A Striking Resemblance

Of course that was an uncomfortable association. Margie thought she would have preferred a more typical look from this guy, even if it had been something nastier. Like a scornful frat boy leer. Or the dazed, dreamy, stoned look that her last boyfriend always got, when they'd do this. She had hated that look but she got used to it. The devil you know ...

The guy didn't pounce on her, like she expected. Instead he kneeled down. Maybe it was dumb of her, or maybe it just exemplified the unfortunate aspects of her sexual history, but Margie didn't realize what he meant to do until he put his mouth on her down there.

"You wanna do that?" When she asked, she didn't use her Lara accent. But he didn't seem to notice.

She might have sounded like she was disgusted, but really she was just astonished. Genuinely astonished. He gave her a slightly miffed look. Like when you ask a kid if he remembered to tie his shoelaces. Then he started to eat her out.

Well, that wasn't the right way to put it. That expression gives the act an aggressive and ugly sound, and he didn't go about it in that fashion. He didn't just dive straight in. He was careful, methodical, systematic ... He worked inward from the sides, in slow, gradual spirals. He was very thorough with the ground he covered along the way. Made damn sure all the i's got dotted and the t's got crossed, so to speak. It was really something. It got pretty intense, pretty fast.

Of course the real Lara Croft would never have allowed something like this to happen to her. But how would she have handled it, if she did? Was that even a valid question? Or was it like Can God make a stone too big for Him to lift? It seemed like it was one of those. Unanswerable.

Margie had no idea what kind of sex life Lara had. They'd never talked about that sort of stuff. It wouldn't have been appropriate. But obviously like everybody else in the world, Margie wondered about it. One might think since she'd actually got to work with the woman and develop a personal relationship with her, this would have given her some insight or at least some suppositions on the subject. A sense of what Lara was into, behind the public image which was both so alluring and so ambiguous. So deliberately enigmatic. But that wasn't the case at all. In fact knowing her, at least to the degree Margie had, only made the question more mysterious.

Most of the time, she seemed entirely above all that stuff. Completely aloof and indifferent to her own sex appeal, despite the provocative way she dressed and presented herself. The impression she gave you—not always but most of the time—was that she wasn't doing it to show off, she just didn't care. Like she honestly didn't realize how hot she was. (But was that honest?) And like if she had happened to be morbidly obese, instead, or a flat-chested waif with acne all her over her body, she'd still wear the same outfits. Because showing off her figure wasn't why she chose them. She dressed that way because it was comfortable and functional—good costumes for running around through steamy jungles doing backflips off cliff tops and martial arts shit, when you got attacked by ninjas or mummies or ninja-mummies. Practical lightweight well-ventilated flexibility, was what it all came down to. Supposedly.

Was this just a pose, though? It was impossible to say for sure. It could be but it might not be. Real or assumed, that version of Lara appeared to have little or no interest in romance or sex, casual or otherwise. Like she just wasn't wired that way. And possibly this explained her life style. Or was explained by it. All her energies were focused on her archeological adventures—on "tomb raiding," as the media had dubbed it. That was what she got off on, and thus she didn't need or desire anything else. Whether by choice or by chance, a result of genetics or her funny upbringing, it didn't much matter. It was just the way she was, if that was the way she was. A woman like her didn't need any sort of entanglements with boys or with girls. All that stuff was too ordinary for her. Bourgeoise. Plain boring, compared to the life-and-death world-in-peril dramas of paranormal archaeology.

Then again, that might be overstating it. Or it might be a complete misinterpretation of her nature. Or even an outright facade she carefully maintained. There were times—not many but a few—when Margie's view on all this swung completely the opposite direction.

'Cause it was equally possible that Lara was really a very strongly sexual individual indeed. Not to a psychotic predatory level, but nonetheless ... intensely, aggressively, voraciously sexual. And she just kept quiet about it, to protect her reputation. Maintaining that cool surface of reserve and detachment, as a matter of decorum and discretion. While underneath, secretly, she was enjoying all the heat and hunger her appearance continuously generated, rather than oblivious to all that or disgusted by it—and she would in fact be feeding off it.

In this interpretation, her adventures weren't a substitute or a sublimation of her sexuality, but an extension of it, and an augmentation. An ongoing fundamental part of her game.

