A New York Fuck

"Would you like another champagne?"

I had been miles away, and at first didn't understand the request. I was used to coach and to strictly rationed drinks. Indeed legal alcohol was also a pretty new thing.

"Yes please." I figured I could do with something to calm my nerves.

As the woman placed a second glass on my pull-out table -- and it was an actual glass, not the normal plastic -- I reflected that Business Transcontinental was a different world. I'd never have been able to afford it myself. I was scared to even ask him how much the ticket had been. I also had a suspicion that it was all part of the seduction. A way to woo me into saying yes.

Yes to what? Well, meeting a guy that I only knew from on-line, plus a few hurried WhatsApps. Meeting a guy who was twenty years older than me. Meeting? Who was I trying to fool? The site was a hook-up one, I'd used it before. Replace 'meeting' with 'fucking' in both of the above instances and you'd be closer to the truth.

And there was more, I was flying from LA to New York so I could fuck a guy who I knew was married. Who told me that he had every intention of staying married. Who said that he wasn't "that kinda of guy." But who clearly was the kind that wasn't averse to fucking a college senior behind his wife's back.

And, if I was honest with myself -- something that it had been rather a struggle to be in recent weeks -- the thought of screwing a married guy sent tingles running down my spine and juices dripping down my vaginal canal. I guess I was that kind of girl. Plus, if he only wanted a fling, that meant no complications. Just the fucking. I felt my nerve-endings buzzing. A gulp of champagne should help with that.

I looked at the screen next to my seat. Just two and a half more hours to go. But I didn't need to watch a movie, I had my own entertainment. Stories I had on my iPad. Stories I had written and shared with him. Stories about me and him... you guessed it, fucking. I found a blanket, draped it strategically over my legs, and started to read, my hand surreptitiously placed between my thighs. I know it's self-absorbed to be aroused by your own words, so color me narcissistic.

There had been crosswinds and the landing was bumpy, but I'd made it to the terminal. I just had a carry-on case, he'd mentioned not wearing clothes much of the time, so smooth! When I'd replied with false innocence, he'd offered to take me clothes shopping on Fifth Avenue. It was again all part of his technique. He thought himself a player, but it was rather transparent, actually amusing. And I'd have fucked him anyway, without the movie star treatment.

Forty-five minutes in a limo - he'd arranged one of course, complete with more champagne -- and I was in Manhattan. The hotel was on a lovely square with a small park in the center. The building occupied all of one side.

The lobby was subtly lit, dim enough to suggest refined taste, bright enough to not evoke a bar. Monumental artwork hung from many of the walls. The chairs and couches were deep red leather. Groups of guests spoke in discreet tones, and waiters moved silently and attentively among them. Again, I wondered about the cost, then told myself I was worth it.

I gave my name at the desk. No, a credit card would not be necessary. Apparently Mr Jones was a regular. I got the distinct impression that the guest service agent was accustomed to accommodating his female visitors as well. Not that this bothered me, I'd dated my fair share of guys, and I wasn't looking for a long-term thing.

The agent asked if I needed help with my bag and I demurred, departing with my room key and directions. I shared the elevator with two women, older than me, wearing short dresses, and with heavy make-up. My assumption was that they had a professional engagement to get to. Me? I was giving it away for free.

The room was sumptuous. I'd checked them out on-line in advance of course. Mine was Bohemian. Purple and deep reds. Crushed satin. Two modern chandeliers hung low. The bed was massive, the bathroom even larger. And it had a balcony overlooking the park far below. I had time to kill. He wasn't a native New Yorker, just here for a business trip that conveniently spanned a long weekend. His flight from Charlotte wouldn't land for two hours and then he had to get here.

It was Spring Break. A time when many of my friends were taking vacations, or visiting their folks. I had other activities planned. The forecast had been correct and the City was unseasonably warm, my phone said sixty-five. Leaning over the balcony railing, the shadows cast by trees far below convinced me how best to spend my waiting time.

