Insatiable Pt. 03

Insatiable (Part 3)

Kathryn M. Burke

When Laurie awoke groggily the next morning, the bed was empty.

Alarmed, almost terrified, that he had simply gotten dressed and left the premises without even letting her know, she staggered painfully out of bed, every muscle in her body seemingly used in a way it had never been used before, threw on a robe, and stumbled out into the living room.

She was both relieved and confused by sounds coming from the kitchen.

There was Patrick, dressed only in his boxer briefs, whipping up a big breakfast of bacon, eggs, roasted potatoes, and toast. It smelled heavenly, and she salivated as she watched him.

"What are you doing?" she croaked, barely able to speak.

He gave her a bemused glance. "What does it look like, darling? I for one am pretty hungry, and I hope you are too."

She turned around without a word, trudged to the bathroom, and tried to wake herself up by spattering her face with cold water. Her hair was a total mess, but she had no energy even to run a comb through it. The best she could manage was to use her electric toothbrush for a minute or two—which had the added effect of getting rid of the come on her breath.

The breakfast was impeccably prepared: Patrick clearly had a lot of practice at it. He served her a heaping plate with a grace and courtesy that had just a bit of genial sarcasm about it, and then he sat down and began shoving the food into his mouth with voracious relish. Laurie first ate a tentative bite, then pounced on the food herself as if she hadn't eaten in days.

They said almost nothing during the meal. But afterwards, feeling a bit more human, she said brightly, "So—what are we doing today?"

The soft smile he'd had on his face turned into a grimace of regret.

"My dear," he said, placing a hand gently on her arm, "I have to go home and do some work."

"Work!" she cried incredulously.

"Laurie, I'm a freelancer. I set my own hours. I have to get a piece done by Monday, and this is really the best time to do it."

"Aren't you . . . a little tired?"

He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. "Sure I am. But a shower at home will revive me. I don't have a change of clothing here anyway. It would have been pretty presumptuous of me to have brought one, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would. But—"

"Listen, dearest. I want you to come by my house later in the afternoon—maybe around four or five. I'll cook you a nice meal."

"You'll cook?"

"Well, yes. I live alone, as you know. If I didn't know how to cook, I wouldn't be eating very much, would I?"

"I'm not exactly a whiz of a chef myself. I usually just throw something together." What she didn't say—but what he may already have understood—was that she had deliberately not learned the art of cooking from her mother in a conscious act of defiance over lapsing into traditional gender roles.

"I'll be happy to cook for you. It will give me great pleasure."

Laurie peered at him. Was he for real? An intellectual who was an imposing physical specimen—a stud in bed who prided himself on his culinary skills—a proud and self-confident man, just on this side of arrogance, who could also be tender and loving?

She wasn't certain she'd really heard those three magic words at the end of their crazy lovemaking session last night, but she was becoming more and more convinced that she had.

But leaving her in the lurch like this—it was almost as bad as if he'd left in the middle of the night! Didn't he know that women hate that, especially after he'd entered her so many times? On the other hand, she did have a strong urge to get a look at his house—a real house! In her economic position she could only dream of affording a house, and his ownership of one was in itself a powerful aphrodisiac.

"All right," she said—and she was beginning to realize that that simple expression was likely to be spoken a lot during her involvement with this man.

Patrick got up from the dining table, put on his clothes, and gave her an absurdly chaste little kiss on the cheek while she remained sitting dazedly in her chair. He'd scribbled his address on the message pad near her landline phone. Then he left.

Laurie looked around the empty apartment. Is this really happeing? Did he really just leave so he could work?

Laurie snatched up her cellphone and called Tammy.

Her friend seemed to pick up instantly, as if she was just waiting for a call. Tammy of course knew that Laurie was scheduled to have a "heavy" date (as she called it) with Patrick on Friday night, and she also had a strong suspicion that Laurie would end up on her back for most of the night. But when Laurie actually told her, in painstaking detail, exactly what had happened when the two of them had returned to her apartment, Tammy once more indulged in an ecstasy of sympathetic outrage.

"He went into your butt—twice?" she cried in disbelief.

"Yup," Laurie said shortly.

"That must have hurt like hell! You said the first time was awful."

