Green Lady in Pursuit of Happiness

Copyright ©Kingswoman 2015

The other night I met a man while I was out and about -- as you do. For various reasons, I didn't take the opportunity to have a little bit of fun with him, although I would've liked to.

One of the reasons is that, long ago -- and oh so far away, when I was young and vulnerable, a man took advantage of my not being entirely sober. OK, LOL, I was legless drunk and literally couldn't say 'No'; I couldn't articulate a word I was so drunk. Men and alcohol have never mixed easily with me since. I had had a couple (OK three!) glasses of Prosecco before I got to the bar I am telling you about, and I had two of their signature cocktails. When I have drunk that much, I just say No on principle.

There were other reasons why I said No, but other things being equal, sugar, this is what I would've liked to have said. Hope you don't mind my taking this way to tell you that, were things different, you could chuck me your ball (wink).

Oh! I put my lipstick on in this story especially for my friend Davey. I am so sorry I forgot it in my last cocksucking story! What a cardinal error. (Normally I just use a sparkly lip-gloss, but if I am going somewhere special I do paint my mouth.)

~*~

I was sitting at a table by the door to the dining-room so when you walked away from the bar towards me, I kinda assumed you were going to join friends and eat. That's why I laughed when you asked if I was alone, and could you sit with me. I laughed because I'd wondered if you were looking at me, then I told myself not to be so big-headed.

I love to go to this bar. They play jazz-y music and it has a long bar, a high ceiling and a glass wall leading out to a veranda. It feels cool and relaxed even when parties of women in tight sequinned dresses are gearing up in there for a night out.

I just like to have a drink out sometimes. I go there because I fondly imagine it's so expensive and exclusive nobody will bother me. Actually I've been cruised there at five in the afternoon -- so I should wake up and smell the coffee liquor cocktail, huh.

I don't go very often. Sometimes I take myself out for an early drink before going to the cinema, or for afternoon tea after I've been shopping. They serve Iron Goddess of Mercy tea and I have that, and a glass of champagne, and slowly consume the three tiers of fish and cucumber sandwiches, jammy scones and little creamy cakes.

That night, I'd been out to a show with a friend. It was the best fun! We stayed for an after show talk. Then I'd missed my last train home so I figured that before I got a taxi, I'd treat myself to a late night drink. I was delicately sipping it and enjoying the ambience, when you came over, your shirt collar undone and your tie maybe stuffed in your pocket? Or did you leave it upstairs.

It was really fun chatting with you. Like a game. I love to play Go best. I like chess but I am a terrible player and I always sulk when I lose, LOL.

Ordinarily I am good at asking questions and letting people talk to me. I love to hear about other people's lives. I sit smiling and arching an inquisitive eyebrow. Men will tell me all sorts.

Not you, though! You were asking me this and that, I had to be pretty careful what I said because you were learning all sorts about me.

Like, you asked me my name and I always say: "You can choose. I have an everyday name, a flirty name with lots of friends, and a hardcore smut name." Of course men ask for my smut name, then I say: "I am Kingswoman," and show them the links to my stories on their smartphone. "Now you can turn me on whenever you want," I laugh.

Well, fuck me, you went for the everyday name. That floored me. I never normally chatter about my actual job. Half a cocktail slipping down my throat had loosened my ... inhibitions, so I told you a little bit about the everyday me. I won't call that the 'real' me cuz I often think Kingswoman is the realest me. I come online and tell a li'l story and afterwards even I think, 'well gosh, I didn't realise that.'

So I am telling you bits of stuff, and you are going: "You are either a liar or the most fascinating person I've ever met," in your rolling sexy accent. I was laughing! What did I care what you thought. "Does it matter?" I asked, but y'know, sugar, I was telling you the absolute truth -- although maybe not all of it. Maybe the whole of my story is too fabulous for one night.

There we were, as if lifting the corner of a curtain on the picture of our lives. Sometimes I might get you to show me a few bold simple colours from a Chagall. Sometimes I would give you a glimpse of a Gustav Moreau -- or a Dulac illustration from The Thousand and One Nights.

You like red wine, and Italy. You asked if I would share a bottle of red wine with you? I am a bit dumb, your next move would of course have been to suggest we take it up to your room. I didn't want to drink red wine, without food -- and especially if I wasn't sure I'd get to choose it. I am not usually trusted to choose. Last time, it was a disaster. I asked to see the sommelier but the barely legal waiter looked puzzled and he said he knew about the wine list. I asked if he would recommend the Chateau Margaux with the food I wanted to order. I swear to you that he wiped a bit of wet from behind his ears as he said: "It's very expensive," in a hesitant voice.

"So am I," I snapped and ordered it. I regretted it, because I don't believe they let it breathe properly -- which is horrid cruel thing to do to a Margaux, darling.

