Contrast Ch. 03

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Nooners and music, but what about names?
8.5k words
4.81
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Part 3 of the 4 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 01/10/2015
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Author's Note: The story's definitely shaking out to be four chapters, so there's one more after this one.

For anybody playing catchup: After a chance street meeting, a kind-of-meek white guy and a part-time-college black woman go back to her place and fuck like weasels. Then they agree to begin a just-for-sex, no-names relationship. Their first weekend disappears in a blur of sex. When it ends Sunday afternoon, they try to figure out their schedules, settling on a series of lunch-hour trysts as the only way they can get together most of the week. They decide they have to skip Monday entirely.

*****

Him

Tuesday, I'm waiting in the lobby of the building I texted her about, trying not to tap my foot, trying to nod casually when patients come in the front door and pass me on their way to the primary care practice or the lab office here at ground level, or to the elevators. There's an open flight of stairs on one side of the lobby, and a big potted plant I think about hiding behind so no one will wonder who the pervert is hanging around these medical suites with a hard-on. It's 11:02 when she shows up, backpack across one shoulder.

"Sign out front says there's gynecologists in here?" she asks, thumb toward the door behind her. "I hope you're not planning to get me in some stirrups. Big-time turnoff."

My nerves disappear the second I see her, washed away by heat. She's in a black top with long tight sleeves and a swooping neckline, over a black-and-copper chevron skirt that hugs her curves. Moving in close, I pull her to me and say into her ear, "No, I picked it for the parking garage. My car's on the fourth floor in a dark corner. You up for semi-public car sex?"

It ought to sound cheap and tawdry, saying that. I ought to expect her to go cold, wrinkle her nose. Instead, she does what I somehow knew she was going to do, which is to press herself even tighter to me and give a sexy growl.

"Only problem with that," she hisses, "is getting outside and to the car before I rip your clothes off and go down on you. I bet the men's room on the OB/gyn floor is closer and emptier."

"Fuck, you are nasty." I pull back and look to see if she means it. The expression on her face is completely serious. Completely ravenous, too.

Then she's tugging me by the hand over to a directory near the elevators, the kind with individual slots for changing out the occupant of each office if somebody moves. All the gynecologists' suite numbers start with "2."

"Whatcha think, stairs or elevator?" Her hand is still in mine while she asks. I like how it feels.

"Well, the stairs - too exposed. Somebody will definitely see us. And the elevator's probably got a camera in it, plus that's an awfully short ride to -"

She clenches her hand around mine, just shy of hurting, and then for good measure she knocks the side of her sandaled foot against my loafer. "Asshole. Come on, then. I don't want to wait on the elevator just to go up one floor."

The stairs make a carpet-muffled drumroll as she tows me up them, fast, some of the steps two at a time. There's a pregnant lady with a stroller waiting in the elevator lobby as we get to the second floor. I try to smile casually when she glances over at the two of us rumbling off the stairs, but her expression looks disapproving.

Is it that obvious what we're up to? Or maybe she's against interracial dating?

We steer our way around her to the floor's beige central hallway, where a double-arrowed sign tells us the restrooms are in the same direction as suites 211 to 220. The hand in mine and the ass and thighs in that zig-zag black-and-copper skirt quickly make me forget the priss-faced pregnant elevator-waiting chick. There's no one in the hall we're rushing down, and even better, it takes a bend at the end, with the restrooms around the corner. We're completely out of sight. She pulls me to her and grinds that body up against mine and locks her lips across my mouth. The way her tongue feels, urgent and probing, shoots adrenaline through my entire body.

It takes her breaking away and pointing her chin at the men's room door for me to remember we're on a schedule. I duck my head in, listen, see that the stall doors are all open.

"Ready?" I ask with a grin.

"You have no idea," she says.

Then we're in, arms around each other, lips merging and gliding, bodies half-dancing and half-stumbling our way across the tiles to the backmost stall. The place has nice bathrooms, granite-tile walls or fake stuff good enough to fool my sex-glazed eyes, with stalls enclosed floor-to-ceiling, no more than a two-inch gap at the top and bottom of the doors. Once we're in the big handicap-friendly one with the lock in place, the visual isolation is perfect, and all we'll have to do is shut up and keep still if we hear the restroom door open in the middle of things.

