Black Opal Magic

Then I rummaged around through the pile, picked out my outfit and got dressed for my evening.

**~~** 3 **~~**

The bar was small and on the corner of one of the two intersections in the town. I parked on the street opposite, shuddering as I got out of my car. I was underdressed for the weather.

I pulled the oversized flannel shirt around me and walked across the street. There was no traffic to worry about. It was after 10pm on a Friday, and it seemed like the town had already put itself to bed. There was a strange buzzing in my ears, and a queasiness in my stomach that wasn't exactly unpleasant.

I pulled the door of the bar open and stepped inside. It was warm and cozy, with about twenty people inside, ranged around tables and at the bar itself. There were plenty of open seats there. Several people inside glanced up when I entered, and one or two took a longer look at my short skirt, heels, and tank top. I'd let the flannel shirt fall open as soon as I made it to the warmth.

One man actually made eye contact and smiled at me. He was seated with three other men at the far side of the room, under a TV playing sports. He wasn't who I was looking for.

It was only then that I realized I was looking for someone. Not a particular person, exactly. But someone who would fit a particular task. That realization bothered me. Even in my college days, it never occurred to me to go prowl in a bar, looking for a hook up. But as my feet carried me toward the long brass rail and I watched the bartender pouring a pint for a guy seated at the end nearest me, I knew he's who I was there for.

I sauntered over, sliding up onto the stool next to him. The skirt rode up and my half bare ass cheeks registered that the stool was covered in cold fake leather. I opened my purse, put twenty bucks in fives on the bar and leaned forward.

He looked at me immediately, and just as quickly looked down. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and a complexion that was either very tan for this time of year, or a hint of some Latino or Native American ancestry. He had the beginnings of crow's feet around his eyes, and very thin, very old scar running along the left side of his jaw.

He was hunched over his beer, wearing a heavy, quilted workman's jacket, dark jeans and what were probably steel toed boots. His hands were big, with thick fingers that looked meticulously scrubbed clean. He smelled like soap.

I expected him to ignore me, as intent as he'd seemed on his drink.

The bartender came over.

"What'll I get you?"

I leaned toward my neighbor. "Well, what he's having looks good."

I looked over and put a hand on his forearm. "What you got there?"

He straightened up, looked at my hand and then at my face.

"Um, it's just the local. Ale."

"Ooh. 'The local,' now it sounds even better." I turned to the bartender, leaving my hand where it was. "I'll have a pint of your local, then."

The bartender smirked, winked at my neighbor and turned to get the glass and pour my pint.

My heart was pounding; I felt giddy. I let my hand slide off his arm, but turned toward him. When the bartender came back with my beer, I barely glanced at him. I slid two fives across the bar and the bartender wandered away again. When he came back with my change, I left it exactly where he put it.

By that time, I had my neighbor's attention. I took a long sip of the beer and made a show of how good it tasted.

"Mmmm," I said. "That is definitely hitting the spot."

I leaned in and winked, "Well, at least ONE spot, anyway." I laughed and my neighbor had the grace to chuckle too.

I took another swallow, noting that he was watching my lips, I sat up very straight, letting the push-up bra do its work, and pretending not to notice when one shoulder of the flannel shirt slipped off. As I put the mug down, he wasn't looking at my face anymore.

I patted his arm, amazed at my own brazenness.

"I don't know about you, but I am SO bored. I wish there was some way to pass the time."

His mouth opened and closed. I could see his wheels spinning.

"I don't s'pose you have an idea of what we could do, do you? Um..."

I let the thought trail off, sure he'd take the hint.

"Raphael," he said. He patted his chest with the arm I wasn't holding. "I'm Raphael."

"Well, Raphael. Now I can say I've met an angel."

That was literally more cheesy than any line I'd ever had a character utter, and it fell out of my mouth like I'd planned it for days.

Before he could register how bad that was, I repeated my question. "So, Raphael, have you got some idea as to how we could pass the time?"

He swallowed hard, took a big swig of his beer, and glanced at his watch.

"Um. I mean, it's kind of late for a movie..."

"Yes," I said, softly. "It's late."

I drank some more of my beer, blinked at him very slowly.

"You have any other ideas?" I said even more softly, so he'd have to lean in.