"It wasn't awful. But it did hurt a lot. And the first time last night wasn't all that comfortable. The second time wasn't bad at all."

"But—but you were sleeping!"

"Not quite. It's pretty hard to keep on sleeping when you have a cock stuffed up your ass. But I'll give him credit: he was actually pretty gentle. I can't say that I didn't like it."

"Oh, Laurie, you can't possibly be enjoying such a horrible thing!"

"Patrick said a girl can get used to it."

"A girl can get used to anything! But why would she want to get used to something like that?"

"Oh, Tammy, it really wasn't so bad. What's bad is how he's left me in the lurch like this, even though he's been charitable enough to let me come to his house later today."

"How maganimous of him!"

"He says he's going to cook dinner for me."

"He's going to cook? He probably can't boil water."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. He whipped up a fabulous breakfast this morning."

"Well, bully for him. Almost any man can cook eggs. Why didn't he want to spend the day with you, anyway?"

"He says he has to work."

"Work? It's the weekend!"

"Tammy, he's a writer. They set their own hours."

"Even so, he shouldn't have just left you like that! I'd be furious."

"Well, there's not much I can do about it. I'll be seeing him later, at least."

Laurie felt totally at loose ends for much of the day—she simply didn't know what to do with herself. In the end she put her time to good use by taking a long and reasonably refreshing nap. As the time approached for going over to Patrick's house, she debated on what the most suitable outfit would be—and then kicked herself for belonging to a gender where such expectations always seem to come into play. When did men ever worry about their clothes? Even so, she wasn't exactly keen on showing up on her lover's doorstep in a burlap bag; but she also wasn't going to tart herself up as she'd done on that Wednesday night when Patrick had so pointedly rejected her. So she wore a simple white sweater (with, admittedly, a low-cut neck that showed a healthy amount of cleavage) and a paisley wraparound skirt that billowed appealingly when she wiggled her hips.

When she got to the house, her jaw dropped. It looked huge—at least two stories (no, three—there was clearly a basement as well as a second floor) and had an abundant front and back yard full of well-arranged flower beds and noble shade trees. She had difficulty imagining Patrick actually doing yard work: he almost certainly hired a gardener. But who could say? This guy seemed capable of anything.

Patrick ushered her in with a warm hug. He was dressed casually in a thin sweater and Dockers, and he looked a bit tired and disheveled. But there was a twinkle in his eye as he directed her to the living room—actually, a combined living-dining area that must have been at least thirty feet long. The whole house seemed sparsely but tastefully furnished, and at her request he led her upstairs, where there were three or four bedrooms—two of which seemed to be crammed full of books arranged meticulously on a multitude of shelves.

"Wow," she said. "What a huge house! You live here by yourself?"

She could have bitten her tongue. What a fool she was for failing to remember—

Patrick reminded her by commenting tightly, "I do now. My wife left me three years ago, as you'll recall."

"I'm sorry," she muttered, then tried to change the subject by making lavish compliments about the house. God, how she wished she could live in a house instead of her crummy apartment! But housing prices were insane in this city.

Patrick led her back downstairs. Laurie took a disreptable satisfaction in what appeared to be a certain sense of weariness in him. Maybe I tuckered you out after all!

"You worked hard today?" she said.

"I did," he replied with satisfaction. "Didn't quite finish, but I'll wrap up the piece Monday morning."

"If you're tired, maybe I should go."

They were standing in the dining room, which was separated from the living room by a long sofa. Patrick stared at her, and there seemed just a hint of hostility in his look.

Without warning, he wheeled her around, bent her over the back of the sofa, tugged the hem of her skirt up to her waist, and pulled down her panties to her knees.

"What the—?" she cried "What do you think you're doing?"

It was obvious what he was doing—or going to do, if the sound of a zipper being opened was any indication.

With a rather rough touch, Patrick stroked her butt and her pussy, apparently to make sure her sex had a certain amount of wetness. Of course it did. Then he paused, as if debating with himself which orifice to enter. Laurie was pretty quick on the uptake.

"Don't you dare go into my bottom!" she cried, her face almost touching the cushions of the sofa. "Not without lube!"

