Insatiable Pt. 01

Laurie Sawyer was a handful, and she knew it. Many of her friends and potential lovers had told her so. She didn't suffer fools--especially male fools--gladly, and she was quick to perceive slights to her dignity and self-esteem. Smart, quick-witted, and also very attractive (some of her admirers had even said she was beautiful), she felt no reason to settle for second-best. As she looked at herself in the mirror (something she did a bit too often), she noticed her clean, sharp features (deep green eyes, slender nose, full lips, gently curving jawline) encased by jet-black hair--not to mention the obvious things that men are so inclined to salivate over (firm, ample breasts, flat stomach, shapely bottom). At twenty-eight, she felt in the prime of life. She thought to herself: If there's such a thing as an alpha female--and there ought to be--I'm it!

Right now she was pondering whether to go through with the date--really just an initial meeting over coffee at Starbucks (where else?), not terribly far from her house in a suburb of Boston--with a guy named Patrick Williamson. He'd requested the meeting on the online dating website she had joined, but she wasn't sure he was really her type. His age was okay--thirty-one--and he was a freelance writer, which argued a certain degree of independence and initiative. But there was something just a bit too cocky about the guy. She didn't like feeling overmatched by a man.

But she went ahead and met him. It was a lazy Sunday in April, and she didn't have much else to do.

Patrick proved to be surprising in a number of ways. Sure, he was an intellectual, but at least he wasn't a stuffy old professor: he'd had enough of those in her years at Tufts. He wrote detective stories--had published a number of novels. Laurie hadn't read any of them, but she was a fan of the genre. And, defying the stereotype of the bespectacled, hollow-chested author holed up in his attic scribbling the hours away, Patrick turned out to be more than physically fit. Much as she liked guys who worked with their brains more than with their muscles, she couldn't help admiring the rugged expression of his face, his broad shoulders, and his generally imposing physique.

The meeting went well, and they exchanged some basic information about themselves. Laurie worked as a mid-level executive in a nonprofit in downtown Boston, and Patrick said he'd gone freelance--after working in a publishing company for some years following his graduation from Brown University--about six years ago. A couple of his detective novels had been optioned for films, but no movies had actually been made, and Patrick humbly declared that he never expected that to happen.

The one thing that made Laurie pause was when the subject of Patrick's marriage and divorce came up.

He was pretty evasive on what had happened. At twenty-four he'd married a woman he'd met at the publishing company, but they'd split up four years later. Laurie was struck by that.

"That's not a long time to be married," she said, looking keenly at her companion over the small table where they'd sat down. "It seems to me you should still be in the honeymoon stage."

"I wouldn't say that," Patrick said, with a rather bitter curl of his lips. "Those years seemed like decades."

"That bad, huh?"

"It started out fine, but went downhill pretty quickly."

"Why?"

Patrick seemed startled at Laurie's blunt query. "Um, well, it's hard to explain. I--"

"Try," she persisted.

He gave her a sharp look that said, I will, if you give me a chance. "Maybe I was working too much. But I was trying to establish myself, and Dorothy didn't seem to understand that. She thought I was ignoring her. So things went from bad to worse, and she just left."

"Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that."

Laurie felt there was a lot more to the story than what Patrick was telling her--but she couldn't expect him to spill the beans on such an intimate matter to a person he hardly knew. But she filed it away in the back of her mind, to bring up later--if that is, she actually saw Patrick again.

She wasn't even sure she wanted to do that. She liked the guy, but there was something about him that didn't quite sit well with her.

And that's why she could have kicked herself when she invited him back to her apartment to look over her collection of old-time detective novels.

Patrick smirked out of the side of his mouth. "Is this the female equivalent of 'Come over and see my etchings'?"

"Something like that," Laurie said acidly, getting up abruptly.

The fact is that she was proud of her book collection--and who better to appreciate it than a guy who wrote books for a living?

It was actually a short walk over to her apartment, so she urged Patrick to leave his car in the parking lot and accompany her on foot.