Yeah, shut up and keep still in the middle of things. Wanna bet that's going to be a lot harder than it sounds?

"Okay, fuck," she says quietly, after she's hung her backpack from the stall door's coat-hook, "how we gonna do this? Right off the bat, I am not getting on my knees in here to blow you."

"Not a problem," I say, pointing at my seam-straining erection. "My coffee stirrer is way past needing foreplay. But I'm good kneeling if you want some."

Her head shakes and she hikes her skirt to get at the panties underneath, wriggling loose from them in a flash, one hand keeping the chevron fabric up where it lets me see the black curls of her bush and the hint of labia peeking out below.

"That kiss would have done the trick even if I hadn't been getting myself all hot and bothered on the ... way over here." She drapes her underwear over the top of the backpack - I guess not trusting the coat-hook to be clean enough. "Why don't you drop 'em and have a seat, and then I'll turn around and have a better seat."

"Kiss me again first," I say, stepping close and grabbing the hem of her skirt to keep it up.

Her hands are on her hips. "Okay. But bitch wants some cock in her, so make it quick."

When I put my mouth to hers, though, the bossy swagger disappears and she melts a little, though her hands stay at her waist. I move my palms around to her bare ass and she melts a little more, groaning around my tongue. Then apparently she can't take it anymore, and I feel her grab hold of my belt buckle and get it open. Pretty soon my pants are down and my cock is in her hands, teased and toyed by her stroking.

"You ready to sit down?" she croons.

"Uh-huh."

I use the aluminum side-rails to ease back and down, slow enough that I don't pull away from either her lips or her hands. She keeps kissing me and jacking me until I'm on the throne, and instead of feeling sullied and sordid at the prospect of a toilet fuck, I really do feel like some kind of king.

Breaking the kiss, she keeps her hands in motion around my shaft, sliding one from root to tip and replacing it with the other, like she's pulling in a rope. Her eyes are carnivorous, and the angle she's leaning at gives me a perfect view of her mahogany cleavage in that tight black top. But I swear there's something on top of the hunger in that stare, too. Something deeper, more vibrant, more encompassing. Fuck, I tell myself, do not fall for this woman. You so do not know how to handle a woman like this. Don't tell yourself she wants to be with you, just be glad she wants to screw your brains out.

With my knees wide and my ankles trapped in my pants, it's incredibly awkward getting at my pocket to fish out the condom without interrupting the magic she's working with her hands. But I manage it, and she licks her lips and grins once I have it.

"You're, uh, going to have to stop that for me to get this on," I tell her. But her hands keep gripping and sliding, right, left, right, left.

"I'm having trouble stopping."

Right, left, right, left.

"Jesus, bitch, what am I supposed to make you come with if you keep doing that until I squirt all over your front?"

Her grin just gets bigger. Right, left, right, left. I groan and clench my hands, the left one into a fist around the condom package, the right one in a death-grip on the metal rail in the wall.

Right, left, right, left ... I'm not that close, but if I let myself go with it, I will be, and soon.

She stops, both hands wrapped around my cock, squeezing and relaxing, squeezing again. Her eyes are all over my face. The laugh has disappeared from her smile, replaced by ... what? I have no idea what that smile is telling me. But it's deep.

Stop it. Stop telling yourself that kind of shit.

Suddenly, she's standing straight up, hands free and glistening with streaks of pre-cum I've been leaking. She licks one palm, slowly, her gaze still on me.

"Get that on," she says with a flick of her eyes to the condom. I hurriedly rip the packet open and obey her as she runs her tongue and lips along her fingers and switches to the other hand. By the time she's got them both clean, I'm slouched in the hollow of the toilet seat, rubbered rod pointing straight up.

She spins around, hikes up her skirt again, backs into place with a leg to either side of me and her gaze locking on mine over one shoulder.

"Hang onto this for me," she says, indicating the bunched-up skirt about her hips. I do it, freeing up her hands, which go between her wide-set legs, the right hand finding my thigh and the left my cock. Her head drops forward, taking her eyes from my sight as she guides and lowers herself with those hands.

I shift my gaze down to her tilted pelvis and the lips of her pussy, dropping by inches to touch me, to open around me, to swallow me in with a slow, even glide that ends with both her hands on my knees and my lap full of her ass and the beauty of being inside her again blowing my mind.

