Contrast Ch. 01

And the sound he's making ... the look on his face, astonishment and release ... and the way his eyes spark with joy when I groan and curve up against him in my own orgasm, clutching him tight, throwing my head back, every muscle in my body contracting at once as the light sweeps out from my crotch through every fiber of my nervous system and makes him and the world and everything disappear until at last I slump back to the mattress, drained and swollen full at the same time. And the way he eases down close, kissing softly at my neck as I shudder and coo.

I did this whole thing to give myself a birthday present. My birthday went pretty crappy, four days earlier. Niza had the flu and ditched out of our girls' night on the town, and between her work and mine and my classes, I'm not seeing her till the weekend at least. So inviting him to follow me home -- once I'd realized he was harmless and not some drooling sleazebag trying to get right up on my ass while we were on that sidewalk together -- it was a feel-better indulgence, a nice little morning fuck, after way too long staying faithful to my vibrator, and then he's gone, happy birthday to me, I get some sleep, do my statistics, go to evening class, work another night shift, life goes on.

Only now, what the fuck?

I really didn't expect it to be so good. I'd been doing my hot-foster-brother fantasy on the bus, working myself up to get off in bed before I'd fall asleep. So I was primed and hot by the time I got him in the bedroom. But it still blew my mind when I tucked that tip down between my lips and he shoved all the way in and filled me completely, totally up. And it blew my mind even more how good he felt jamming into me and against my clit, and how hard I came and how much I wanted to have that again and again and again.

So this one-time whirl, this just-once lust indulgence -- it's not even over, he's not even off of me, his cock's not even soft inside me before I'm asking him to come back and do it again? On a regular basis?

And he's saying yes?

Niza's going to flip out, of course -- only no, I can't even tell her because she'll go ape-shit over me making a white guy my regular fuck after all the brothers she's tried to hook me up with. Hell, she still gives me shit over that asian guy I one-nighted two years ago. Why does that girl have to have so many goddamn issues? But I know why, and she's the closest thing I've got to family, and even if it bugs the fuck out of me that she's whitey-can-go-to-hell racist, she's Niza and it's going to freak me out keeping this a secret from her.

But I'm going to.

I mean, assuming he actually calls me, or answers my call when I call him. And that's an assumption I think is pretty much a lock. He could barely make himself leave to keep from being late to work. He could barely make himself get off my porch and go down the stairs.

And I could barely keep myself from grabbing him and trying to make him stay.

Even now, sitting here with my ass in the carpet and my back against the cold door, he's got me so hot I'm practically ready to stick some fingers up my slit and get myself off to all these roaring, insistent memories of how he fucked me the whole morning long.

In fact, my hand is wandering that direction without me even thinking about it -- when the door rattles with a knock.

What the shit?

I jump up in a half panic. If it's maintenance or something, I can tell them to give me a second to get dressed. But what if it's Niza dropping by to give me my birthday gift as a surprise? She's got a key and she'll come in if I don't answer and the chain is on so she'll know I'm home and when I let her in all it will take is one look -- maybe one whiff -- to tell her I've been fucking somebody. And then what do I say?

I step back away from the door and say, "Who is it?"

"It's me."

Holy shit, it's him. What's he doing back?

I look through the peephole. He's got his eyes down. He looks off-balance. He's holding something.

I get the chain off and open the door, hiding behind it more as a shield from confusion than because I'm naked.

"What --"

He holds out a bag, looks from it to me -- awkwardly to start, then suddenly more sure when our eyes meet. The bag's from the pharmacy.

"Yeah, I went across the street for this so you wouldn't have to go out. You can pay me back later or not, whatever."

I blink for a second and step out from behind the door. If one of the neighbors comes out right now, they'll see me in all my glory, but I don't care.

"Kind of a big bag, isn't it?"

"There's a, ah, couple of giant-size boxes of condoms in there too. I was hoping I could come back and use one on you tonight."

I raise one eyebrow. "Just one condom for the whole night?"

"No," he says, suddenly suave, "one box."

"Ha!" I take the bag. "Well, you're out of luck, 'coz I have ... " No personal details. "... a thing to do tonight."

"Tomorrow night?"