When they got into her place, Patrick noted with admiration the austere but tasteful furnishings. Laurie hated clutter, and her living quarters had an open, airy look that suited her perfectly. The book collection was situated in a second bedroom that was reserved only for that purpose. The moment Patrick walked in there, he seemed in heaven. With mouth slightly open, he took in shelf after shelf of books by Agatha Christie, John Dickson Carr, Margery Allingham, Ellery Queen, and many others--including a whole bookcase devoted to classic and contemporary hard-boiled writers, from Hammett and Chandler to Ross Macdonald and Elmore Leonard.

She didn't exactly know how the horseplay started.

Feeling entirely comfortable in her own space, and basking in the praise that Patrick had showered upon her for her good taste in books, she found herself thinking of him as an old friend. And he seemed to feel the same way.

That's probably why, when she made some witticism, he took it upon himself to throw one of the pillows on her living-room sofa right at her face.

She took the gesture as the playful banter that it was; but she wasn't going to take it lying down. Eyes blazing, she lunged at him and began tickling him by pinching him on his side, just above his belt. He twisted away from her while bellowing with mingled laughter and pain--and she replied by throwing the pillow back in his face.

She threw it pretty hard.

His hair got tousled from the impact of the pillow, and he didn't seem to like that. His own eyes took on a bit of a flinty look, even though he was still smiling and even laughing. But when he said, "All right, little girl, you're gonna get it now!" she was both offended ("little girl," indeed!) and a bit afraid of the hint of menace under the superficial flippancy.

She actually ran into her bedroom, perhaps in the expectation that he wouldn't dare enter this area without permission. But he followed her right in, and to her astonishment they began wrestling playfully on the bed. Jesus, he's only known me for an hour! Maybe it was imprudent of her to have invited him here in the first place, but she wasn't about to back down.

He was pretty strong, though--and, more to the point, not terribly inclined to respect her status as an adult woman. What he did was to bend her over on his lap and then--

He began to spank her.

Laurie almost went into a mind-freeze. Okay, it wasn't as if Patrick had taken her jeans off and spanked her on her bare bottom--that would have been way beyond the call of duty (and decency). But the blows he was delivering to her posterior weren't exactly gentle, and she could feel her derrière getting hot from the impact, the stinging pain radiating all over her body.

After about ten or fifteen slaps she managed to wriggle out of his grasp. Almost shouting, "Now you're in for it, buster!" she used all her strength to pin him down on his back as she sat triumphant on his midsection. She didn't pause much to think that this was the exact position a woman would get into when "riding" a guy during sex: all she cared about was rescuing her dignity after the humiliating treatment he'd dished out to her.

But she didn't realize that Patrick had only let her "win" by getting on top of him. In a seemingly effortless maneuver he flipped her over so that she was now lying face down on the bed, with him lying at full length on top of her.

"You better get off me if you know what's good for you," she said viciously. Playtime is over, guy: this is getting serious.

Patrick did get off of her--but only partially. He slid down so that he was over her legs. And then he pulled her jeans and panties down to her knees in a single swift gesture.

It's pretty hard to do that when the jeans are still fastened, but Patrick wasn't sparing any of his own strength in the act. As Laurie lay stunned and bewildered, her bare bottom now exposed to his ruthless gaze, she murmured, "Patrick, please . . ."

Surely he wasn't really going to--?

For a time he just seemed to stare in fascination at her gorgeous butt. Then he slipped a hand down between her legs and, with a surprisingly gentle touch, began stroking her sex.

She couldn't recall a man ever doing this exact procedure before. She'd had plenty of men fondle her pussy while she was lying flat on her back, in an effort to make her come. She was pretty keen on matching her partner's orgasms with her own--in fact, she usually had several more than her bedmate, especially if he was only able to come once at a time. But this position somehow struck her as both humiliating and subservient. And yet, it was clear that Patrick knew what he was doing.

His fingers easily found her thick, fleshy labia, and she was mortified at how much of her own fluid was leaking out of her. This horseplay had excited her far more than she realized. It took a bit more effort for him to reach her clitoris, but he managed it in a way that made that little nub swell in a matter of seconds. And somehow, while keeping that hand fixed on her crevice, he pulled off her blouse and bra and finished peeling her jeans off her legs.