"Uhhhh," she groans as she takes in the last bit of my dick and settles fully down. The heat and fluid grasp of her cunt make it hard to believe there's a condom between her flesh and mine. Then she starts moving, rocking, and I forget that such a thing as a condom even exists.

"Jesus, stop for a second, would you?"

She freezes. "What, you don't like that?"

"No, no, no," I say quickly. "I'm just going to come like a 16-year-old virgin if you don't let me calm down."

She laughs, and there's relief in that laugh, and it washes away the panic I felt at making her think I wasn't enjoying it. Enjoying her. She wants to please me. It's not just what she can get out of me. God, shut the hell up about that.

"So tell me when you're calmed down enough you'll come like a 16-year-old with a little practice."

"I'm good now. I just had to -"

A perfect, circular motion of her hips makes me gasp.

"Just had to what?" she asks.

My hands clutch at her waist, at the soft black fabric of her top and the softer flesh underneath. "Never mind. Let's just fuck."

"Now you're talking."

She undulates with the muscles of her legs and her lower back, riding me in strokes of glory and hissing through clenched teeth, "Yeah - uhh, that's it, that's it ..."

I try to wrap an arm around to finger her clit, but I'm slouched down and she's leaning forward and all I manage is a handful of her belly, lush and sweet below her lifted skirt. Before I can try to shift for a better angle, she slaps at my wrist.

"I got it," she informs me, still humping powerfully back and forth. "No - ah - no hands ... needed. You wanna touch something, feel free ... to grab a tit or two."

I'm on that in a heartbeat, and then her breasts are surging in my hands as she moves, plush and round, nipples hard enough to feel even through her bra and shirt.

"Oh, bitch, you fuck so good," I breathe, the words barely louder than my roaring pulse. "So good ..."

"Uh-huh. Lemme have this cock. Ah - oh - yes -"

I can hear our sex rattling the hinges of the toilet seat, echoing in gasps off the tile walls. If anyone comes in, they're going to get an earful. I don't think there's any way either of us can stop.

"Ngff! Yes!"

"Aouhh - baby - your cunt ..."

Her thighs are sliding over mine now, slick with sweat from skin-on-skin contact and exertion. I can hear her getting close - I'm not sure exactly how, but I can hear it.

"Yes, you fucking tigress, ride me."

"Oh god ..."

"Yes, do it, get yourself there - I'm right behind you."

"Oh god ..."

Faster and faster, she's trembling with effort and with something else. The nearness of her orgasm makes me glow, builds a rising heat in my belly and in my balls.

"Yes, come on, come on ..."

"Oh ... GOD!"

Her upper body curls forward and she squeezes and throbs around me, every part of her clenched tight as it will go. Grabbing her waist again, I thrust once, twice, each stroke hammering a squeak from her - and then I come, hard, curling forward just like she did so that my chest is flush against her back.

"Shit -"

"Ye-esss ..."

For maybe ten or fifteen seconds, we're clutched together, out of our heads, gasping with the power of our ecstasy. I feel like we're having the same orgasm - that it's one burst of pleasure so large it takes over both our bodies. When we come out of it, she folds forward, panting, head between her knees.

With one more groan, she says, "That would totally be worth getting arrested for if someone came in here and caught us."

"No it wouldn't," I manage between exhausted breaths. "If we got arrested we couldn't come back and do this again tomorrow."

She shakes her head. "Tomorrow I'm fucking you in your car. Only a slut would fuck a guy in the men's room two days in a row."

"So you're saying we'll come back and do this again Thursday?"

That gets me a chuckle.

"No, I was just making an excuse. Next time we come in here, I'm making you screw me in front of the mirror, and if anybody comes in, we're toast."

My cock swells inside her. "I am so going to some janitor supply company or something and buying a 'closed for repairs' sign for Thursday, then."

She's suddenly quiet. I wonder if maybe something's gone wrong. Just about the time I open my mouth, though, she says, "Listen ... can I ask you something?"

Oh, shit. Yes. Yes, anything.

"Uh, sure."

"How long you think we can keep this up?"

There's a pounding in my chest before she even finishes the question. I have no idea what to say. No idea what she wants me to say. In the silence while my brain scrambles for an answer, someone flushes in the ladies' room next door. I feel like I'm spinning down the bowl with that water.