Sitting on a park bench, the sun was warming. Still sweater weather, but with the promise of nicer days ahead. I was glad I had brought my sunglasses. I'd attempted to read, not my own stuff, but a first novel by a Trinidadian author. It was beautifully written, but I found the local dialog hard to follow, especially with other things on my mind. I closed my iPad cover and then my eyes, letting the bright rays kiss my upturned face.

My thoughts drifted back in time. It was only natural to think about first contact. He'd initiated it, that was normally the way of things. The girls were merchandise on display, the guys potential customers browsing the shelves. Some women really put themselves out there. Naked breasts, pussies even. The truly brave, or irredeemably foolish, even showed their faces.

Not me. I had just the one photo. A shot of me in my little black dress. I'd taken it a few minutes before going out to meet my boyfriend at the time. I guess that relationship was already doomed if I was simultaneously taking selfies for a hook-up site. Head and shoulders only, a little cleavage, and my features prudently blurred. Blurred beyond the reach of image recognition software, I'd checked before posting it.

I still got attention. Then I guess most women did. For a start it seems we were outnumbered at least five to one, maybe more. And while my photo left a lot to the imagination, my description of what I was like and what I was looking for was much less circumspect. I'm pretty direct when I want something.

Nineteen out of twenty messages I just ignored. The ones that felt like a twelve year old had written them. The ones that were clearly way too desperate. And of course the weirdos, so many weirdos. But, buried under the sea of chaff, was the occasional grain of wheat. Mr Jones -- Robert Jones, like that was his real name! -- was a grain of wheat.

He'd been polite. Complimentary about my profile photo, without being creepy. He'd said he'd like to get to know me a little, and added that he felt that we might have compatible interests. Displaying just a little class gets you a long way, especially when so few guys seem to bother to do this.

So, I'd messaged back. Friendly, if a little noncommittal, you have to be careful. And I got an almost instant reply, asking about how my day was going. Literally no one does that. He was different. Maybe he was a student of human psychology. Maybe he'd just thought about the best way to connect with a woman. Maybe it was really his normal personality. Whatever was going on, real or artifice, he obviously made an effort. And he was nice. That put him in a special category. The 'I'd consider fucking him category.'

The terms are loaded, but I'll use them anyway. I don't think of myself as easy. I don't think I'm a slut. But I don't attach the typical emotional baggage to sex. I like sex. It's fun. I like having it with different people. But I'm also fussy. There has to be a connection. The guy has to get me and vice versa. I'm not looking for love, but the sex has to be a bit more meaningful than just rutting. Not a lot, maybe, but a bit. Mr Jones seemed to be on the same page.

And early on, before we had got too far into our discussions, he told me he was married. Asked if that was a problem. I told him that if there was a problem, it was his not mine, his marriage was none of my business. What I didn't tell him was that a thrill had run through me at the news. I'm a selfish bitch, I know. Fuck sisterly solidarity, right? Until that moment, I'd not known that I had a thing for married men, I had never had occasion to think about it. But the sensations running through my body told me that his status made me more interested, not less. As I say, I'm a bad person.

I asked him if he was unhappy. He said that was private. I guess he had a point. But, over the next few days of chatting, I put together a picture of a marriage in decline. In retrospect, this was probably just wishful thinking, me trying to feel better about myself. It should also have been a red flag that I was maybe getting in too deep too quickly. But who ever notices these things at the time?

As if on cue, my phone bleeped. A message to say he'd landed. Before replying, I took a suitably silly selfie. Tongue out, my other hand giving a peace sign, childish Instagram stuff. I knew I was playing a role. And I knew he would like it. I told him that I'd see him soon and added some hearts and the photo. I got more hearts back. Time to get back to the room and have a preparatory wash.

The shower had a large, square rain head. It felt amazing, my whole body being bathed in warm streams of water. Eyes closed, my mind still wandered. I guess Robert and I had hit it off. Exchanging pleasantries had turned into exchanging innuendos. It had been me who made the running. Innuendo had turned into plain chat about sex. What we had done, what we liked, what we thought it would be interesting to explore.

