Encounter

Encounter

Kathryn M. Burke

This is the story of how a man invaded my house and had his way with me.

Let me make one thing absolutely clear: I'm no shrinking violet. In fact, I've heard myself called a "tough broad"--but a woman has to be tough in a world still mostly run by men. I'm twenty-eight years old, and I've managed to carve out a good career for myself in the admissions office of a small college here in upstate New York. And I didn't get that way by letting men walk all over me.

Okay, my love life hasn't been so great. Maybe I was a bit wild in college, and spread my legs for more guys than I should have. I'd been raised pretty strictly by my parents, and I suppose I made a bit too much of my first chance of freedom. After college I tried to put that part of my life behind me, buckling down to work and avoiding involvement with men unless I knew they were worth getting involved with.

Well, I made a mistake on that score. I'd gotten engaged to a guy (whose name I refuse to mention here), but almost as soon as that happened he began to get cold feet, and then he just dumped me as the wedding preparations got underway. What is it with men and commitment? Maybe all guys aren't like that, but enough of them are that a woman just doesn't know how to tell the difference between a decent man and a scumbag. The worst part of it was that my own parents thought that my breakup with You-Know-Who was somehow my fault.

This had happened more than a year ago, and ever since then I'd been more spooked about getting entangled with the male of the species than ever before. But that only made me crabby and frustrated. Face it: for most people (and especially for women), work just isn't enough. You need some love in your life.

So there I was, lying awake in bed around 11 p.m. on a chilly Friday night in September. It didn't escape my attention that I'd not had a date that night--or any night for more months than I cared to think about--so it was understandable that I was restless. My parents had helped me buy this small house (one story plus basement), which would have been just right for two people beginning an intimate relationship; but there was no one here but me.

Until there was.

My restlessness had made my senses acute, and beyond the crickets and the rustling of some night-creature in the distance I heard a noise that didn't bode well at all. I could have sworn it was the opening of the French doors that led to my tiny backyard.

A chill went through me. Omigod, had I left those doors unlocked? There had been no sound of breaking glass or a forced lock--and now I recalled with a shudder that, after stepping out into my backyard in my nightgown, I'd found the air so chilly that I'd quickly retreated back into the house--and failed to lock those French doors.

Could someone have seen me and opportunistically made the reckless decision to enter my house to--well, who knows what? I lived in a pretty small town, one that I thought was fairly safe. I didn't hear any footsteps in the house, but anyone who had gotten in wasn't going to announce his presence by clomping around in cowboy boots.

Maybe if I stayed really quiet the guy (why did I assume it was a guy?) would just take what he wanted and leave. Or maybe I was just being paranoid and that noise was the wind or something.

But it was only seconds after I had this comforting thought that the man came into my bedroom.

In the dim moonlight that filtered in through the living-room windows, I could see he was an imposing physical specimen. In fact, at first he was only a shadow that loomed up above me as I lay on the bed. There was a shock of unkempt hair, broad shoulders, a barrel chest, muscular biceps and forearms, and large but surprisingly delicate hands.

I swallowed. This was my worst nightmare--a woman's worst nightmare.

Incredibly, the guy turned on the lamp on my nightstand, not caring whether I saw him or not. Clearly, he wanted to see me.

I have to admit, he was good-looking. Why such a ridiculous thought would have entered my mind at that moment, I don't know; I suppose we're all trained to judge people by their appearance. His face was slightly bedewed with perspiration, and there was an unreadable expression on his face: a mix of excitement, regret, apprehension, and even fear.

Was he as afraid of me as I was of him?

Strong as I like to think I am, I knew I was no match for this guy if it came down to any kind of struggle. Few women have the strength to take on a man all by themselves. And the fact that he wasn't just snatching up whatever few valuables I had in the house made it pretty clear to me that his goal was something entirely different.

"Please," I said, in a voice I wished wasn't so full of dread, "don't hurt me."

His reaction to that feminine whine was curious. He first gazed down at me as if puzzled, then actually frowned as if I'd offended him somehow.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said.