Margie thought it was one extreme or the other. Usually with most things, the middle ground is the best bet. The most likely possibility. But she didn't feel that was true with Lara. That was as far as her instincts went, if they were worth anything at all. She couldn't sense which one was the right one, but she'd bet big money it was the one or the other ... Either Lara Croft never bothered fucking anybody, 'cause she didn't give two shits about fucking, or she was fucking tons of people all the time, because why the fuck not, when you looked like she did? Use it if you got it.

But why not be open about it, if she was? Well, duh. Let's get real. James Bond can be openly and aggressively and shamelessly sexual. Lara Croft can't, not yet. The public might be willing to indulge her on the first two, but not the third. Never the third. The world ain't ready. The world still sucks too much. Sorry, folks, but there it is. She can hardly even kiss somebody without raising a shitstorm, tarnishing the image.

The real point was this, though—either way, whichever version, if the REAL Lara was in the position Margie found herself in—not that she would ever let that happen, but if somehow she had—Margie could imagine the look on Lara's face. And the expression would be the same, regardless whether Coldfish Vulcan Lara was the true one, or the Shameless-Succubus-Nympho version. Margie knew neither one would let this fucking Sting-looking guy get under their skin and break them down. They'd just set their teeth and take whatever he dished out without any fuss. They wouldn't complain or struggle. They wouldn't let him get to them, no matter what he did.

The guy was licking her cunt. He was eating Margie out ... Properly now. Jesus, his tongue was actually inside her, and he'd amped up the force of his efforts considerably. The real Lara wouldn't let it bother her. She'd just sit back and put up with it, until it was over. Margie imagined she wouldn't make the slightest sound. Not a peep, even. Coldfish Vulcan Lara wouldn't feel a thing down there—she probably wouldn't be able to. Shameless-Succubus-Nympho Lara, on the other hand, would be so used to having this done to her that she just wouldn't let herself feel it, if she didn't want to—and of course she wouldn't, in this situation. She wouldn't wanna give the fucking guy the satisfaction. So she'd just switch herself off. Because with all her experience, she'd be able to do that. She'd have built up a tolerance. Like jocks that can drink twenty beers without feeling tipsy or having to pee. Nothing the guy might do with his tongue would be able to surprise her.

But Margie wasn't like that. Margie couldn't switch off. She couldn't take this stoically, like the real Lara would. She just didn't have the capacity for that. Not even close.

She'd never had much success with cunnilingus. It was never as good as it was cracked up to be. For lots of girls, it was their favorite. For her mostly it was just kind of tedious and frustrating. All the guys she'd got with, they either didn't like doing that or if they did, they hadn't been any good at it.

Well, it was different this time. This felt very different. Very very different. Oh man.

She finally encounters a guy that knows how to do this, and it's this fucking guy. This asshole turns out to have a Master's degree. Or at least he deserves one. Like one of those honorary ones colleges give out, even when the movie star or the politician never took a single class at their damn school, just 'cause they think the guy's awesome and they wanna associate their stupid school with his awesomeness. Somebody needed to give this asshole one of those. Like a top science school, like MIT. Because this guy did it like science. Not art. No way—better than art. Way better. Art's great, sure, but it's ambiguous. Science gives you tangible dependable repeatable results.

Like this guy's tongue. Jesus. Gee! Ziss! Key! Reist!

Margie had to cry out. She had to. She was always a pretty vocal person. When she felt something strong, she had to vocalize it. If she didn't, her head would explode. That was how it felt. It's how people are made. Seriously. It's not healthy suppressing those impulses, bottling up. Like sneezing with your mouth closed. You can give yourself a stroke that way—she read that in a magazine.

So she vocalized. She vocalized a great deal, because he made her feel a great deal to vocalize. He made her moan, and then he made her swear, and then he made her holler.

He made her have an orgasm and then he made her have another one almost immediately. Even then he didn't quit until he brought her off one more time, a few minutes later.

"Holy Crap! Holy God! Haahhrrggh!"

"Now we can get started," he announced, standing up. His towel had slipped off him some time ago, and he left it on the floor behind him when he got up. So now she could see his cock. Turned out it wasn't tiny after all—he just hadn't been erect before. But now he was. It wasn't gigantic but it wasn't dinky. It would do the job.