He stared at me. The thought occurred to me that he couldn't believe his luck, and was starting to believe that I was either a prostitute, or that this was some horrible joke being played on him.

"Maybe if we went somewhere without so many distractions, we could think of something to do." I leaned away from him, onto the bar. "I'm just up here, working on a project, and you know, I just had to get out of the house. And I thought it'd be really nice to have some fun."

I made a show of uncrossing my legs, letting the skirt ride up a little, and then making sure that my leg brushed his as I recrossed them the other way. I leaned in, rubbing his calf with my toes.

"But it's so hard to have fun by myself, you know. It's much more fun to have fun with another person."

He drained the last of his beer. I sipped mine.

"Um. Yeah. We could have some fun together."

"Excellent."

"What's your name?"

"Misty," I said, not even wondering where that came from.

"Really?"

"Sure."

"Misty. Nice to meet you."

I grinned, slid off the stool and let the skirt ride up as I stood. I made a show of yanking it down so he could see my midriff. I stepped away from the stool and toward the door. Now I felt every eye on me. I turned to look back into the bar, and let them all look at me. A wave of exhilaration washed over me, and I saw Raphael's pride that I'd selected him. Saw the jealousy in the faces of some of the other men, and at least two of the women. When Raphael got to me, I linked my arm through his and leaned into him. I was going to own him, if only for the rest of the evening.

As we got to the door, I said in a voice loud enough to carry, "So, Raphael, where are you taking me?"

He pulled the door open and guided me through. "Um, my place is right across the street."

He pointed across the intersection to a row of small shops. The one on the end advertised craft and jewelry making supplies. The I realized he was pointing up, and saw the narrow door recessed between two of the shops.

"Let's go, then."

We walked arm in arm across the still empty intersection, and I was glad of his body heat. He put his arm around me, and half covered me with his jacket. We got to the door next to the shop, and he led me in and up a steep flight of narrow stairs.

His was a small, one bedroom apartment that screamed bachelor pad. It was neat, though, neater than my apartment usually was. All the furniture was utilitarian, probably hand-me-down or thrift shop finds. The couch was soft and worn, and half covered in a quilt, which made me wonder what stains on the upholstery he was hiding. The kitchen was open to the main area and just as clean as his hands.

I noticed a bookcase, half filled with books, half with CDs and records, and then saw the stereo system. He locked the door behind me, and the thought hit me that I wasn't worried about him at all. All my life, I'd been warned about going home with strangers; I'd been admonished about the dangers of picking up people in bars. I'd always thought of people who did that as desperate, lonely, flawed in some fundamental way. The characters I wrote would never do that. I would never do that. But I had. And I was loving every fucking minute of it.

I loved that I didn't know his last name, or if he'd given me his real first name. I loved that I didn't know the first thing about him or what he did for a living or his life story or why he was in that bar tonight. I didn't know and I didn't care.

I knew two things. I was going to fuck him. And it was going to be the ride of his life.

I turned around, tossing my purse onto a nearby chair and shrugging off the flannel shirt. I stepped toward him and backed him into the door. I held his head in both my hands, waited a second for him to embrace me and kissed him. I gave him everything I had, pressing hard enough that our teeth clicked together, and then backing off with a laugh and a half apology. I dove into him, and he responded, and it was fierce.

I slid a hand down his chest, yanked his jacket open, and he shrugged it off. He pushed off the door just enough to take the jacket all the way off, and then I grabbed the waist of his jeans and hauled him to me. His hands landed on my hips.

"No, no, no slow down," I heard him say.

I pulled off, separating us. "What'd you say?"

"Nothing. Nothing."

He leaned in and kissed me, but it was softer, tentative, slower. It was good and sensuous.

Then I heard it again. "Slow down."

I pulled back. "Did you just say to slow down?"

His face paled and he shook his head. But I didn't believe him. I'd heard it.

"No, baby. But, yeah. I kinda like to take things slow, you know?"

"Oh."

"You want a beer?"

"Uh, sure," I said, as he was headed to the fridge.

I followed him and he handed me an open beer, which I started to chug. But as he put his own to his lips I heard, "I want to see you. See you."

Something cold passed over me and the opal pendant vibrated against my chest. I glimpsed myself dancing, half naked. I shook my head.