Well, that was something. I was momentarily relieved, or at least a little more confident that I'd come out of this encounter with my life and body more or less intact. I made myself stare at his face and the rest of his body so that I could remember his features as accurately as possible when I reported him to the police.

"Just take whatever you want and go, okay?" I said, trying to sound firm and in charge.

Again he scowled at me. "I don't want your stuff," he said.

My heart sank. So now it was perfectly clear what he wanted.

He approached me and, in a strangely reverential manner, as if unveiling a much sought-after prize or present, he pulled my nightgown off over my head.

I instinctively covered my breasts and my pubic area with my hands, although that gesture did little to prevent this man from gazing raptly at my naked form. His eyes widened, as if he himself couldn't believe how much beauty he had uncovered.

I won't say I'm the world's loveliest female, but I take pride in my appearance. I work out a lot, so I have a nice, flat stomach and reasonably strong arms and legs (for a woman). As for those parts that are of particular interest to men--well, a bra size of 36D made me pretty popular in college, as did my sculpted bottom and my fur-covered delta. At that moment my mind was suddenly filled with the images of all the men who had sampled my wares with full satisfaction.

As for this intruder, he knelt down beside my bed, scanning my frame as if he'd never seen anything like it. He didn't make any attempt to touch me. Instead, after some moments he leaned forward and planted a brief kiss on my mouth.

That was just about the last thing I expected. If this guy really wanted to get crude physical pleasure out of me, this wasn't exactly the way I thought he'd start. That kiss was soft as a butterfly's wing, and the tenderness of his lips against mine made my heart skip a beat. The kiss lasted only a fraction of a second, and I saw the man's eyes shine after it was over. Maybe my eyes were shining too as I stared back at him.

Since I was still covering my chest and abdomen, he placed his head on my stomach and began kissing it, even flicking his tongue over it. A little shiver went through me. I suppose I should have been horrified and revolted at this unwanted contact, but I couldn't help sensing that there was real feeling behind it. It was as if he had known me for years and was renewing acquaintance with my body after a long interval of separation.

Now he reached a hand out and took hold of mine, the one covering my delta. With the gentlest pressure he moved it away--and, parting my legs, buried his head in my pussy.

Yes, I was wet. Can you blame me? After so many men had coupled with me earlier in my life, I had experienced a sexual drought that for me was unprecedented. And here I was, naked in front of a man who was totally unknown to me, but whom I now didn't feel was truly threatening--and one who apparently desired me for myself, not because I was some generic woman whom he could dominate.

Anyway, he was good at what he was doing.

He had clearly done this before, as he began by gently using his lips and tongue to open my labia and allow access to my clitoris, which must have been swelling right in front of his eyes. He also took hold of my bottom with both hands, squeezing and stroking it in a way that I've always liked. Then, as he detected my wetness pouring out of me, he picked up the pace of his licking and nuzzling, sometimes sticking his tongue as far into my vagina as he could.

I don't need to tell you what happened. I came.

There's no doubt about it: it's so much better for someone else to make you come rather than having to do it yourself. Aside from the humiliation inherent in self-pleasuring (a brutal realization that you don't have someone to do this for you), you can just glory in the sensation while your partner focuses exclusively on making you happy. This is especially the case when--as happens so rarely (isn't that right, ladies?)--the man is really skilled at the task. And this man clearly was. Even as I began to tremble all over, especially in my legs, he continued to nurse that orgasm by repeated lickings that made me feel as if I was on some endless roller-coaster ride of ecstasy. I felt a curious reluctance to cry out (as I usually did when I was alone), as I sensed a deep embarrassment at having this perfect stranger elicit the most intimate response possible from me. But after my climax kept on surging over me, I couldn't help moaning and groaning and even letting out a pathetic whimper or two. I think my eyes rolled around in my head as I felt dazed and confused--and toward the end I stuck my tongue out of my mouth as I completely gave way to the incredible sensation, not caring what he thought of my shameless display.

After I finally settled down, I saw him gazing benevolently at me. He said, "Did you like that?"

I was so mortified that I couldn't look him in the face. "It was... very nice," I mumbled.