She was now totally naked, and the idea that this virtual stranger was seeing everything she had to offer numbed her mind even more. Every so often she tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but his left hand was placed firmly in the small of her back, making her unable to move except for her flailing legs. Meanwhile, his right hand continued the job of bringing her to climax.

And that's exactly what he did. His efforts were both tender and relentless, and in minutes she started to feel the telltale signs of her impending orgasm. And when it exploded over her, branching out from her sex all through her body and into her dazed mind, she gasped and cried out and moaned and gagged and, overall, made a shameful display of her own unbridled pleasure. And Patrick didn't stop once he'd started to ring the bell: he kept on with his ministrations, tickling her private parts so that her legs began to quiver and strange little choking sounds came from deep in her throat.

Patrick finally got up from the bed--and from Laurie--while she remained flat on her face, her breath heaving. She still couldn't believe what had just happened. Does this guy have no respect for women at all? But now, as she turned her head to look at him, she saw what was next on the agenda.

He was slowly undressing himself. She gaped as he revealed his own naked form, one piece of clothing at a time. Her eyes were fixated on his muscular chest, his strong thighs, and--as her eyes widened in both amazement and alarm--the fat, nine-inch cock that was already fully erect as he freed it from the encumbrance of his boxer briefs.

He was looking at her with a peculiarly kind and benevolent gaze, but the significance of his firm, determined look was unmistakable: I made you come, so now it's time for you to make me come. And this time it was to be more than just touching: full penetration was clearly on the agenda.

"Patrick . . ." she said weakly.

Was her protest real or feigned? It had been five or six months since she'd accommodated a penis into herself, and she frankly missed it. Here she was, in the prime of her young adulthood, and with no man to call her own! It wasn't fair, when so many of her friends had boyfriends, husbands, and even children. So when Patrick approached her and turned her over onto her back, her legs seemed to fall open of their own accord. At the same time, she instinctively covered her breasts and pubic area with her hands, in a futile gesture to conceal her nudity. Her mind was telling her, No! I shouldn't let him do this to me without a struggle! But her body was saying something very different.

And so he climbed up onto the bed, placed himself on top of her, and entered her.

She gasped at the initial feel of his cock in her: he had inserted nearly half his length into her, and even that much was a bit of a shock, given its hardness and thickness. As he forged all the way in with a succession of thrusts, she absurdly felt that his member was tunneling up her entire body like some questing mole. Meanwhile he was plastering her face, neck, shoulders, and even her armpit with his kisses while stroking her breasts, back, bottom, and thighs with warm, eager hands.

She had never felt so utterly helpless in copulation in a long, long time. Usually she was the aggressor, and she liked to switch positions every so often--especially if that meant that she ended up on top. There were few things she liked better than riding a man, looking down on him with a sense of triumph as he expressed his gratitude for being allowed access to her coveted vagina. But it was quite clear to her that in this act of coitus Patrick was quietly determined to maintain his own superiority.

And so it went for five, ten, fifteen minutes, his pummeling of her becoming increasingly forceful, although never violent. There was, she had to admit, no monotony in the constant pounding of her pussy, as her legs wrapped themselves around his hips and her arms around his neck and back. At one point he fastened his lips to her in a kiss that must have lasted more than a minute--an inordinately long time for such a thing, after which she was left gasping for breath. He didn't seem affected at all, merely resting his head next to hers as his relentless probing of her cleft continued.

And when he came, he let out only a few light grunts as wave after wave of his emission poured out of him into her. In fact, she cried out more vociferously than he did, and she confusedly sensed that she'd had a mini-climax--something that almost never happened to her from simple intercourse.

His cock slipped out of her crevice, but he didn't get entirely off of her. Instead, he slid over to her left, still pinning her down as he gazed at her with an unreadable expression. His hand took hold of her right breast and held on to it, squeezing it and sometimes twirling the nipple.