I took his hand and led him back to the living room. I patted his chest.

"You put on some music. I'll go freshen up."

"Sure," he pointed to a door opposite the kitchen. "Bathroom's there."

I leaned up and pecked his cheek. "Now, don't run away on me."

He laughed. His bathroom was tiny, just enough space for the necessities. It was just as neat and clean as the kitchen. It's funny, thinking about it now, what struck me the most about his place. That my strongest memory is of how impressed I was that his whole apartment was so tidy. Like that cleanliness told me something important about him, like it made me feel safe with him.

I used the toilet, washed my hands and splashed some cold water on my face. I'd had less that one whole beer, but I felt loose and free in a way that usually only came from three or four glasses of wine. Music started in the living room, an artist I didn't recognize, sounding of Latin rhythm and blues. Sexy. Definitely groovy.

When I went back in the living room, Raphael was sitting on the couch, he'd taken off his boots, and the overshirt he'd had on. I looked him over and appreciated his body. He was fit in a normal way, like he didn't need to work out because he worked hard at his job. He was trying to look relaxed, but was still disbelieving that this was about to happen.

I sauntered toward him, swinging my hips in time to the music. I bent over slowly to pick up the beer on the coffee table and tipped it into my mouth. I let some of the liquid overflow my lips, dripping down my chin. I grinned and licked my lips. His eyes lit up, and I saw what he'd have looked like as a twenty year old, about to get laid for the first time.

"I feel like dancing," I said.

He stirred, making as if to stand, but I shook my head.

"For you."

I spun around before he could say anything. I wiggled my hips as I reached under my skirt and slid my panties down my legs. I swayed and rolled my hips, gyrating as my underwear reached my ankles. I stepped out of them and tossed them at him. I stood and spun around again, swaying, turning, rolling my spine as I stretched the tank top up and over my head. When I turned back to him, he was leaning forward, mouth half open, eyes wide as saucers.

"Oh, babe. Misty. Keep it going, Mami, show me what you got."

I caressed myself, slipping my fingers down in the waist of my skirt, tugging it down even lower on my hips.

"You like what you see, Papi?"

He blanched again, and I couldn't figure out why he seemed surprised that I'd responded. Did he not realize he was saying these things out loud? Then I wondered at myself, because never in my life had I called a lover 'Papi' or 'Daddy' or anything along those lines. But so much of what I was doing was new for me, it all seemed part of the adventure.

I swung around again, bending with my back to him, hands on my spread ankles, tracing up the backs of my legs. I swayed and moved and teased as I unclasped my bra. I slipped my shoes off as I turned back around. I held my bra to my breasts, squeezing my tits and sliding closer and closer to him.

He leaned back on the couch, arms spread along the back, waiting for his lap dance. I hooked my fingers through the bra straps and wiggled as I slowly pulled it off me. I raised my hands, swinging the bra around and letting it go flying across the room.

I dropped my hands and covered myself again, leaning forward and shaking my shoulders. He was entranced, and I'd never felt so sexy or powerful. My body, at the time, was curvy bordering on pudgy. It was another of my hangups that I could only think of one other time that I'd showed myself off to a lover. Part of me kept waiting for him to register some kind of disgust at my round stomach or dimpled thighs. He didn't though, the look in his eyes told me that I was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. I still sometimes wish I'd gotten a glimpse of what I looked like to him.

The queasy feeling was gone, but my ears still buzzed. I took the last step toward him, climbed on the couch and straddled him. I saw his hands clenching on the back of the couch as I settled on him, grinding on his lap, letting the skirt push up toward my waist. I ran my hands over his chest, pumped my hips and noticed he was hard.

I leaned forward, kissed him, and stretched my hands along his arms, pressing my naked tits into his chest.

When I broke the kiss, I whispered, "Come on now, Papi. Show me what you got."

He kissed back, and embraced me. More gently that I'd thought he'd be capable of, he caressed my hips and back. He slipped his hand down the back of my skirt, cradled my neck with his other hand and kissed me. His tongue darted into my mouth, and a feeling of warmth and real desire washed over me.

We kissed and fondled each other for a long time, and he let me pull off his undershirt and unfasten his jeans. We ground on each other, and then he surprised me by picking me up and laying me down on the couch. He knelt down, unzipped my skirt and eased it off me.