I'm aware that that was a pretty weak response, but he seemed pleased by it, beaming at me as if he was my father and had just heard I'd received an A on a tough exam.

But it was pretty clear to me that we weren't done. He stood up and, with a strange shyness, turned around while he stripped. That allowed me to get a good look at his back (after he removed his T-shirt) and butt (when he peeled off his shorts). What I saw made me gasp. This was one spectacular specimen of masculinity--I hadn't seen anything like it since my college days, and perhaps not even then. I found that firm, sculpted bottom particularly hypnotic: I just couldn't take my eyes off of it. I scolded myself for being so superficial--just like so many men who are interested only in a woman's tits and ass--but there was a sublimely aesthetic pleasure in the sight of that gorgeous derrière, as if it was an exquisite piece of Greek art that I was gawking at in a museum.

Then he turned around, and my jaw dropped.

I'm not talking about the succulent musculature covering his shoulders, arms, chest, and thighs, although that was impressive in itself. I don't know why women go so gaga over male muscles. I think it's a very primal sensation going back to caveman days, when females needed a strong male to protect them from wild animals and such. But for any woman there's always a bit of fear in such a sight: this guy could have lifted me up off the floor with one hand, and that very thought made me seem weak and inferior next to him. I should have been humiliated by such a realization, but somehow it was strangely comforting.

But no, I'm not referring to his physique; I'm referring to that nine- or ten-inch cock that he sported--one that was so fully erect that it stood straight up against his groin and was actually quivering with anticipation.

I licked my lips as I kept my eyes fixated on that monstrous phallus. He approached me slowly, bringing his body close to my head; and I instinctively opened my mouth to take in as much of that piston-rod as I could. I have to say, it felt good in my mouth. Its warm hardness was slike no other part of the male or female anatomy, and the latent power of the thing--the power to tame a woman, and the power to produce new life--was awe-inspiring.

But, although he was happy for me to suck him for a while (during which I didn't fail to take hold of his bottom with both hands, shivering at the feel of those robust cheeks), I knew he wanted more. After several minutes he pulled away and climbed onto the bed--and onto me.

I instinctively opened my legs to accommodate his form: it was something my body seemed to do without my conscious thought. I figured he'd just plunge right into me, and was bracing myself for the feel of that giant member burrowing into myself after more than a year of enforced celibacy; but, even though his cock brushed against my labia, getting coated with the juices that were still flowing out of me, he paused and said somberly: "May I?"

How courteous of him! He hadn't asked my leave to enter my house, but he felt the need to receive my explicit permission to probe my body. I now realized that I wanted him to probe it, so I said, "Yes."

And so he went into me.

Even though he proceeded slowly, perhaps aware that it had been a while since I'd accommodated one of these things (especially one of his size), I still felt more filled up than I ever had before. I could sense every inch of him slide into me, and it was almost as if his entire body was entering me, making me feel replete in a way that no man can possibly understand. I understood at that moment how fundamentally unequal the sex act is: a man always puts his organ into a woman; a woman never puts any part of herself into a man. That's just the way nature designed it, and on this particular occasion it never felt more right and fitting.

Once he was in pretty much all the way, he began pumping. He didn't neglect stroking my shoulders, breasts, back, bottom, and thighs as he did so, and he also rained kisses all over my face and neck; once he gave a swift flick of his tongue to my armpit. As for me, there was no way I could prevent my body from falling into the customary position of the female, wrapping my arms around his strong back and hooking my legs over his thighs. I felt united with this man in a way I'd never felt with anyone else (and, as I've said, there had been many)--it didn't matter that I knew next to nothing about him. We had established an intimacy that would be eternally present even if, after he finished, he walked away and I never saw him again.

And when he came, his very grunts and groans seemed full of meaning as he pressed his lips against mine until the many dollops of his discharge finally came to an end. I felt that no one had ever poured so much of his seed into me before. After he was done, he almost crushed me with his dead weight as he pressed his body onto mine without bothering to prop himself up by his elbows. But somehow I didn't mind the feel of him on me; in fact, I welcomed this warm, living blanket covering me.

