Conrad's First Girl Ch. 02

Elsie sat in her pathetically run-down second-hand import, parked in front of an almost palatial Tudor home looming above her at the top of a hill of pristine, suspiciously green lawn on the corner of a swank block in the trendy Seattle neighborhood of Capitol Hill.

What the fuck am I doing?

Everything, everything was telling her to leave. To leave and to never answer another phone call from that man again, to forget she had ever met him. It was all wrong. The way he had approached her at the coffee shop. He was too interested. Too smooth. Too too good-looking. His easy charm made her feel her awkwardness all the more painfully. His thirty-two years made her twenty seem ridiculously void of maturity and experience.

And then there had been that thing—what he had done when she had stupidly let him come in at the end of their first date. He had shocked her. Humiliated her. And yet, when he had left, she had not cried. Even the anger and the embarrassment she had felt all through it faded quickly away and, when she went to bed, the whole scene made her incredibly aroused as she played it back in her mind. And then, thinking about it, she had gotten herself off.

But now, parked in front of his enormous house in her crummy car she felt more painfully than ever how wrong it all was. Everything about him—his cocksure manner, his looks, his age, his money—made her feel weak and vulnerable. And, of course, there was the obvious, painful question. What the hell did he want with her, anyway? She wasn’t really pretty. Not that she thought she was ugly, but, hell, she wasn't completely clueless—a guy like that could do way better. She wasn’t all witty and clever like him. She was intelligent—book smart—but she couldn’t banter and jest the way he did. The way she had seen the artist doing with him at the gallery opening he’d taken her to. What did a guy like that want with a girl like her when even far less attractive, homegrown guys at school never gave her a second look?

Part of her didn’t care. A tiny little part of her, the part that usually stayed obediently buried beneath all her good judgment and diligence and cautiousness, wanted whatever twisted adventure might be in store for her at his hands. The night of their first date had been so strange. The dinner and the gallery opening had been so romantic, so far beyond anything she could have expected, she had hardly dared believe it was not a dream. And then, back at her place, she had been really terrified, for a few moments, that the dream was turning into a nightmare. She had thought, just for a few seconds, that he might rape her. But then he had done that other thing, and now she wasn’t sure whether it had been horrible or incredibly erotic.

Looking up the sweep of verdant lawn, up the steps of the vast, columned porch to the heavy double doors she felt queasy with fear. But then again, the danger itself seemed part of his allure. Yes, maybe he was really a little bit dangerous. And, immersed in her tedious little life of study and work, she wanted the romance of a dangerous liaison. She coaxed herself out of the driver’s seat, closed the door, and began her ascent.

Interminable minutes slogged by after she rang the bell before the front door swung indifferently open and Conrad appeared before her. Already nervous, her anxiety was hiking up in pitch moment by moment, aggravated by the wait, by the intimidating proportions of the door, and then by the cold composure of Conrad’s face. She felt a moment of real panic. Had she come on the wrong night? At the wrong time? Had he invited her over as a joke, only so he could cruelly remind her that she was utterly unworthy of his attentions? But then he smiled a warm, if slightly bemused smile and gestured her in.

"So, you decided to go through with it after all."

"With what?"

"With our date this evening."

Two sentences out of his mouth and she was already blushing.

"Of course." She smiled and tried to sound casual, as if there was no implication in his remark.

"You were down there in your car for so long, I imagined you were having second thoughts."

Shit. He’d been watching her.

"No, no. I just didn’t want to be early."

"Ah, I see." It was clear from his tone that he knew she was lying, which was kind of obvious since her indecision in the car had made her over ten minutes late. "Well, in any case, I’m glad you’re here. Why don’t we go outside, into the garden, and have a little wine."

He led her over darkly gleaming hardwood floors through a foyer, through a sitting room, through a dining room toward French double doors.

"Your home is beautiful." She had never been in such a richly, immaculately masculine house before.

"Thank you," he answered simply with his characteristic ease.

The double doors opened onto a large, ornately landscaped garden the likes of which she had only seen represented by glossy photos in magazines and coffee table books. In a secluded corner, under a magnificent flowering tree was a small wrought iron table with two chairs, one of which he pulled out for her. He sat down next to her and filled her glass from a bottle that sat open on the table before them, then filled his own glass.