Then he bent and kissed my labia. I started to baulk, to reflexively reach for him, to tell him that I was ready, that he didn't need to. But even as I reached for him, I realized that he wanted to, it was part of his fantasy to pleasure me this way, to take care of me; as soon as I had the thought, it seemed obvious. And knowing it's what he wanted, I relaxed into the feeling of his tongue and lips on me. It felt surprisingly good, and I eased myself more open for him, spreading my legs and caressing his head. I murmured encouragement, letting out a sharp contented sigh when he hit the right combination of spots.

"Oooh, Papi." I sighed again. "Treat Mami right."

A slow, warm orgasm built up and washed over me and I shuddered a little.

He raised his head, leaning up and over to kiss me. I returned the kiss, as gently as he wanted. This night was not going how I had assumed that it would, but with every passing minute I was more comfortable with the idea of playing a part that he wanted, letting him take the lead.

He wanted to go slow, so we'd go slow.

We kissed for a long time, caressing each other, stroking skin, tasting, moving together. His erection a reminder of unfinished business. But every time I touched his cock, he lifted my hand away, directing me to attend to some other part of him. And he did the same with me, freely touching my breasts, stomach, and legs, but avoiding my pussy.

His method worked; every time he brushed past the places I wanted him to touch, the more I craved the touch he was giving me. Every place he kissed me lit a spark in the dozen other spots he could have been kissing. I heard myself moaning, felt myself getting more desperate to feel the weight of him on me.

Finally, after he'd been sucking my nipples until I almost came again, he eased off. He held my hands as he stood, guiding me upright too.

"Bed's in there." He said, nodding to the door next to the bathroom. "Wanna get more comfortable?"

"No, Papi. I don't wanna get comfortable. I want this." I wrapped my hand around his penis, giving it one long gentle stroke. "Don't make me comfortable. Make me moan."

He grinned like I'd offered him a million dollars. "Ok, Mami."

He led me into the next room and I climbed onto the bed slowly, showing him all my angles. Kneeling with my back to him, I spread my legs and put my head down, pressing into the soft blanket and arching my back. Showing him how flushed and wet I was. Showing off for him. Because that's what he wanted.

"Yeah, Mami. Show me what you got."

"Yeah, Papi. You like what you see?"

A strange expression flickered over his face, and again I wondered if he thought he hadn't said that out loud. But it was me who hadn't realized what was going on.

I rolled over, onto my back, lifting my legs high and wide in the air. I grabbed my breasts and squeezed them.

"Come get me Papi. Come take me."

He climbed on with me, stretching out between my legs, kissing while rubbing his whole body up against me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, used my heels to try to push him lower, onto me, into me.

He entered me slowly, so slowly it was almost excruciating. I'd gone to the bar prepared for something rough, dirty, and quick. He wanted none of that. He eased into me fully, and started gliding, pumping at a steady pace, rocking his whole body.

I felt myself resisting at first, wanting to urge him to go faster. I wanted it over and done with, beneath him, I'd started to wonder what I was doing, why I was doing it. A nagging echo of a voice in the back of my mind reminding me that this was not how I acted, this was not who I was.

But as I arched into him and grabbed at him, I saw the expression on his face, the joy and something close to disbelief that he was getting exactly what he wanted.

"Oooh, Papi. You're so big. You're filling me up. Aye, Papi, you big man."

I couldn't believe the words or the tone of voice. Who was I?

But that seemed to trigger something in him.

"Yeah, Mami. Yeah, chica. I'm your big man. Your big daddy?"

I nodded and grinned. "Fill me up, Papi."

Then something happened that I can't explain. He started thrusting harder, and faster, and with every thrust his cock actually did feel bigger. From something just under average, he seemed to grow, and grow some more, getting heavier in me and hitting more of the right spots at once.

I breathed more encouragement, with each pulse, praising his size and his stamina. I said I could feel his heavy balls swinging and bashing my thighs, and then I did feel just that.

Each thing I said ramped him up, and he started responding telling me that he was stuffing me, telling me that I was his for the taking.

He started talking about how big his orgasm was going to be.

"Get ready, Mami. I'm about to blow."