Four to midnight shift. "No."

He's starting to look less certain. He looks my naked body up and down. "I'm guessing there's no way your Friday night is open."

I can't help but smile that he'd think that about me. Especially since I almost never have anything to do Friday nights. Except this one, there's Niza and my late birthday.

"No, I've got plans for Friday." I let that sink in just a second before I add, "Friday I'm gonna be getting my rest so I can screw you all day Saturday. You up for Saturday?"

The sweat breaks and he grins. "How early do you want me here?"

Niza will have me out till two. "Anytime after three a.m. But seven or eight might be better, if you want me really rested up."

"I just plain want you, rested or not." That makes me shiver, then he goes on, "I function better after eight, though. You like doughnuts?"

"They're okay," I say. "But I do like the sound of something with white cream inside and chocolate on top."

"Christ, you're so nasty."

"Just bring some coffee with the doughnuts and I promise I'ma show you how nasty I can be."

"I'll be here."

"I'll be like this," I say, running a hand down my belly to my pubes, burying my fingertips in the hair. "Unless you like it shaved."

"I like it like it is."

For some reason, that makes me smile.

Then he adds, "But if I get to help shave it, we can try it shaved sometime."

I leave the hand in my thatch and put my other one on the doorknob. "Go before I make you come back in and put your mouth down here."

"I'm going," he says. But he doesn't turn away until I start to swing the door shut.

I need to sleep. I'm beat from the night shift and the three hours of workout-quality sex. I still have homework between whatever sleep I get and my bus-ride to class tonight. But none of that stops me from getting my vibrator out and running over every single thing that we did after I fell on the bed and opened my legs for him.

When I finally start to drop off, my last thought is, Holy fuck, my life just got crazy.

Them

He has thought about her at least twice in every waking hour since Wednesday morning. Usually more. Between the constant struggle to maintain his attention and the almost-as-constant anxiety that a co-worker might spot one of his countless erections, work has been a nerve-wracking mess. At home, he's had to set aside his current fantasy novel and write nothing but a string of erotic short stories so that his dick is an accessory to the creative process instead of an obstruction.

By Friday night, he's seriously considering putting on a 2:00 alarm and taking her up on that "anytime after three a.m." offer. But she's so cool and collected, he doesn't dare come across desperate, so he leaves the clock set for seven and when his brain wakes him up at 5:30 instead he forces himself to stay in bed and wait for the buzzer.

At eight a.m., she's sound asleep, having a dream in which Niza hands over her present and she unwraps it and instead of a quart of Bailey's it's him. But then when she jumps on him and starts to grind, Niza freaks and starts trying to pull her off. The second her cunt pops free of his dick, it's spouting cum like a champagne bottle blowing loose, and she's trying to dive under the fountain and catch it in her mouth, and the drops she gets taste just like Bailey's, but Niza's still dragging on her arm and she gets more up her nose and in her eye than in her mouth ...

And there's a knocking sound somewhere that smacks Niza away into the dark corners of dreamland and pound-pound-pounds the waking day into her brain.

"Fuuuck..." she groans with a hand to her head, half-rolling, half-falling out of bed, ending up on her knees before she can get herself upright. Then she realizes what the knocking has to be, and her heart sends a gush of blood to her head that wakes her up enough to panic. She's still in the sweaty, beer-slopped dress she wore clubbing with Niza last night, her breath is a wave of sour dead-and-buried alcohol scent, and God only knows what her hair looks like.

He waits on her doorstep repeatedly stopping himself from biting his lip, from tapping his foot, and most of all from reaching up to knock again. If she's here and awake, she obviously would have heard the first knock, and if she's not awake, or if she's in the shower, he'll just make an idiot of himself banging on the door. Rude ... clueless ... desperate ... take your pick of what kind of idiot.

He's got too much shit with him -- went too crazy at the donut shop. A dozen donuts. A carton of coffee. A drink caddy with a latte and a cappuccino and a bottle of milk and a couple handfuls of sugar packets and three different artificial sweeteners. He had to put some of it down to free up a hand to knock.

She's not here, he thinks. Or she's here, but shit, she all but told you she'd be out till two or three. Eight was too early. Why didn't I say --

The door opens. She's wrapped in a towel, hair back in a ponytail holder but with tons of stray strands jutting out.