Your bottle of red wine gambit had been checked; we started to talk about the sport. I don't think you knew how smart a move it was to casually mention you could get me in to the big match that was on the next day. I knew enough about you by then to realise that meant a VIP box, although actually I would do ... quite a lot for a plastic seat in the stands. The thing is, sugar -- I love the sport, but when you are a mere girl, you don't get invited to see the matches live with a crowd of mates who all throw their hands up in excitement or despair together. I got so excited when you said you might do that for me, but then I recollected that you would not be taking me along for my keen insight into the referee's decisions. If you really took me at all.

So then I was excited in a different way, as I realised you must think me pretty fucking hot -- to make out like you would take me with you to see the match if that worked to pull me.

I had finished my cocktail and you asked what it was, and said you would buy me another one. I wanted a different one. I am so dumb! and I know I have expensive tastes. I don't want to impose on people. I said: "Are you sure? It will set you back a bit." What a green lady! You, who were clearly staying in that exclusive expensive place not just popping in for a Bud. You really laughed and said: "Money is not a problem," as you went back to the bar.

So then I am thinking about the missed opportunity to go upstairs with you and a bottle of red wine (probably not a Margaux, although possibly it might get the chance to breathe). When you come back and my cocktail arrives, I twiddle with the stem of the glass and you can get another of your carelessly penetrating questions in. I lift a corner of the curtain from the picture of my life and you laugh and say you don't believe me and I laugh and take a sip of my drink.

When I get near the bottom of the glass, I decide. I lean over and say to you softly: "If I come up and give you a blowjob, will you not pressure me for anything-else?"

I think you might have been trying to figure out if I would at least give you a blowjob, since you are smart and had realised you would probably not get anything-else. Maybe, too, you expected me to ask for ... whatever the going rate is for men like you to screw a woman like I look like.

But I am not like that.

"I ... can do that," you say hurriedly, trying to suppress the satisfaction in your voice.

"I just like to suck cock," I say, as softly as I can -- although our near neighbours are quite a noisy party of cackling women and the music is quite loud.

"Oh...kay," I can see you are on the verge of asking about it, because like me, you like to lift the curtain on people's lives. But you are smart and you know that at this point there are still two ways the game could go. I could come up and give you a blowjob. Or you could talk to me and find out more about me. Then I will not give you something casually blown like a kiss from someone passing in the night. I will give you something more intimate: a deeper look into my life. Maybe you are surprised that I have made the forward pass, but you are very pleased to have the advantage.

You drain your Bud quickly because you see I'm near the end of my cocktail, and you stand up while I roll that last mouthful down the concave side of the glass, over my tongue, to the back of my throat. There are red lipstick kisses from my Dior Dolce Vita on the rim of the glass.

I stand more slowly, collecting my handbag and coat. My heart is already beating faster, anxiety and desire making my skin prickle. You take my hand and put it through your arm -- like I might change my mind and go. I smile, reassured by your anxiety not to lose me to the anonymous autumn night.

We walk through from the noisy cool exclusive atmosphere of the bar to the lobby. You press the button for the lift. It makes a discreet plush ping as the doors open. Another couple get in so we have to stand behind them, you holding my hand firmly in your arm. They are young: giggling and pushing each other, honeymooners maybe. We stand not looking at them or each other.

I long to kiss you so much that my cunt has gone wet and soft. The feel of your muscular arm under my hand makes my legs shake. I want you so badly that if I look at you I will cry with excitement and suppressed lust.

Along the corridor to your room. I always wondered what the rooms are like, ever since I declined an invitation from someone too young to be fun, to go up and see him with a large cucumber. (Uh -- that was a joke! I don't really like to have sex with vegetables on public transport.)

Now I can't take it in, what it's like -- other than discreetly luxurious. You are hurriedly throwing your jacket over a chairback. Your tie (an old club one) is lying on the desk. I take in that much -- and that there is a bed, before you have turned to take me in your arms and start kissing me.

It's such a pleasure to be in the hands of a real player. The firm grip and certainty of purpose. The confidence about what you want and how to get it. You push my head to your kiss with one hand, the other on the back of my arse pressing me in for a cheeky rub on your tackle. I'm losing myself in the firm purposeful pressure of your mouth on mine. In a minute I'm going to be giving up more than I'd bargained for. Luckily your roving hand gripping my arse cheek finds a suspender. You are so intrigued, so thrilled to realise that I am actually wearing stockings, that you break from the kiss to murmur in excitement. You start fingering the elastic suspender strap instead of my butt. I start giggling and come to my senses.

All five of my senses: the taste of your clean Budweiser kiss, the smell of the soap from your neck, the sound of me giggling and you rustling at my dress to feel my suspenders, the blurred vision of the comfortable plush room past my sharp focus on your neck and your ear and your neatly cut hair, the feeling in my tits pressed to your chest. Fuck me, the aching tingling sensations of my nipples pressed through the lace of my bra to your chest -- no, don't fuck me. It's not what I want, not now, not here, not tonight.

