holding my mouth back from hers.

"Don't. We can't kiss, "she exhaled quickly, and all too obviously worried I would leave her mouth a mess, and then screeched at me "We don't have long!" She reached behind my neck and unsnapped my halter-top, freeing my breasts.

It's fine!" I repeated for emphasis while managing to open her black coat and feeling the fabrics of the bustier that encased her body and breasts.

She pulled the hem of my dress over my hips, and then quickly moved her right hand between my thighs to my pussy. She either did not notice or had expected me to not be wearing panties. In any event, she continued, "Open your legs, please! We don't have much time. He'll notice!" She begged me, sincere concern edging into her lustful voice.

"June, calm down!" I eased her nerves with my voice as I pushed myself back against the wall, "We'll have enough time!" I lifted my left foot to the cover on the seat, opened my legs, guided her right hand back to my pussy, and pulled her in. Yes, I am well versed in the practice of fucking with high heels on.

"No! We don't!" She hissed at me, her fingers already rubbing me, parting me, spreading my cunt open. "You don't understand. I have a room here. It's in your name, your fake name. I wanted to meet you, fuck you, and come back to the party... You're not..."

"June, what... I'm not what, June?" I asked her, feeling her fingers slide inside my pussy. I had been moist from the moment I started getting dressed for this evening, and positively slick the moment I arrived. I pulled her hand closer to me, her fingers deeper into me with her palm flat against my clit.

"You're not my only lover here!" She spat out at me, seeing her well-laid plans falter before her eyes, and her anger and resentment at her husband bubbling out like her saliva did from the corners of her mouth. I swooned. I literally fucking swooned. She had set me up to whore me to one of her other lovers.

She pushed me back with her left hand, placing her hand at my sternum, moving it up to press against my collar bone, then placing her hand at the base of my neck, gently squeezing me. I placed my hands over hers, covered her hands at my neck and cunt with my own, signaling to her: 'Yes, It's OK... I understand... I want this, too...'. The look in my eyes and the contractions of my cunt told her all she needed to know about how, even though sight unseen and gender unknown, I would have answered such an outlandish proposition. I wanted so much to kiss her, to tell her how excited she made me, to tell her yes I would have; I just wanted to kiss her.

"I wanted to tell you in the hotel room. He's here at the party. You would have wouldn't you? You would have spread your legs for him." She both asked and accused, her fingers moving faster and faster in me. Indeed, we did not have much time, nor would I last very long until I came. She let go of her grip on my neck and moved her left hand down to my right breast, took my nipple between her fingers, and then rolled it and pulled it between her gracious long fingers. She formed her fingernails in a crowning pinch around my nipple, squeezed very hard, and asked again: "You would have, wouldn't you?"

"Yesssssss," I hissed through clenched teeth, feeling her spread me wide almost lifting my body up with her hand, "Yes I would have!" I amazed myself that I agreed so quickly, under such circumstances, and that I remained standing. She pressed her hand flat against my breast, pushing me back against the wall, inflaming the marks from two days before. "Who...?" I started to ask before she cut me off.

"He's here. He's seen you." She leered at me while answering my question without telling me a single damn thing. She pressed her hand hard against my breast, flattening my breast against my body and my body against the wall, pressing my nipple between her thumb and forefinger. My hands went to my sides, flat against the wall, gripping for and finding no perch or handhold against the smooth surfaces of this enclosed scene.

Why was she telling me this, I thought. As clouded as my thoughts may have been, I retained at least basic deductive reasoning abilities. She had managed to hatch another plan, I was sure. "Please, June!" I begged, "Tell me what you want." Further speech was not possible, as I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming, to keep from moaning, to not let everyone in the bar know this woman was finger-fucking me to an imminent orgasm.

"He's leaving tomorrow. He's gone this weekend." She explained the imminent absence of her husband and the beginnings of her fallback plan, "He's coming over Saturday night. He's going to fuck me hard. He's cut, thick, gorgeous." she panted, describing either his cock or his body, or both. "I want to watch him fuck you, I want to watch him fuck your cunt and ass," she hissed, selecting that moment to add a third finger to my cunt, spreading me open even more, now spreading my breast against my body, pulling my nipple in every direction she moved her hand about, pressing me even harder against the wall. I was holding on for dear life, not wanting to fall over, not wanting to break our silent embrace. My hands grasped and clawed; She became my Mistress, tormenting my body and mind, turning me into a caged bitch in heat, and I fucking loved it!

"Say you'll come to me. Say it, Susan! Tell me you're a nasty slut, that you'll come to me Saturday night!" Her fingers really in me, the heel of her hand pressing against my clit, that familiar reservoir deep within me welling, bursting, flowing, ready to let loose. I could not believe this woman had me like this so quickly, so effortlessly. I could not believe I would be so easy for her. I begged her with my eyes to not make me speak, that I could not contain myself if I so much as opened my mouth; I begged her to leave me some reserve of dignity; even though I knew she would not. I knew, at that moment, that I would not deny her, neither then nor on Saturday evening.

"Say it!" She seethed at me through gritted teeth, her blue eyes aflame, and her soft look never more hard and serious than that moment. She added with her command a final vicious thrust of her fingers in my cunt, gripping me and lifting me, violently grinding her hand against my clit.

"YES! Oh G..." I wailed and moaned, agreeing to her plans, to her terms, while she moved her left hand from my breast to my mouth muffling my cry to the Almighty. Oh, God... The look in her eyes, her pressing my head back and pressing her body against mine, pressing me back against the wall, and then I lost it. Deep with in me my last reserve broke and I clenched and let loose for her, my cunt contracted then flared and pulsed on her hand, my hips grinding back and forth, my arms wrapping around her and pulled her even closer to me, and I came for her. I came and came and came. Her left hand never left my mouth and her right hand never left my cunt. Indeed, she now repeatedly pressed her body against mine with every stroke, meeting my gyrations with her own, pressing me back against the wall, fucking me back against the wall, fucking my cunt harder every time, her fingers spreading and splaying me wide with every stroke. When finally my body began settling into something resembling a normal rhythm, she pulled her fingers from my cunt and ran them up, pinching my clit hard, made me scream into her mouth, and buckling my knees. She pulled me down off the wall and guided me down, sitting me on the toilet. My breasts still hung down, my dress bunched around my waist, and my bare ass against the toilet seat cover.