He had a condom packet in his hand—he must have been holding the thing the entire time since he came out of the bathroom. She just hadn't noticed it before. She watched him open it and put the thing on. It was purple. And it had ridges on it. Gosh. One of those. She wondered if she'd feel the difference. She'd never done this with one of the specialty ones like that.

"Now I've got you good and ready. Now we can get cooking."

Shit, in her mind, they should be done already. She wasn't used to multiples. No sir. Most times, like most women, she was lucky to get one orgasm, when she fucked a guy. Let alone three. And he thought they were only just starting? Sure, whatever. Okay.

The rest would be a chore. He'd taken things too far already—she appreciated the dedication he'd put into preparing her, but it had ended up too elaborate and sustained. Turned into closing ceremonies instead the warm up act they were intended to be. Her pussy had had enough partying for one day, thanks ... She was thoroughly lubricated for him, and it was true she hadn't been before, but also she would probably be over-sensitized, inside. Too much of a good thing does that to you.

At least it should only take him another minute or so to get himself done. She could put up with a minute or two for this guy, even if she was sensitive inside. He had earned her cooperation. She'd grit her teeth and bull through it, even if it got rough.

He had her roll over for him. She rose up on her hands and knees but he pressed her flat. What did they call this, flat-iron? Yeah. She'd left her socks on, when she undressed—the floor in here looked pretty grimy—but he plucked them off, and then he held on to her bare feet while he fucked her. Holding them bent upward beside his hips, pressing his thumbs into their arches. There seemed to be some kind of magic button in her feet, in that spot—a pressure point she'd never known about before. Because it felt really good to have him pushing there like that, curling her toes ... Weird. But cool. And having her legs stretched backward at the knee, far as they could bend ... Gosh. Holding that tension felt good in her muscles, and not just in her legs—the stretch also enhanced the sensations in her pussy, and in her belly, and up her spine. Somehow the position seemed to make her open up more and yet also tighten more, in her channel—which shouldn't have been possible, doing both those things at once. But that was what it felt like.

She had become over-sensitized, just as she expected. When he penetrated her, and when he thrust, every plunge burned inside—but it was a good burn. And that she hadn't expected. It still hurt but she could bear it. Because she found she was liking it, too. It was one of those pleasurable pains. Cocks didn't usually feel this way. She didn't usually feel them very strongly at all ... She felt them inside—the motion, the pressure—but there were never very strong sensations of goodness or badness either way, most of the time. Always the most exciting part of it was just the fact it was happening, not so much how it actually felt in there, which wasn't really such a big deal. This guy's was different. This cock was giving her pussy both those sensations—goodness and badness both together. Burning strong, with each stroke. How much did the ridges on the condom have to do with that? Hard to say. She didn't really think she could feel the ridges, separate from the rest of it. Maybe she could but she wasn't sure.

Further cause to vocalize, in any case. "Uhhnn! Uhhrrnn! Ahhrrhhnn! Ahhrrhhnn!"

He stopped suddenly. She thought that meant he was coming, but then he didn't seem to be, as the seconds passed. She couldn't feel it if he was. He didn't pull out of her either. Just held still, taking some deep breaths.

"Are you finished?" she asked, over her shoulder.

He shook his head. "Just taking a moment."

"Were you gonna come? Were you close?"

"Not really. I am enjoying myself far too much for that. I'm in no rush to conclude this encounter."

"But is that why stopped? Because you could feel yourself about to conclude?"

"Not at all. Just catching my breath. If I hadn't stopped, I'll admit I might have fainted in my excitement, or even had a heart attack, but I won't need to climax for quite a good while. This is no schoolboy's cock inside you."

Did he mean that? Or was he bullshitting her? He was probably bullshitting her. "I might come again if you can keep going a while. How long you think you can keep going?"

"As long as you need. Don't worry yourself about that."

She didn't want to get her hopes up and then have him leave her dangling, on the threshold. God knows that had happened to her plenty of times in the past. "If you can't last long enough, just tell me."

He only laughed and got going again.

It turned out she didn't need much more time at all ... Just another few strong strokes ...

"I think I'm—I think I'm gonna come again! I think I'm about to come!"

