A Woman Like Maxine

I was genuinely surprised when on the next evening Felicia showed up at my door with a few more questions. I answered those very seriously, into her tape recorder, and then realized that her agenda was other than originally stated. After determining that Maxine and I were lovers, she began her seduction…and I was a willing, though guarded, participant. She was tall at about 5’9”, and had smooth, bare legs under a ridiculously short, tan suede miniskirt. Her long-sleeved, dark brown silk blouse – tucked in at a very small waist – showed her ample breasts and wide, square shoulders. Thick black hair, parted in the middle, fell over her shoulders – hiding a pair of earrings that flashed from under it – and distracted me periodically from her thighs and legs, which crossed and re-crossed maddeningly as first one, then the other, brown high heel dangled from her toes. “I brought some wine,” she soothed in her sultry voice, pulling from her large bag a bottle of very respectable Cabernet, 1965 vintage. I’d become knowledgeable enough about wine to be dangerous when selecting it in restaurants, and gladly went to my small kitchen to get two glasses.

Felicia followed me in and, as I uncorked the wine, encircled my waist with her arms, linking her hands at my sternum. I hadn’t realized I’d been breathing so shallowly until I inhaled deeply at her embrace and expelled it in short, spasmodic gasps. “Mmmm, why are you so tense?” Felicia asked. “Surely you’ve been with an Asian woman before.”

“I-I-it’s not that, Felicia,” I stammered, turning toward her as she kept me captive with her arms. “I’m just…uuh…committed to Maxine.” That was the first time I’d ever said it aloud; for a moment it boosted my confidence and I felt proud.

“She won’t have to know,” she murmured, leaning forward and nuzzling my throat with her soft lips and brushing my cheek with her eyelashes. “I think you’re a very attractive guy…and I want to get to know you better,” she almost whispered, lazily tilting her face up to kiss me as one hand reached up behind my neck.

I didn’t resist her. I leaned down to meet her lips and my commitment to Maxine vanished. Her tongue thrust into my mouth and she moaned deeply, then she began to thrash, whimpering and kissing me wildly, all the while her hands were at my pants, unbuckling my belt and grunting deeply in her throat as she wrestled them off my hips. As she filled her hands with my cock and balls, my mouth went to her neck and I sucked hard enough to form a hickey as I pulled her blouse from her skirt, almost tearing it open, and struggled with the button and zipper on the back of her skirt.

“Don’t bother,” she rasped, and reached around to unclasp her bra, out of which sprang her two firm tan breasts tipped with brown nipples. She then kicked off her heels and reached under her skirt to peel off a pair of brief, white panties. Shrugging off her blouse and bra, she urged, throatily, “Take me right here!” and reached up to encircle my neck with her arms. I lifted her off her feet, turned and placed her on the cold tile of the kitchen counter and her legs spread out and up, revealing her dripping pussy framed by wisps of long, black pubic hair. I was in her to my balls in a flash, and she screamed, “Eeeeyeaahh!” as I stroked her deeply and rapidly. She hung onto my shoulders for a few minutes, moaning and plumbing my mouth with her tongue as we fused, then placed her hands on the counter beside her hips and leaned back slightly to look at me through black, almond eyes. “Nnnnghh…I knew you’d be good…you…big…sonuvabitch!” she gasped. “Oooohh, yeeaah!” she exclaimed, and planted her ankles at the top of my buttocks, so that between leaning on the heels of her hands and the heels of her feet, she was able to raise and propel her cunt at me whenever I lashed forward into her. “Nnnngh, Fuck! Harder! Give-it-to-me! Yeah! Fuck me! Harder!” she yelled, so loudly I became sensitive to my quiet grad student neighbors, who by this time probably had their ears pressed to the walls.

Felicia wasn’t a woman who appreciated ordinary sexual play, I found out on a few subsequent occasions. And this night she gave me a preview of her lusty preferences. “Bite me?!” she begged. “Bite my tits!…yeah!…bite me when I cum…hard!” she demanded. Her breasts were very large around, as opposed to protruding. They were full but shallow, laying back on her chest, yet offered plenty of tasty flesh to nibble. But her desire lay in abuse…bordering on the sado-masochistic…and my carnal habits had become substantially more gentle with Maxine. In the recesses of my memory, this sort of bestial fucking was the way I had behaved as a G.I. when trying to erase the experiences of – and seek revenge for – the frustrations of war when I’d visited Saigon whorehouses.