He seemed to see the wisdom of that demand, and instead stuck his cock into her vagina.

Placing his hands on his hips to balance himself as he stood behind her, he pounded her cleft with a series of sharp thrusts that elicited deep, animalistic grunts from both of them. This position allowed pretty deep penetration, and Laurie sensed the entire length of that long, thick cock probing her. She was utterly helpless and deeply humiliated; but all she could do was wait until he was finished.

She didn't have to wait long. Within ten minutes he was sending long streams of his discharge deep into her, and she could feel his fluid bathing the walls of her vagina. He remained in her a little while afterwards, then pulled out quickly, pulled up her panties, lowered her dress, and drew her up to a standing position.

Then, to her surprise, he turned her around and held her in a close embrace. She was too stunned by what had just happened to know how to react, and she gave in to the unconscious tendencies of the female body (when a woman is hugged, she automatically hugs back, doesn't she?) by throwing her arms around his neck.

He was nuzzling her cheek and neck. Then he whispered into her ear, "I'm sorry."

She already knew how rare it was for Patrick to admit that he'd done anything wrong; and this unexpected apology cut off her plan to give him a swift kick in the balls and storm out of the place.

She did manage to mutter, "What was that all about?"

"I don't know," he said. "You—you're irresistible."

"I really don't think that's it, Patrick. Anyway," she went on, pulling away from him, "I'm not very keen on walking around with sopping wet panties. And I'm not just going to take them off and wear no underwear. So what do you intend to do about that?"

The question was largely rhetorical, but Patrick pondered the matter for a moment and said, "You can wear one of mine."

"Yours?" she scoffed. "Don't be silly. It won't fit very well."

"Some years ago I bought a lot of bikini briefs, because I thought they made me look and feel sexy. But they didn't provide enough, um, support for me, so I don't wear them anymore. I think they'll fit you well enough—they're pretty much like women's panties."

She sighed. "Oh, all right—I'll give them a try."

He raced up the stairs and was back down in a flash with a tiny pair of underpants that had a tiger pattern. She laughed when she saw it, saying, "Yes, I'm sure this didn't support you very well down there!"

She first went to a little half-bathroom at the back of the kitchen to mop herself up. The underwear was a bit tight around the hips—but anything was better than walking around in panties soaked with come.

The rest of the afternoon and evening proceeded almost as if the incident at the sofa hadn't happened. After making sure Laurie wasn't a vegetarian, Patrick prepared a fine meal of pork chops, baked potatoes, and mixed vegetables; and he had a nice bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc to go with it. Dessert was a store-bought cherry pie.

Afterwards, they settled on the sofa as Patrick—who refused to put a television set in the living room, although there was one in one of the bedrooms—put on a CD of piano music by Rachmaninoff. They simply sat there listening to the dreamy, and at times fiery, music.

It had been a long time since Laurie had had an evening quite like this.

But it didn't surprise her when, as 10 o'clock approached, Patrick got up, picked her up, cradled her in his arms, and marched slowly up the stairs. By now she had given up the futile task of chiding him for treating her like a prototypical woman—she was never going to win that argument.

The next several hours saw Laurie tossed around in bed yet again, in a strange mixture of violence and tenderness. But for once she did manage to "get on top"—and not just because Patrick let her. After being poked twice (front and back), she took advantage of what surely must have been a certain level of exhaustion in him. Getting into her favorite position, squatting over a man as he lay flat on his back, she rode him with exquisite slowness and not without a certain teasing violence of her own, bringing him to the very brink of orgasm but not letting him find release until he almost begged her to finish him off.

They both fell into a well-earned sleep.

The next morning, Laurie had to borrow another pair of Patrick's bikini briefs in the morning. He made a lavish breakfast for her again, and she devoured it with relish again. To her surprise, they spent the whole day together, taking a walk in the park, stopping off at a café for coffee and pastry, and ending up at a nice Middle Eastern restaurant for a tasty dinner of shish kabob.

Laurie wasn't certain she wanted to spend the night with Patrick: it was Sunday, and she had to work the next day. But when it became obvious that Patrick wasn't going to leave her alone, she urged him to go to her place for the night, so that she could use her own shower and get her own clothes (including her own underwear) on for the workday. He agreed, but made sure to punctuate the end of an incredible weekend with two more copulations.