But finally I said, "Could you please get off of me now?"

He did, but in the process of rolling over onto his back he took me with him, dumping me on top of himself so that our intimate contact was uninterrupted.

I didn't mind that either, but it hindered me from thinking of what he had actually done. There's a particular word I could use, but I won't use it: the circumstances didn't fit at all. He had no intention of dominating me, of forcing me, of making me bend to his will. As he continued to fondle my back and bottom and kiss me gently on the cheek and neck, I knew that there was tender emotion in every stroke and every kiss. How could I possibly be angry or outraged at what he'd done?

But I did want to settle one point.

"Why me?" I said.

He seemed in a bit of a daze, or maybe he was getting sleepy. Men do that after sex, you know. In an incoherent mutter he said, "Wha'?"

"Why me?" I repeated. "What led you to pick me out of all the women in creation? Was it just because I left my French doors unlocked? That is how you came in, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "But it was more than that."

"What was it, then?"

It took him a while to say, "I saw you at Wegman's."

Wegman's is the big supermarket in this area. "Wegman's?" I cried. Then my memory finally clicked. "You're a cashier there?"

"Actually, I stock the shelves. But I'm taking business school. I want to better myself."

Right now I wasn't concerned about his career plans. "You've seen me there?"

"Yeah."

"And you...?"

"You're so beautiful," he said, grimacing almost in pain. "So lovely, so sweet."

"Oh, come on--you can't tell what sort of person I am. You've never spoken a word to me. How did you know I wasn't married?"

"No ring on your finger."

Touché. He was observant, at least. I fell silent, thinking of my recent past.

But he pursued the matter himself. "Why aren't you? A wonderful person like yourself?"

"Thanks for the compliment," I said acidly. "I almost got married, but the guy bolted."

"Stupid son-of-a-bitch!" he said with unexpected vehemence.

"Yeah, that's about what I thought."

We fell silent, as I tried to blot out from my memory the thought of my good-for-nothing ex-fiancé. That was just about the last thing I wanted to think about right now, although I couldn't help chuckling if he could see me now, having been supremely satisfied by a man whose male endowment was considerably larger than his.

Speaking of that, I couldn't help noticing that he was reviving. It didn't surprise me.

"Something's happening down there," I said dryly.

"Yeah," he said, almost apologetically.

"You want some more?"

"Yeah."

Not the most eloquent of men. "Well, okay, go to it." Yes, that's right: I did want him in me again.

But he made no move to roll me over onto my back. Did he want me to ride him? I do enjoy that position: it makes me feel a bit more in charge than most other positions, where the man pretty much runs the show. But I had an inkling that wasn't it.

"What's the matter?" I said.

I should have guessed what he was about to say, especially since he had begun to rub my bottom harder and harder in the last few minutes.

"Can I go in back here?" he said, almost afraid of what I'd say.

I sighed heavily. "You want to do that?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I like it."

"So you've done it before."

"Just a few times. Have you?"

Ah, there's the rub! I hated to admit it, but I said, "No."

"Your guy...?"

"Oh, he wanted to, and others have too. But I've always kept that part of my body unsullied by the male organ."

He seemed utterly crestfallen. "You don't want to try it?" he said, hoping against hope.

I began feeling something indefinable about him. He was such a naïve, earnest young man. Maybe he was only a few years younger than me, but there was a curious innocence about him in spite of what he'd just done to me.

I sighed. "All right, we can try it. But I need to be lubed up. No way I'm doing this without lube. Go find something in the medicine cabinet."

He almost flung me off of himself in his eagerness to dash out of the bedroom and into my tiny bathroom. I heard him rummaging around in there, and he came back with an amusingly triumphant look on his face. He was holding a little blue jar.

"That's what you want to use for lube?" I said.

"Yeah. I think it'll work well."

"Okay, you're the expert."

I flipped myself over onto my stomach and waited for him to apply the cold, wet stuff to my posterior. I wriggled a bit as he did so: it's not every day that you get cold cream slathered over your anus. He took care to slip a bit of it all along the rim and even inside a little ways. It pays to be thorough!