She can tell from his expression that she looks like hell. He blinks at least three times without saying anything. He's got a bag from a donut place in one hand, coffee on the ground by his foot. Holy god don't let me scare him off looking like this. Her head hurts. She can feel the red in her eyes. But something in her chest starts burning at the sight of him.

"Jesus, I want to fuck the shit out of you," she breathes, totally forgetting her plan to say she was about to take a shower.

He grins. Whew. That's better.

Leaning down to get the coffee, he says, "Think you could maybe use some caffeine or breakfast first?"

She steps back and pulls the door wide for him. "Yeah, I could probably use that. And you'll probably want me to get cleaned up, too."

On his way past her into the living room, he catches the mix of dense, ripe, bitter, stale, every-excessive-body-smell-but-sex that she's giving off. He doesn't dare agree with her that she needs a shower -- and after a split second of not daring, he realizes he doesn't care. He wants her, and it doesn't matter how she smells. He puts everything on the kitchen ledge, and when she turns from closing the door, he grabs her and pulls her close and gets his lips over hers.

"Mmmmm," she says around his tongue, letting him press her tightly to his chest. The towel is slipping loose, but there's no space between them for it to fall.

She tastes of morning mouth and hours-old booze, but her tits pillow softly against his chest and her hands slide around him, one climbing his spine and the other clutching at his ass to draw him harder against her. Her back, her shoulder blades, and especially her wonderful heart-shaped rump, now free of the towel, give his hands a sensuous landscape to explore as their lips clutch and their tongues explore.

Then, suddenly, she breaks away, towel falling to the floor, breasts swaying gorgeously, the chocolate areolas moving in arcs with each step. With a dip of her nose toward one armpit, she grimaces and clamps both arms to her sides.

"Phweh, I'm a walking bar stank. You really gonna stand it?"

"Uh-huh. Because I'm too hot for you to care. Now come back here." He reaches for her, but she eludes his hands, putting on the half-breed love child of a smile and a frown.

"I've at least got to rinse some of this reek off."

Moving between her and the path to the hall and the bathroom, he says, "Then you're going to have to let me fuck you in the shower while you're washing."

Her resistance evaporates into a grin. "Okay, that I can do."

She stoops for the towel and drags it behind her, watching him over her shoulder as he hops and stumbles after, doffing his shoes, squirming out of his jeans, hoisting his shirt over his head. He leaves the clothes in a trail from the front of the apartment to the bathroom and manages to get there pretty tight on her heels despite the awkwardness of undressing in motion. She's out of his sight only a moment, and as he makes it to the door, he finds her bent low to turn the faucet in the tub, her ass round and boldly pushed back, cunt lips peeking out where her thighs meet.

"You're motivated this morning, huh?" she asks, not rising up, just waving a hand lazily beneath the gushing water.

He strips off his socks, then whips his briefs down to reveal that cock, as pretty as she remembers it and already bobbing up to full erection. "It's been a long three days."

Splash. Splash. Splash.

She lets her ass float up and down with each pass of her fingers through the flow. It's warm now, but she doesn't start the shower yet.

He steps forward, dick pointed straight at her, closing the distance. "God, you're fucking amazing."

Laughing again, she stands up just before he can poke his tip between her ass cheeks.

"Have to wait until I've at least started washing, remember?"

"Well, get in and get the soap, then." But he takes hold of her arm before she can do as he says, and he turns her and his lips are on hers again and they're pressed together, fiery, fierce, the beam of his cock throbbing against her belly, the plush wonder of her breasts shaping themselves to the contours of his chest.

"Fuck!" she says, breaking loose with a groan and backing into the tub. "My mouth tastes so bad, now I can taste it in your mouth. Get your ass in here and help me get cleaned up."

With no argument, he follows her into the tub and pulls the shower curtain forward along its rail. The movement brings him right up against her again. She leans back to the tiled wall, bends a second to pop the shower knob up, then feels his heat and the first cold blast of water cover her at once.

"Damn, bitch, I want to fuck you so hard."