And was she fighting the archetypal inhibition of the children of immigrants, the subservience of Chinese offspring; was she using my white dick to escape her self-image; or was it, simply, that Felicia just liked rough sex? Little thought was in it or behind it. And when she came, the experience was titanic. This first time she screamed non-stop and leapt forward at me, locking her ankles around me, and plunged onto me until I thought I’d rupture her cervix. She writhed in my arms, which were now around her waist, then unlocked her ankles as I pounded her hips down onto my probe with her moaning ecstatically. At the end of her orgasm, she went completely limp, hanging in my arms suspended on my rigid cock, until I walked into the living room with her still on me, to lay her out on the sofa. When her breathing returned to normal, she looked up at me and said, softly, “You’re good, Philip. You’re awfully good.” We did finally make it to the bedroom that night but, when we got there, we didn’t bother to get under the covers. No matter. Felicia’s voracious, extremely varied appetite didn’t require any sort of conventional mantle. The large bag in which she’d brought her tape recorder and the wine also contained some marvelous and surprising sex toys.

The next day was a Friday, and Maxine came to stay overnight. We returned from dinner and, as usual, smoked some dope…something we reserved for weekend relaxation. She noticed the two dirty wineglasses in the sink – one with a lipstick smear – and the bottle in the trash, but said nothing until later. We made easy, sweet, comfortable love and were about to doze off when she found the earring…hidden unobtrusively in a fold of the bedspread. I’d gone into the living room to douse the lights and had come back to see her sitting in the midst of the bed cross-legged, with her pussy still dripping our combined juices, holding the bauble in folded hands. Her head was down as if she were looking at her crossed ankles. Then I saw the tears dropping onto her creamy wrists. My heart froze to see her in such distress and I asked, “Max, honey, what’s the matter?”

She looked up quickly through wet, reddened eyes and her shoulders quivered as she sobbed, “Oh, Philip. Was it…good? Was it…fu-fu-fun?”

“What, baby?” I asked softly, already knowing the answer as she held up Felicia’s earring. “I know whose it is, Phil. I’ve seen her wear them before,” she whispered, dissolving into tears.

Felicia had marked her territory like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant. She’d certainly known that she’d “forgotten” or “lost” the evidence, and it was here for Maxine, not for me.

I was struck dumb, and knelt down next to her to wrap her in my arms. She shrugged me off, asking, “Did she like it rough? Huh? Did she ask you to beat her? Everybody knows she’s an S&M freak!”

“It just happened, Maxine,” I said, weakly. “There’s nothing behind it.”

“Do you know how much I love you?” she asked. “I worship the ground you walk on. Do you want to beat me? I’ll do anything you want,” she sobbed, as I remembered with a shudder the bruises her first husband had given her, so many years ago. Then she let me hold her. I apologized profusely, and we lay together until falling asleep. During the night, she woke me by sucking me rigid, mounted me as I lay on my back, and fucked me viciously until we both came, with her once again lapsing into sobs.

In the morning we made love again, sweetly this time. At breakfast she said, very soberly, “I’ll never love anyone else, Philip. You can see other women, as long as you come back to me. I want to be your Number One. That’s the only way.”

I felt, justifiably, like a piece of shit. Yet our relationship continued. What was its basis? We’d never marry. We’d never have children. We’d helped each other. She’d literally saved me. Yet I did “see” other women – guiltily – mostly participants in the antiwar movement.

Then one night in 1970 I had a unique nightmare. In my dream, I was looking down at an Asian woman – Vietnamese, most likely – who was wearing the typical large conical hat worn by rice field workers. She was nude, holding her arms up to me, with her face obscured by her hat. I felt an overpowering need to have her – to rape her – and forced her to her back to enjoy her body, first starting with rough cunnilingus. After her reluctant orgasm I found myself hungry, so began biting her flesh. Biting harder, I tasted blood and became crazed. I tore a huge mouthful of her flesh from her lower belly, near the crease of her leg. It was so delicious that I ripped a hunk away from her thigh, then another, holding them in my hands as blood dripped from my jaws. I looked upward to howl savagely in bestial jubilation…and the ravaged face looking down at me was Maxine. I awoke screaming, desperate to make amends. Though wanting to, I didn’t call her, nor did I ever tell her about the nightmare.

In the light of day I realized that I was dragging Maxine down – devouring what was left of her incomparable spirit – and probably had already done her irreparable harm. I had to cut the chord…gradually…before she succumbed to my heart of darkness. And I did.

Over the years I saw her name connected with one TV show or another. She always knew where I was, and called and sent cards for a while. Then she ceased contact, I sincerely hope for good, happy reasons.

After several, indeed many, relationships short-lived and multi-year, legal and spontaneous, serious and simply entertaining, I’ve been comfortably married for thirteen years. I hope that – unlike myself – that sparkling Persian-French-Irish girl didn’t lapse into the promiscuity and bitterness of the failed romantic. But of course she wouldn’t…not a woman like Maxine.

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