"Cheers," he said, raising his glass and clinking it lightly against hers.

"Cheers," she mirrored back, still nervous.

She took a sip as he watched her, smiling a small, roguish smile. Jesus, he was so beautiful. Cloudy green eyes and fair skin a lovely contrast to his dark, close-cropped hair. And that mouth. How she ached to be kissed with those soft, full lips.

"So," he said, still not having put his lips to his glass, "I’ve been wondering, since our last date, whether I was right about you."

"Right about what?"

"Was I right," he purred like a panther, "in surmising that you’ve never had a cock inside of you?"

She felt herself blush one of those mortifying blushes that seem to last a lifetime, where the face turns a deep red, ridiculous red. The sort of blush that perpetuates itself interminably as the initial embarrassment continues in the humiliation of its evidence. She tried to coax her breathing back to normal, and set her jittering wine glass down.

"Well, Elsie?"

"Why ask me things like that?"

Her question was confrontational, but her eyes were focused down on the pattern of the wrought iron table and her voice was a wavering whisper.

"Because you’re so pretty when your face flushes all pink like that. And because it arouses you."

Flattery. More humiliation. He was right.

"Now, Elsie, answer my question. Have you ever had a man’s cock inside of you?"

"No."

She had no idea what had made her answer him when what she should have done is stand up and march back through that fucking mansion, get in her car and never see that rude asshole again. He was chuckling softly.

"I’ve no idea how, dear Elsie, but somehow I knew it. I was quite sure."

Finally he took a sip of wine. She was too nervous not to drink and was afraid that if he abstained that would be one more card stacked in his favor. He was gazing at her steadily. Studying her.

"You’re a virgin."

She felt a little twitch in her lip that seemed to give him his answer.

"And you’ve never given head."

She felt herself saying no with a tiny movement of her head, though she had not really meant to answer him.

"Indulge an imprudently curious man, Elsie. Tell me how it is that a delightful girl like yourself makes it to the age of twenty never having experienced physical love."

It was evident that he was enjoying her discomfort. And maybe there wasn’t anything so strange in that. She could see where someone would feel a certain sense of power in Conrad’s position. What was harder to understand was why that scrutinizing, taunting gaze of his, and all of his unforgivable questions, were making her so terribly aroused. Or why she was so eager to ensure that his expression of smug delight did not fade.

"I don’t know."

"Surely you date."

"Not really. I’m not a very social person."

"Well, then, I count myself lucky to have penetrated your force-field of isolation."

He grinned, a little ironically it seemed to her.

"Come," he said, standing and offering her his hand, "let’s go inside."

A wave of panic crashed over her, even as she took his proffered hand, stood, and walked along with him, back into the huge, dark, empty house. She was afraid of what he would do once they were inside. And she was afraid of what she would do. She didn’t know herself when she was with him.

He took her into a sitting room, the polished surface of dark wood gleaming here and there with the light cast by pale lamps and a modest fire that burned more for ambience than warmth on that temperate night.

He did not invite her to sit. He walked her over, before the fire, and there, moved close until she felt his body against hers. She gazed up at him looking down at her and thought he was about to kiss her. Instead she felt his fingers come softly to her thighs, curling against her legs, walking in place, gathering up the fabric of her skirt, up, up, up, until her legs were bare to his hands. Her breath sped. Her arms hung awkwardly at her sides, not knowing what to do with themselves. He just kept gazing down at her, hiking her skirt up higher and higher, then transferring all those gathered folds into one hand. The other came down, between her legs, only slightly parted in the stance she had landed in as she had stopped walking.

She could have backed away. But she didn’t.

His hand, between her legs, played over her panties. Two or three times at parties in high school she had been touched there, after too many rum and cokes, the boys who felt her up reeking of stale beer. This was something entirely different.

"Tell me something, Elsie."

Just the tip of his finger was taunting her aching little clit with the smallest and softest of motions. And that, that few square millimeters of his finger against her body was their only contact.

"After what happened in your room at the end of our last date, Elsie, did you get yourself off?"

Her face flushed hot. She just stared at him in mortified silence, her skirt gathered up in his hand, his finger making her ache so sweetly between her legs and all through her insides.

"Did you touch yourself, the way I’m touching you now, and make yourself cum, thinking about what I’d done?"