I push you away, part pull you to the bed. The ripple of your arm muscle is such that I know you could overpower me if you wanted to, but we have a deal. You are a man of your word. You go back with a little resistance, laughing because you normally call the moves and this is strange to you. I push you back to sit on the bed, stand between your legs and begin to unbutton your shirt.

Oh-kay, yah, fair do's. Groping your chest was not in the deal, but you are not complaining because now you can get your hands up my dress. You can cop a good grope at my suspenders tightly pressed to my thighs, my stocking tops. A finger starts to slide into my knicker gusset.

I move backwards, away -- towards the door. I tilt my head to look down at you. I raise an eyebrow. You give a deprecatory shrug and can't help a schoolboy grin. A red-blooded man, eh? Can't blame him for trying it on, eh?

Oh ... OK.

"Wait there," I say sternly. I walk to the bathroom, leaving you with your shirt half unbuttoned. Your hands rest on your thighs, poised for play to resume.

I don't need a pee, actually. I fish in my handbag and get out my lipstick and lip brush. I don't bother with lip liner; this isn't going to stay on for long. I carefully load the fine hair brush with sticky red and in gentle short strokes paint my lips brightly.

I go back and over to continue undoing your shirt buttons. Your hands go back round to curve over my arse. I laugh, giving your nipple a tweak and making you groan and twitch with increased excitement.

I kneel down between your legs. Your hands slide up my legs, my bum. I rub my face down through the hair on your chest, kissing lightly as I go. I give one nipple a suck but not too much, you're on the verge and you'll be quick to get stuck in to any breakdown in the agreement.

My hands are on your belt buckle, your trouser button -- fuck, my fingers are shaking so much. At last the button's undone. I pull down your zip, impatiently you jerk to get your trousers and trunks down and there's your cock: up and eager, standing out from a nest of hair.

Oh sugar.

I take the shaft in one small hand and wrap my fingers gently round the thick base. The smooth head is peeping out of the wrinkled foreskin, a glistening drop of precum oozing from your slit. You lean back on your hands with a groan of lust. I lean forwards, open my red lipsticked mouth and take the head of your cock in. I feel the smooth head slide over my tongue. I pucker my lips and press so the foreskin gets pressed back as my hot mouth glides over your cock. You groan loudly in ecstasy.

I pull back, curl my lips in and press them on your cock. I pull away, leaving your upstanding cock with the red glossy ring impressed round it.

I stoop down and nuzzle in your pubic hair.

"Jaysus!" you moan. Your hand goes out to my head. As my mouth sucks in one rounded ball hanging in its soft skin, your fingers grip in my long hair. "Fuck fuck!" you cry as I put a finger under your balls and press to find your sweet spot. You jerk and I know I've got you.

I roll my tongue gently round your ball, then pull back and turn again to your cock.

I take the smooth head back in my hot mouth and push slowly down to the sticky red ring of lipstick. I press your shaft up to the roof of my mouth with my tongue and suck as I go down on you. I fondle one of your balls and flick at your sweet spot. You're gripping my hair as if you want to grip and drag me down on you. I'm going down anyway: pulling, sucking your dick into the tight hot hole of my mouth. You're at the back of my throat. I close my eyes, tilt my head to try and get a good angle. I work hard to relax against the instinct to gag and push on down. I ease your cock's head down into the depth of my throat.

You sit as still as a statue with your thighs like rock and your hand gripped in my hair. I ease you back out, begin to suck on you in earnest. You moan and mutter an imprecation, a prayer, a blessing perhaps.

I put my small hand round the shaft of your dick, suck hard -- up and down on you.

"I'm cumming!" you gasp suddenly, starting to pull out of my mouth, pulling at my hair to bring my head away.

A blowjob! that was our agreement, not a fucking cocksuck, for fuck's sake! I flick a mute glare at your contorted face, pull against you pulling on my hair, take a firmer grip on your shaft with my fingers and suck hard.

Spurting in my mouth, the salty cream comes gushing in jerking strings. You are crying out inarticulately and jerking your hips. My head is following your cock, I'm sucking to take in the cum. It tastes like a mix of the creamy cocktails I loved when I was very young: silk stocking, brandy Alexander; with the dry salt spicy lick of drinks I came to favour later in my life: margarita, Lagavulin, Writer's Tears -- drinks with a twist of regret.

I have no regrets. I sit back on my heels, licking the last drops of cream from my lips, swallowing the fruits of our deal. There will be no payback for this one -- you are spent.

You lie over the bed, gasping -- the edges of your shirt fallen open around your stocky chest, your trousers and trunks down around your hips, your cock nestling back into the coils of hair around your balls.