He has her trapped between his lean frame and the tiles, and he can feel a shiver run through her at the word "bitch." He kisses her again, this time without her pulling away. The spray from the showerhead turns hot, the air moistens, their skin grows slick with water.

"Soap," she mumbles through the kiss, one hand slapping against the wall, searching for the ceramic shelf that juts out with its cream-hued body-bar on top. He pulls the arm back down to her side and gets the soap himself, still kissing, now rolling his hips to press his hard-on firmly into the soft slope of her lower belly and the thatch of dark curls that hangs dripping above her crotch.

He slides his lips down her chin, along her jaw, over to her ear, and whispers, "What do I clean first?"

Her hands squeejee up the wet musculature of his back and she breathes, "You pick."

He leans his chest and shoulders back, but not his hips. She feels the insistent, rigid need of his dick against her belly and pubes. Like a puppy with too many toys, his eyes dart from one part of her to the next to the next: face, neck, shoulders, breasts, arm, waist, navel, breasts again. It's hard for her to imagine that he's seeing what she sees every day in the mirror -- a stomach she always thinks pushes out too far, thighs that she can never seem to get as lean or toned as she wants them. She doesn't think she's a whale or anything, but he's looking at her like she's a goddess.

Finally, he lifts his eyes back to hers, takes her left wrist, draws it in an arc up along the tiles until her hand lies flat against the wall almost over her head. He repeats the motion with her right hand. With her arms raised and her shoulders back, the slopes of her breasts protrude as fully as they can from her chest, but he keeps his gaze on her face as he glides the soap slowly up her ribs and into her right armpit, gently circles it there, moves out along her tensed pectoral and down into her cleavage, orbiting her right tit in a spiral that ends with the flat of the bar teasing her nipple.

The dark, mysterious night of her eyes holds him as he switches the soap to his other hand. He can see the rise and fall of her chest quickening as he lathers her other breast and brings his empty hand up into the slick hollow of her armpit, rubbing the film of soap there into a light foam. When he finishes soaping up her left side to match the right, he lets the bar slip from his fingers. It barely has time to clang against the bottom of the tub before his palms cover her slippery breasts, ride down them over her nipples, cup their undersides and raise them, roll them in tender ellipses.

He kisses her again; she brings her hands down onto his shoulders.

The bubbly slick fondling of her breasts continues until she's tingling all over and breaks the kiss and grins at him. "I think those are pretty clean now."

"Guess I need to get the soap back then," he says.

He kneels slowly, hands descending from her tits to the curve of her belly, following its swell, dragging slippery lather with them. A thumb dips into her bellybutton. His left hand stops at her hip as his right searches the tub floor for the soap.

"Back and to your right a little," she says, warm and glad that he can't take his eyes off her to locate the bar, even though his head is now right in the spray and the water is making him blink rapidly. "No, a couple more inches toward the drain."

His hand closes on the soap. There's too much water in his eyes, and his neck is going to crick from staring up at her, so he shuts his eyelids, puts his lips to one of her inner thighs and runs the soap bar up the other. She puts a hand in his hair and the other flat against the wall at her side. His mouth is sealed on the flesh just over her femoral artery, tongue making small circles that are matched a moment later by the soap brushing against her soaking thatch. More and more firmly, he works her pubic curls into a rich white foam, then places the soap bar on the floor of the tub between his knees. With his fingers, he coaxes the silky lather down, and under, until he is rubbing it lubriciously around her clit and outer lips. She's been watching him up to this point, but now she lets her head lean back and her eyes close.

"Mmm."

Releasing the suction of his lips on her thigh, he picks up the soap with his free hand and kisses his way up and over to her dimpled-in navel, which the spray from the showerhead has mostly rinsed free of soap. There, he latches on again and explores the little depression with the tip of his tongue, while his right hand continues sudsing her twat and his left gets the soap bar up into her ass crack.

"Fuuuck ... that feels so good ..." He's tracing his finger around and around her clit, sending heat all through her groin and abdomen. The soap rubs and tickles her asshole. Hormones and electricity connect straight through her core, cunt to throat to mouth. "Uhhhh ..."

His cock is so hard that he's sure if he knocked it into the bottom of the tub, the clang would be as loud as when he dropped the soap.