Forbidden Fruit

To begin, Allison had a particularly maddening, though thoroughly understandable way of talking around the issue without stating what she felt outright. There was appeal; there was mutual desire, but I think she was trying yet again to talk herself out of it. Women often self-sabotage this way, for reasons I have never been able to fully understand. This is so often the pattern, the modus operandi for many young women. I've never thought it was fair to either party.

In part, her distance from me was purely strategic and practical--she knew I was "forbidden fruit." I was theoretically taken but had curiously lavished her with the kind of male attention she wasn't used to receiving. Allison wasn't quite sure how to take it. She enjoyed it, clearly, but it never made her smile or flush with pleasure. At times, she could be a suspicious, heavily critical woman, emoting the bitterness of the unwanted and long passed over.

We'd reached a point where we text messaged multiple times during the day, in a manner that I was sure connoted a mere friendship, though I received mixed messages all the time. Were we more than friends? Her ways were always inscrutable. She'd begun by suggested we meet for drinks.

Since I'm a teetotaler, that wasn't an option, but I opted for a nice safe choice downtown. We ate and talked for a long while at a good old fashioned American comfort food restaurant that wouldn't have strained her pocketbook or mine. And there we began to converse and to really get to know one another. That was how things really got going.

As we strode down city streets, she mentioned a competition she'd been in before, years earlier. It'd had something to do with dating, some low rent version of that 90's MTV show "Singled Out", which introduced the world to Jenny McCarthy. A random male had the option of selecting from any number of available women, and though she was sure he was out of her league and would surely pick someone else, he'd amazingly opted for her, instead. It wasn't difficult to discern what she meant in bringing up the anecdote. How I could possibly be interested in her? How could anyone be interested in her?

Quite easily, in fact. Granted, she was not a beauty. Maybe she held onto a few more pounds than most women did, but that didn't discourage me. It was her brain I was interested in, more than anything else. We lived in a city where brainy people congregated, and it seemed like everyone wore eyeglasses. The only thing that embarrassed me a little about her is that she found underwear utterly optional, which I know in the proper context might have been a turn on, but in this situation, it was a liability.

She wore loose-fitting jeans out of a kind of stubborn defiance to the world, which meant she regularly exposed her ass crack to the entire world when she bent over. Hers was a particularly broad derriere and the crack itself was quite prominent. I managed to ignore it for the most part and wondered why she never bothered to change her ways. Some men would have found it gross and off-putting. Indeed, I think more than a few had. A part of me wanted to point it out to her but was too polite. I looked up to anyone that willing to be uncompromising. Maybe if we became regular sexual partners, I could request that she make a few mild cosmetic changes.

And she was certainly opinionated, too. Hers was a particularly caustic sort of attitude, even spiteful at times. She didn't suffer fools gladly, and yet there was a humanizing kind of benevolence to her attitude as well. She clearly meant well but it was obvious the world disappointed her from time to time. I knew meant felt well and our physical and text exchanges were inevitably full of complaints about the outside world. It's nice to have someone with whom to commiserate. It's nice to have someone to be your frustration outlet, a person, as the Brits put it, to moan to a little. No harm there.

My girlfriend at the time was far too emotionally even-tempered to be this world-weary and caustic. So Allison served as the counter-weight to what I wasn't getting at home. My girlfriend was a sweet soul, but at the same time very emotionally stunted. And she was increasingly an absentee figure in my life. Allison had become an important part of my life. I was intrigued. Could I really take Allison to bed? I definitely decided to try.

We decided to meet for drinks again. I nursed club soda while she slowly consumed some kind of mixed concoction. Forgive me for my ignorance. I don't know much about alcohol. And the more she drank, the sillier she got. Eventually she started trying to teach me rudimentary Russian, acting goofy and surprisingly high-spirited. We stared each other directly in the eyes.

The two of us leaned in for a kiss at the same instant. I saw desire well up in her eyes, followed immediately by guilt. "No need for that, baby," I said, soothingly, with great emphasis. She was clearly shocked and flustered from the experience, unsure of what to say. This was a brand-new response. Her guard was down, along with her defenses.

I was very direct with her. "My girlfriend is out of town. She stays out of town for days at a time now. It's obvious we both want each other. You're here now with me and it's patently clear that these feelings are mutual."

Her eyes could not meet mine.

"You haven't done this much, have you, Allison?"

She looked down in shame.

I was adamant. "No need for that, either. This isn't another competition. I'm not judging you. Not a bit. This will be a highly pleasurable act between two people with much to gain. Stop worrying! Follow my lead. And don't worry about not measuring up. Your body will be your guide."

She was so nervous she had started to physically shake. It wasn't like her to go suddenly mute. Drawing five words out of her was going to be challenging from here on out, so I decided heading quickly to my place was probably the most sensible option.

We entered my predictably empty bedroom. My girlfriend had spent thousands of dollars on one of those expensive Sleep Number beds. It was her money, but these days she wasn't exactly around enough to make much use of it. We might as well give it a whirl.

I handed Allison the controller. "Lie over on the left side. I'll show you how this works. Have you ever used one of these before?"

She shook her head from side to side, indicating no.

"It's pretty simple. First, turn it up fairly high, lie down on your side of the bed, then lower the air pressure until it reflects your preferences."