She wanted to run. But then he lifted his finger and she felt panic. She wanted the pleasure back.

"Answer me, Elsie. Did you rub this sweet little pussy of yours and make yourself cum? Thinking of me?"

"Yes."

She could not believe she’d answered him. A gratified smile curled a corner of his mouth. He touched her again and her body’s lax disappointment snapped back to tense, seeking anticipation.

His hand between her legs. Teasing her, terribly softly, over her panties. Just hints of touches. He still looking down at her, she still looking up, their faces a bare inch apart. But no kiss. He was watching her expression as he touched her without holding her, without kissing her. Her body was throbbing and aching under his tiny touches, and that delicious delicate pleasure-pain was bigger, deeper, sweeter because she was so embarrassed at being coolly observed as he made her feel it.

His hand between her legs. Pulling the crotch of her panties aside, slowly sinking a finger in among her yearning folds. Rubbing her, spreading her open, exploring her delicate creases, teasing her super sensitive clit. She moaned and a hot flush of embarrassment spread over her. Then he drove a finger up inside of her, a little preview, a hint of what it might be like to be fucked, something hard filling her, pumping in and out and in and out of her. Fuck, it felt good.

They were still looking at one another, the closeness of their mouths mocking her with the un-given kiss. His finger fucking her, making her body tremble with pleasure and anticipation of that ultimate pleasure. She was close to cumming.

"Do you like feeling that finger in your pussy?"

"Yes," she squeaked.

He thrust in, deeper, harder, driving his hand up against all her swelling sensitive places between her parted thighs. She caught her breath.

"Tell me, Elsie, have you ever tasted yourself?"

Another deep, thrilling ascent of his finger forced another small moan from her. She just looked at him mutely. His finger slipped wetly from her.

"Hmmmm?" he prodded.

He held up the finger that had been inside of her. Even in the dim light it shone shiny and wet before her face. And she could smell herself. She gave a small "no" with a move of her head.

His finger moved and she felt him tracing the contours of her mouth, glossing her lips with the sticky wetness of her sex.

"Taste."

Breathing fast and shallow, wondering how she could be there with that man doing these things, she tasted. Her lips parted, her tongue peeked shyly out and licked its tip over the edge of her upper lip, then retreated back into the safety of her mouth, bringing her salty musk back with it.

"Take it all, Elsie. Lick your lips clean."

He watched as her tongue came back out, and, starting in the corner of her mouth, licked across her upper lip, then stroked back the other way over her bottom lip before sliding away into her mouth.

"I’ll bet you’re delicious."

He glossed her lips a second time, then brought his mouth to hers, running his tongue over her upper lip, then sucking softly on her bottom lip, drawing her taste into his mouth. That, she would recall later, was their only kiss, this night or any other. Then his mouth was off her and he was watching her again as his hand went back down, between her legs, and began fucking her again. The familiar girth of his single finger filled her, fucked her, pumping slowly in and out, then she sucked in her breath as he came into her with two fingers, pushing her open, filling her up, fucking into her deep and slow. She was panting.

"Unbutton your blouse, Elsie."

She hesitated for a moment, but fuck, his hand felt so good down there, and that look on his face, that hungry seeking was so exciting and so…affirming. Her hands shook a little as she brought them to the top button, covered in the floral patterned cloth of her blouse, and worked it through the button hole. He watched her face, not her hands, as she moved on to the next button. Then the next, and the next, until her blouse was undone to the waist.

"Pull it open, Elsie."

His fingers went on pumping rhythmically in and out of her, slow for a while, then a burst of faster thrusts, then slow again, driving deep into her, his hand sliding wonderfully against her lips, massaging her clit. Breathing erratically she pulled the front of her blouse open, revealing the lacy blue bra she had bought for their date, just in case, pretending that she believed he would not really see it.

"I want to see your tits, Elsie. Pull that lace down and show them to me."

She caught herself practically humping his hand. His fingers felt so fucking good inside her, she was on the verge of climax, aching for it, panting in expectation. She bared her breasts for him. They seemed to feel their nakedness. Cold and seeking heat her rosy nipples puckered up for his lips. He did not kiss them, though. He looked her over, then returned his eyes to hers and watched her as he fingered her to the edge of climax. She was right there, an explosion of pleasure imminent as he stroked into her wetness, her pussy swelling tight around his fingers. Slipping out for a second to rub her desperate little clit, then in again, as she pressed herself against him more and more obviously, anxiously seeking release.