She had trouble looking him in the eyes, even though his face was inches from hers. He was totally unapologetic about what he'd done, even though she herself began to feel that this whole incident just wasn't kosher at all.

"I--I don't do this, you know," she said in a feeble whisper.

"Do what?" he said, genuinely puzzled.

"Sleep with a man on the first date--if that meeting at the coffee shop even counts as a date!"

"I didn't think you did--and I don't either. I don't know about you, but I feel a real connection with you."

She glared at him. What kind of connection are you referring to, buster?

But Laurie had to admit that post-coital cuddling was something she really enjoyed--and so, it appeared, did Patrick. He now placed her on top of himself, and his hands scoured her body, massaging and rubbing and stroking her in a way that made her feel increasingly comfortable in his presence and in his embrace. He also continued to kiss her face and neck, daintily and times and hungrily at other times. Once again she felt mildly irritated that she was being put in a position of passivity: even his act of putting her on top struck her as the gesture of a strong, dominant man--and maybe it was only done so he could have access to her bottom! He seemed particularly keen on squeezing her butt, his large hands grabbing it the way you'd take a fistful of popcorn out of a big container at the movies.

All of a sudden he flipped her over onto her back, then got up from the bed. A bolt of alarm went through her. Surely he's not just going to leave?

"Where are you going?" she said, cursing herself for sounding so needy.

"I'll be right back," he said.

He seemed to be heading for the bathroom, so maybe he had to relieve himself. But he came back only seconds later. He blandly rolled her over onto her stomach--and only then did she notice that the fingers of one hand were covered with a gooey white substance. It was cold cream!

And he was applying it carefully to her anus.

She couldn't believe what was happening. Where did this guy get off thinking he was going to--? She tried to wriggle away, but he had once again placed a big hand on the small of her back--and by this simple act he managed to keep her in place.

"Don't you dare go in back there!" she cried out menacingly--but her voice sounded pitifully weak and whiny.

He paid no attention. He calmly wiped his fingers on some Kleenex; then, before she could take any evasive action, he had draped himself over her prone form. And the next thing she knew, he had stuck at least half of his cock into her ass.

She expelled a huge gasp at the novel sensation. No man had dared to do this before; several had asked, but she'd told them in pungent words where they could get off! But Patrick didn't ask, he just went right in. And the next thing she knew, he had wrapped his arms around her midsection, taking hold of her breasts in his hands while he kissed and nuzzled the back of her neck.

But most of her focus was on that long, thick member of his forging its way deeper and deeper into her rectum. The sensation was cataclysmically different from normal intercourse, and she seemed to lapse into a kind of suspended animation as the strangeness of this entire episode--from sharing a cup of coffee with a stranger to anal sex--overwhelmed her. She couldn't even tell if she was feeling pain: the back-and-forth motion of his cock created a kind of warm, throbbing feeling, and she could dimly sense that it was incrementally going in farther and farther. The weight of his body on hers was in some ways rather pleasant--kind of like a living blanket covering her.

She lost track of time, lost track of anything except the systematic pummeling of her nether orifice by this quintessential male. There was some humiliation in the groans she was mechanically emitting after every thrust, as if she was merely reacting to the actions he had initiated. Then she noticed that, while keeping one hand on her breasts, Patrick now slid his other hand down to her sex, teasing it as he had done earlier. His intention became quite clear: he was aiming for a simultaneous climax.

It happened, but not entirely as he intended. When, after what she already took to be his characteristic light grunts, he began showering her bottom with his seed, the weirdness and naughtiness of feeling his emission being deposited in that ordinarily forbidden area triggered her own orgasm, more than his stroking of her labia and clitoris with his fingers. She had no compunction crying out sharply as her paroxysm coursed through her entire body; even a few tears were squeezed out of her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away.

He didn't pull out at once; in fact, he seemed entirely happy to remain firmly ensconced in her, and he didn't seem to be getting much softer. She was thoroughly and efficiently impaled by his member, and only now did a sense of discomfort begin to come over her.