She complied, inflating the mattress, stopping somewhere around 35. I knew from habit that 25 was where I was most comfortable. She lowered her level down around 20. I remember, and the memory amused me momentarily, how the man who sold my girlfriend the bed warned us that being too aggressive in bed might damage it. Somehow, I didn't think we'd reach the heights of passion in an intense way today.

I climbed on top of her, seeking to soothe her nerves as best I could. She averted her eyes from mine, but gently, ever so gently, began to rub my back through my t-shirt. I kissed her again, square on the lips, and she kissed back. My hands trailed downwards to the end hem of her t-shirt, lifted underneath the fabric, and began to slowly make their way up her stomach to her bra-clad breasts.

They were large and generously sized. With great purpose my hands grabbed whole handfuls, making sure to tweak each nipple between thumb and forefinger. She gasped, as though momentarily electrified. She next let out a huge gulping sigh, which to my eardrums as somewhere halfway between release and desire.

Now suddenly an active player in the proceedings, she quickly lifted her t-shirt off. We kissed for two full minutes and I was surprised at what a quick learner she turned out to be. I moaned myself as she slipped a tongue into my mouth, while she started to involuntarily grind her torso and legs against my now very erect cock.

I swiftly pulled my own t-shirt off, revealing a hairy chest that she caressed with both hands. We continued kissing with great passion. Lips made their way down the right side of her neck. She moaned aloud. Shortly thereafter, she reached behind herself to unclasp her bra, sliding it off her shoulders. They were very attractive, probably her best feature, with well-defined, darkly-tinted, massive areolas, and large tits.

Still squeezing each breast between my hands and fingers, I continued my passage due south. Her pants were so loose fitting that in all of the physical contact we'd already experienced, they were currently hanging halfway off of her ass. It didn't take much effort to undo the metal clasp, slide the zipper to six o'clock, yank the cuffs down, and reveal a hairy, fleshy pussy. Much like her patent refusal to care about who saw her butt crack, it wasn't surprising to me that she'd never much seen any reason to trim or groom her pubic hair. It was copious, wildly scattered, and dark black.

Locating her clitoris was somewhat of an effort for a time, as thick as her bush was, but with firm licking I did find it, and proceeded to seek to push her over the edge. I could tell this was a new experience for her—she ground her ass into the bed's mattress at first, an action somewhat like dancing the twist, rotating from side to side a little, as if the process tickled her a little bit. But very quickly she found she enjoyed the sensation quite a lot and stopped squirming.

Within minutes, she experienced her first orgasm of the night, likely the first caused by someone other than herself, climaxing the exact way you'd expect from a born tomboy. Now totally into the moment, she let out a few choice, mostly incomprehensible syllables. "Huh! Huh! Huh! UGH! Yes!" It looked and sounded for all the world like an exorcism. And as she climaxed, her eyes rolled back into her head. As she did so, her back arched sharply, she rose up bodily, and then collapsed hard against the mattress.

I couldn't help but smile. "So you like that, huh?" I teased her a little, with a hint of cockiness in my voice. She reached both hands around my neck and pulled me tightly to her, in a kind of quiet desperation. "Thank you," she whispered. We rested a little before I got curious to further this experiment a little more. It had turned out this well already. Who could predict how good actual fucking might be?

"Let me catch my breath first," she said, eyes now pleading with me. I couldn't resist. I kept up with the teasing. "So I take it you've learned how to talk again, babe?"

I could have gone a second round with her using only my tongue, but I was Impatient. Part of me wanted her to experience something very different. I placed my erect member in front of her slick folds and began a very, but persistent slow slide inward. The instant I was balls deep insist her, which happened in all of two seconds because of how wet she now was, she let out an enthusiastic "Fuck yes!"

Knowing she was new to this, I started a methodical, but effective rhythm, in and out. In and out. After all, I didn't want her to completely pass out in front of me.

She was now sweating profusely, eyes closed, holding on to my back for dear life. I'm good at dirty talk and I let my mind run wild as I whispered filthy things to her, directly into her right ear. The effect produced made her wetter and slicker, her breath heavier and heavier. I grabbed onto her generous thighs, tilted her slightly backwards, and kept fucking her with great deliberation. Orgasm number two quickly followed. This time she sounded a little like a sneeze crossed with a seizure.

"Baby, baby, baby," she said, pushing me away from her, grateful, but clearly spent. "This is wonderful, but it's all I can take." I was disappointed, but grateful for the opportunity to be her first time. I'm glad she enjoyed herself. I envisioned multiple sessions following that one. But after that experience, our relationship was never really the same.

When she stopped returning my text messages and my phone calls, I knew immediately what was up. She'd started having feelings for me beyond the merely sexual and had decided to terminate all communication to compensate. It's the oldest trick in the book. And I called her out on it, directly. When I read the admission of outright evasion on my smartphone screen, I could visualize her head droop to the floor upon reading my reply. She'd been caught red handed.

She wasn't mad at me. Instead, she was disappointed in herself for taking the easy way out again, with another man. I was retained as a Facebook friend for the next two weeks, but then quietly removed. We never spoke again. I tried looking her up the other day, only to find she had deleted her account. I could locate no trace of her, no matter where I searched. But I'm thankful for the experience we shared together, and there are times I wake up with a nice, sexy dream in my mind, one where we make love again, more than only once this time.