"Does that little pussy of yours need to cum?"

Her whole body was rigid with need.

"Hmmm, Elsie? Does your wet little cunt need it?"

Another hot flush suffused her cheeks as she heard his question and, between words, the wet noises of his fingers squelching into her, slurping out of her.

"Yes," she confessed with a whimper.

He took his hand away, leaving her aching, needing. He walked away. Leaving her dumbfounded, standing alone in the center of an ornate rug, her skirt rumpled, her blouse open.

He strolled over to a chair by a window, and turned back toward her.

"Come here, Elsie."

Like an obedient dog she came when he called her, her tits bare and swaying slightly as she walked.

"Take off your blouse and bra."

She shed them without hesitation.

"And your knickers."

She lifted her skirt and slid her panties off. He regarded her with a self-satisfied smile for a moment, then unbuckled his belt, undid his fly and shoved his slacks down to he knees and sank down into the arm chair. She just stood there, gawking. There it was again, his prick, tall and hard. Her cunt throbbed with a dull, insistent ache. She wanted that cock inside of her. But she was scared. Scared of the pain. And, well, this was nothing like the first time she had imagined. This felt so…perverted. And, God, he didn’t expect her to be on top, did he? She didn’t know what she was doing. She wanted him to take her to bed, lay her down, make love to her.

"Put your left knee here," he patted the seat of the chair, just to the outside of his right thigh.

Her heart hammering she did it.

"And your right knee here."

She was kneeling over him now, his stiff prick aimed up her skirt at her throbbing cunt. He grabbed the hem of her skirt and began stuffing it into her waistband, uncovering her sex. Then his hands were on her waist, gently guiding her down until she was sitting on his thighs, his prick rising up between them, a few inches from her cunt. Then, his hands on her ass, he pulled her slowly against him, until the base of his shaft was nestled between her wet pussy lips. She let out a little whimper as his stiff cock pressed against her aching clit and a throb waved through her abdomen. She wanted him to lift her, his hands under her ass, and lower her down on his hard shaft. She was dying to have him inside of her.

Instead his hands abandoned her ass and came up to her breasts, the tips of his two index fingers coming very lightly against the very tips of her nipples and gently rubbing them in the tiniest of motions. She whimpered again as a jolt of sensation out of all proportion to the tiny little touch he was giving her shot down into her crotch. God, her cunt was just throbbing, throbbing. She needed him, his touch there, so badly.

He was playing with her nipples, rolling them gently between thumb and finger, caressing, tugging lightly, pinching, making her writhe and pant. And when she writhed her clit rubbed against his stiff cock and she sighed with the pleasure of that contact she needed so badly.

"Does your wet little pussy need my cock, Elsie?"

He tugged on her nipples, making her wiggle helplessly.

"Ye-yes."

It was going to hurt, she knew, but she wanted it.

"You can rub your cunt against my cock, but don’t take it inside you yet. That’s for later."

Oh, god, what was he doing? He made it sound like he almost didn’t care that her pussy was right there against his dick. Like it was all her, and he didn’t need it, desire it at all.

"Go ahead, Elsie, rub that wet slit over my shaft. I want to feel you humping me. I want you to make yourself cum against me."

He gave her nipples a good pinch and made her jump a little, her twat slipping up then back down the underside of his rigid cock, her clit sliding deliciously against him, promising her a gorgeous climax at any moment. He went on, massaging, tweaking, tugging her sensitive nipples, sending ripple after ripple of needy excitement down into her groin, making her need more and more to rub against him and release herself from this mounting torment.

She gave in slowly, gradually. At first she just relaxed her leg and hip muscles a tiny bit and allowed her body to sink slightly against him, letting her pussy envelop him in a slightly deeper embrace that gave her a hint of satisfaction. Then, each time he gave her nipples a slightly more rousing tug or pinch she would convulse against him and feel an ecstatic thrill shudder through her. Then, finally, her resistance failing her, her embarrassment drowning under a rising tide of need, she began tiny, tiny undulations against him, writhing hesitantly, moving her soft wet flesh over his hard length as he caressed her breasts and teased her nipples.