In the spirit of exploration, I sent him one of my stories. Another soul had never seen a word of them. The night before I shared my fantasy was consumed by editing the text, replacing my rather generic leading man with him. Even using his name. He told me he loved it, that I should publish it, even suggesting a site he knew. But it was too private. Then he said he had something to tell me. When I told him to go on, he admitted to having jerked off to my words. That thrilled me in a way I'd never been thrilled before. He asked if I had more stories and, eventually, I sent all of them to him.

His descriptions of how he reacted to the scenes and emotions I described became ever more explicit, me egging him on to provide more details. His messages turned into short stories. I was caught in an escalating spiral of eroticism.

Over days, my feelings rose to the point where I took a chance. Again it was my idea, he'd never asked, unlike 99% of men. If he had somehow planted a seed in my head, then he was world class at subliminal messaging. I sent a headless selfie of my bare torso. And it elicited an ecstatic reply. I could recall myself blushing at the time, not something that I was accustomed to.

I am pretty comfortable with my body. Sure I could be thinner, but fuck any guy who calls me overweight. I work out, I eat carefully. I am curvy, not fat. And I know I have great breasts. My only real insecurity is the number and prominence of birthmarks that dot a high proportion of my pale flesh. A soon to be ex-boyfriend had once mentioned Dalmatians, but Robert enthused about me, even complimenting what I saw as imperfections. Boy, was he racking up points.

The next day, I pointed my phone at a different angle. I'd recently visited a salon and everything was nicely trimmed and waxed. I'd even held myself open a little, displaying my wet excitement. That drove him crazy. But he was still considerate, he asked if I would be interested in seeing the effect my photo had on him. I was used to fielding unsolicited dick pics all the time, a polite request was a novelty. Of course I said yes.

What he shared got me more interested. I mean I love cock as much as the next girl, but more what they feel like than their appearance. But his...? It was neither length, nor girth. He was above average, but not by a lot. He was pleasantly manscaped, but not in a way that had me thinking he was too into his appearance. It was the shape that caught my attention. He was gently curved in just the right way. I could almost feel his head massaging my front wall, putting pressure in exactly the right place.

Biting my bottom lip as I replied, I told him just what I had been thinking, what I'd like to be doing. The reply was instantaneous: "we could make that happen, Sadie." That's me, by the way, or at least me on the site. I didn't use my real name back then, and I'm certainly not going to break the habit in this story.

My heart skipped a beat. But there was something else about his photo. He'd not been as careful as me, or maybe cared less about his privacy. Because, in the background behind that appealingly shaped cock, was his face. Out of focus for sure, but still his face. Not for the first time, I wondered if it had been an intentional escalation.

I deliberately took a new selfie. Then another as my face had looked weird. The second was better. Taking a few deep breaths to center myself, I sent it. My accompanying message was: "well if we are thinking about meeting IRL, then I guess I'd better show you what I look like."

And so my personal Rubicon was crossed, and in record time. I knew, as I sent my face reveal, that we would fuck. It was only a matter of time.

I realized that while I had been reminiscing, my hands had been wandering. One was cupping a breast and squeezing gently, the other was stroking the strip of short hair on my mound. Through the steam, I could just make out a clock on the wall. I had time.

I moved my fingers to a nipple, rolling it, feeling it harden. My other hand migrated downwards. In my imagination, I saw Robert's cock. I'd masturbated to the image before many times. But now I knew it was soon going to be in my pussy and in my mouth. Shit, I was crazy turned on, almost breathless.

Relinquishing my breast, I slipped a finger inside myself as my other hand rubbed my tingling clit. I leaned against the shower wall, the support allowing me to open my legs wider, and to add a second finger to my vaginal probing. Feelings were rising so fast. Robert and I had talked about him licking me out. I was going to make myself nice and creamy for him.

The thought of his tongue in my pussy, and that it would be soon, was enough to make me a moaning mess of orgasmic jello, weak at the knees, heart thumping, lungs heaving.

Checking the clock again as I toweled myself dry, I decided to just throw on a bathrobe. He'd messaged again while I had been busy, and he was close. He was so close.

My phone bleeped and I jumped violently. I knew I was on edge, but this was ridiculous. He was in the lobby. I noticed that I had been holding my breath as I read the message. I exhaled and inhaled deeply, but it did nothing to calm me. I went and checked the door peephole, nothing.