It was after the second one, with Patrick sending thick streams of his discharge into her bottom as he lay heavily on top of her, that he clearly and unmistakably whispered in her ear: "I love you, Laurie."

She was bleary-eyed from another wrestling-match with him—and she didn't think this profession of love, coming as it did while he was firmly ensconced in her derrière, to be entirely appropriate.

But those words were music to her ears. He'd known her for exactly a week, but there was no doubting his sincerity. Nobody—not even someone as obviously insatiable for sex as Patrick—could have performed as he'd done this weekend without feeling something in his heart rather than just his cock.

So of course she said, "I love you too, Patrick."

He kissed the back of her neck and seemed inclined to remain in position. By this time, his anal intrusions had ceased to be more than mildly uncomfortable. Funny how you can get used to almost anything!

But at last, as he refused to budge, she had to say, "Patrick, please . . . come out now, okay?"

With a strange little growl of annoyance he pulled out—and once again that appalling sense of vacancy came over her.

She was too much in a state of weariness and confusion to think any more about what had just transpired. Even as his come was leaking out of her butt, she drifted off into a heavy sleep, remaining on her stomach, her face buried in the pillow.

She woke up to find that she was on her back—and Patrick in her pussy.

"Oh, Patrick, for God's sake!" she cried out. "I have to go to work!"

"I'm almost finished," he muttered as he continued to pummel her. True to his word, he came in a few minutes—and this time he didn't trouble to make sure she came also.

She managed to shove him off of her, staggered out of bed, and had to cling to the wall to make it to the bathroom. She turned the shower on full blast and about as hot as it could be. It was wonderfully refreshing, but she had to hold on to the towel bar to remain standing. Every part of her body ached—two parts in particular.

Returning to the bedroom after drying herself off, she threw on some clothes, looking down at Patrick as he lay seemingly unconscious on the bed. She was already running late and didn't have the energy or the skill to whip up a big breakfast for herself and her lover. Crying sharly, "Patrick, get up! I have to leave soon," she trudged to the kitchen, made some coffee, and munched on a doughnut.

He didn't show up. In fact, she thought she heard snoring coming from the bedroom.

She marched over to the bed, shook him hard by the shoulder, and almost shouted, "Patrick, you need to get up! I'm not leaving you here."

He opened one eye and said cynically, "You think I'm going to steal your stuff?"

She felt like kicking him. "No, of course not. But you really do need to go home. It's been a great weekend, but I have an office to go to. You don't."

At last he crawled up and put his clothes on while she watched in disapproval. Almost shoving him out the front door, she gave him a little peck on the cheek and went off to work.

*

Tammy gaped at her when she stumbled into the office.

"What happened to you?" she exclaimed. "I tried calling you, but you didn't pick up."

When Laurie didn't answer but instead just dumped herself into her desk chair, Tammy followed her into her cubicle and said balefully, "You were with him, weren't you?"

"Of course I was with him," Laurie said. "Who else?"

"What did he do to you?"

Laurie gazed up at her friend, who was standing over her. "What do you think?"

"More?" Tammy bellowed, wide-eyed. "Didn't he do you four times Friday night?"

"Yes, but—well, he has a fair amount of stamina."

"How many times did he do you, then?"

Laurie squinted, casting her mind back. "Ten times—no, eleven, including this morning."

"He did you this morning? Yeah, I guess he must have—it shows."

"Oh, Laurie, give me a break."

"You're telling me he came eleven times over three-plus days?"

"Yup."

"No way! That's not possible! A guy's dick would fall off if he tried that."

"Last time I checked, it was still on pretty firmly."

"Jesus," Tammy said in an awed whisper. "You must be exhausted."

"That's putting it mildly."

"And—and sore."

"Don't remind me." Laurie wriggled painfully on the chair.

"More butt sex?" she said accusingly.

"Yes, of course. He likes it. You must know that by now."

"What about you? Do you like it?"

"Well, as a matter of fact I do."

"You do!"

"Okay, maybe I don't like it—but I guess I'm getting used to it."

Tammy just shook her head in disbelief.