It sounded silly to announce it like that. She'd never done that before. But she was so afraid he'd let her down at the last second. Also it seemed to help it happen. And to make it stronger.

"I'm gonna come! I'm coming!" Like a proclamation. Suddenly it was so. Saying it made it so—like she chose it. Like it was as much from her choice as from the stimulation of his cock. "I'm coming again!"

And it was different. It was a new kind of climax and it was savage. Savage! She thought she'd wet herself. She was mortified at first, when she felt it start to gush—but then she realized it wasn't pee that was spraying out of her. This felt completely different than peeing. She realized she had just squirted. She had just had a so-called female ejaculation.

"Wow," said the guy, laughing again, "My word. Look at this! Wow!"

"Holy crap! I've never—Holy fucking crap!"

And it happened again. And then it kept happening. Now her body had learned how to do this and how good it felt, it kept right on doing it. It happened again and again and again. Every ten seconds or so—every ten strokes from the guy, she'd feel another surge swell up ... but now it always felt more like something her pussy did to itself, rather than his cock making her do it. The cock helped, of course. The cock or something cockish inside there to work with or work against was probably necessary, to trigger each blastoff. But it was just a tool, no longer a controlling force. She was the rider now, rather than the ridden, even though she was still pressed flat on her belly beneath him in a submissive, receptive posture. Yet she no longer felt like she was being fucked. She felt like she was fucking him. Or at least her pussy was, while the rest of her was just swept along in the experience. Margie still wasn't in charge of this—she still felt exploited and the same sense of giddy helplessness and embarrassment. But now it was her own greedy pussy that was exploiting and embarrassing her. And it was also exploiting and possibly embarrassing Clone Sting and his cock, at least to some extent. If he was aware of it.

Another one now. Oh God another one already ... "Yeeehhuuuugghh!" And she couldn't get over the sounds of it, when it sprayed—Zishhhtt!—and then all the little thumpy-spattery impact noises of it raining down on the couch leather and the floor, or on Clone Sting's skin. Like a goddamn garden hose on high pressure. Jesus it was so loud, every time. Did she actually hear it spurting out or did it just seem like she did, when the jet was splashing on something? She couldn't tell for sure but it really seemed like the stream made a noise of its own, just coming out of her and flying through the air, that was separate from the drizzly rattle of the landing noises. But maybe she was just fooling herself.

It was incredible and a little frightening. She wondered if something had broken inside of her, like some little tube or valve no longer connected where it was supposed to go ... Where was all this fluid coming from exactly? What was it, if it wasn't pee? Just pussy juice? But could a pussy make that much juice, this quickly? Didn't seem like it would be able to, the little glands or whatever in the walls that lubricated you. She got a crazy horror movie image in her head of her whole body shriveling up like a raisin or a mummy, because her body couldn't hold its moisture any more—she would spray out all she had until it killed her. Funny way to go.

"I am going to come now," he declared. And declared was definitely the word for it. He said it very matter-of-fact. It was funny.

Well, all right. She was ready for it if he was ready. If he could have kept going she would have been cool with that too, for a while more yet. But she had no reason to complain if he was worn out. He'd given her more orgasms that any other guy ever had. Even if you decided not to count most of them—all the ones after the squirting-frenzy started. He'd still done an amazing job, taking her up to that threshold and then across it.

So she had an idea. Something she'd never done before. It seemed a fitting conclusion. "Pull out," she told him.

He made that same slightly-miffed face that he'd made at her before. "I have a condom on. Let me come properly."

"I'll take you in my mouth," she said, "I wanna take it in my mouth."

"Oh?" he said, "Oh!" As she expected, he liked her idea better. Of course he did. Properly be damned.

Margie had taken it in the mouth before, but not very often. And she'd never got down on her knees for it, like she did this time. With other guys she'd stay put on her back and they had to scramble up around her into range, if they wanted to do it that way—if they were quick enough, and more often than not, they weren't and couldn't make it. But this time she wasn't just allowing it to happen—this time she had decided she wanted it to be that way. She wanted to take it like that for this guy. Because he'd earned it. He'd fucked her better than any other fucker ever had. She felt obligated to acknowledge that. To show him. To make it as a good a come as it could be. This was how guys liked it best—she'd let him have a hardcore money shot.