I was now regretting my choice of clothing. We'd talked about his love of lingerie, garter belts and hose in particular. I'd brought some things with me. But no time to change now. Shit! I probably looked awful in the robe. And I'd not done my make-up either. I checked the peephole again. Maybe I had time to change quickly, but what if I was half dressed when he came in?

I was wracked with indecision. Just as I had made up my mind to at least put on a bra and panties, the door lock whirred and he was there. We stood looking at each other. It felt like minutes.

Then the door swung closed behind him and the noise was like a starting pistol. Suddenly his arms were round me and my head buried in his chest. He squeezed me tight and I felt myself begin to get lost in his embrace.

His fingers gently touched my chin, lifting my face as he bowed his head to meet mine. And then we kissed. And it was like no kiss before. I began to melt, his lips and tongue sending warmth and electricity surging through my body.

He took one step back and smiled, before uttering just two words: "so beautiful."

The unaccustomed blushing hit me again. I felt like I had just been invited to my high school prom by the boy I had been yearning for all year.

But I wasn't a shy teenager any more. Returning his smile, I undid the robe, shrugged it off my shoulders, and let it fall.

"Will I do Mr Jones?" I asked in a valiant attempt at coyness.

His face became almost beatific, as if lit by some internal luminescence. Yet his reply was simple and to the point: "I really want to fuck you, Miss Melnyk."

"Well, what are you waiting for, then?"

They talk about sweeping a girl off her feet, but that's what he actually did. And I'm not some tiny little thing. I was so aroused already, but his strong arms lifting me, holding me to his chest, and gently laying me down on the bed... I'd never felt so ready to fuck.

Then he was on the bed with me. Reading his intent, I made room for him between my legs. And he almost fell into me. He dove into my flesh like a man finding a desert oasis after long, thirsty days. It was carnal, his desire was so palpable, his thrusting tongue so urgent. I felt like my body was his life's goal, so insistent was his adoration of it.

And for me it was heaven. His passion intoxicating, his skill letting me discover previously unknown pleasures. He was no fumbling college kid, he was a mature and experienced man. And, fuck, did he know how to please a woman. I'm not normally vocal. My orgasms are intense, but internalized. Not with him. His tongue, and now his fingers also, had me lose control, get in touch with my primal self. I don't believe in religious mumbo jumbo, but it felt like it was my very soul he was stimulating, along with my pulsing flesh.

I clenched my fists in his hair and pushed him onto me. The throbbing took me over, my muscles clenching and unclenching with no conscious control. I had just about enough awareness to know I was lost. His thing to play with, to tease, to own. And when I came, it wasn't the normal slowly rising heat. It hit me like a dive into water. Every part of my body pushed beyond what it could tolerate without totally surrendering to the sensual. And I screamed, I screamed so loud, and so long, as he kept me falling. Prolonging my ecstasy, pushing me past limits I never knew I could approach, let alone cross. One orgasm blended into another, and I could hardly recall a time when my existence hadn't been just an extended orgiastic blur of ecstatic emotions and scintillating sensations.

Finally, I could take no more and pushed him off me. Collapsing back panting like a sprinter having crossed the finish line. He moved up and held me. Caressing my face as I tried to get back in contact with reality, while forcing oxygen into my lungs. While my heart hammered on my rib cage, wanting to be free of its constraints. Eyes closed, patterns danced through my head. Shifting, changing, shattering. Finally fading.

Then slowly calming. And I felt him hold me closer. His lips warm on mine again. And an insistent hardness against my thigh, one that spoke of deep needs. I had hardly enough breath to speak and instead whispered. "Condom... now..."

My lids clamped shut and motion still beyond me, I heard him undo his case and fumble through its contents. My heart still raced, both from the mountain top I had just crested and the sure knowledge that this was just the beginning of the range. I heard a crinkle and then a pause before the bed moved under his weight and I felt him between my legs again.

I opened my eyes and saw his face hovering above me. "I want you to say it, Sadie. I want you to use my name."