But before I can drown, she steps in and fishes me out: "'Coz I've got to get on the pill if it's gonna be much longer. This condom shit is for the birds."

"Yeah, totally. The pill. I don't know how those prescriptions work, but have them write a big one. However big you can get them to."

She takes a deep, satisfied breath. Her face is still hidden from my view, but I can tell she's smiling.

I smile too. Suddenly the future, at least for a while, isn't just the future.

It's our future.

The idea just about makes me come again.

Her

Car sex in a dark parking garage Wednesday. More bathroom sex Thursday - and he really does get a "closed for repairs sign" so we can fuck in front of the mirrors, with my tits hanging out and way more noise than we ought to make. The store calls me for an extra shift Friday night, and I can't turn it down because there's a copay on the birth-control prescription, which I got by showing up early Thursday to one of the gynecologists' offices at our hookup spot. Saturday morning he's got some thing he can't get out of, Saturday afternoon I shop with Niza, then we hang at my place a while. Thankfully, she's going on a date that night and takes off around four o'clock.

Soon as she's out the door, I get my phone and hit "Fuck-Man" on my favorites. He answers on the first ring.

"Hey," he says. I can't tell from the connection whether it's a casual "hey" or a damn-I-want-to-bone-you "hey," but I want to think he's been sitting there with his phone out, waiting.

"My thing is done," I tell him. "Is your thing done?"

"Bitch, my thing is so done."

I guess it was a damn-I-want-to-bone-you "hey" after all.

"You want to get over here?"

"Would it be creepy if I said I was already waiting at the coffee shop around the corner?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"Yes."

"Next time, wait in my parking lot. If you're gonna be creepy, go all in. Now hang up and get your ass to my place and your dick inside me."

Beep. The line goes dead. I'm glad, because I'm breathing so hard, no way was I going to be able to keep sounding like I had it together.

I spent the whole shift last night wondering if I'd have the guts to ask him his name today. I spent the whole morning masturbating and imagining him calling mine out with his cock going off inside me. I spent the whole afternoon with Niza wondering how she'd react if she knew I hadn't told her a guy was coming over to fuck me the minute she walked out the door.

She's been on me so hard to find a man, maybe after she got done throwing a fit, she'd be happy for me. Yeah, maybe. Until she found out he was a white guy. Then she'd totally wig, and after she settled down, there'd be that look in her eyes, the same one from when she first showed up at the Hilliards' place. The "go-to-hell-because-I-do-not-trust-anybody-in-the-whole-fucking-world" look. The "they-said-they-were-putting-me-somewhere-I'd-be-safe-those-goddamnshit-bastards-and-now-they're-putting-me-somewhere-else-and-saying-it-again-so-fuck-you-if-you-think-I'm-listening-to-a-goddamn-word-you-say" look. It took three months sharing a bedroom and talking to her every day to get that look to mostly go away, and a year and a half and us graduating and leaving the foster program and me still sticking by her for it to finally disappear. I do not want to see that look again.

But when the knock comes barely a minute after I call him, I stop worrying.

I want what's on the other side of that door - and if Niza won't let me have what I want, it's time for her to grow up.

Them

Four months in, they've done everything that can be done in every corner of her apartment, every position, every orifice, with most of the foods in the refrigerator and a few of the household appliances. None of it is old, and sometimes they go through three or four bouts of straight missionary in a night with no need to change things up at all. She's been on the pill since week three, by which point they'd gone through almost four boxes of condoms - twelve packs, not the little pocket-friendly three-rubber size.

They are still nameless to each other, supposedly just a cunt and a cock, a pair of legs to be spread and a stiff prick to ride into orgasmic heaven. They laugh and play and grope in between, their conversations almost exclusively about the sex they've had, the sex they plan to have, the sex they've dreamed of having, the gaps in their schedules where sex can be made to fit, and just sex in general. Every few weeks one of them will slide toward the personal - "We're still good this way, right? Just two people screwing?" The answer is always something like, "Shit, we'd be crazy to change anything."

But at work, he can't stop thinking about her face, her expressions, the subtle movements of her lips when she is amused or concentrating or pausing to think about a question. And in class, she keeps imagining where he might be from, what he does for a living, whether he might be having the same kinds of thoughts about her.