Midnight Ch. 02

He had chosen a thick condom, the sensations he felt dull to nonexistent. That was because he liked to fuck a woman for up to an hour, have her come multiple times before he did. This was no exception. She came quickly, he felt her vagina spasm, tighten, her entire body tense up like a coiled spring, and then . .. the release. She went limp, came with a shriek. But he was far from through. He continued to hammer home, brought her to a second orgasm, a third. Her wrists, bound to the headboard, pulled on the wooden bars, causing the bed to jerk and move, while the springs beneath them creaked and screamed in protest.

After her third orgasm, she was spent. Her body was glistening with sweat, to the point where she must have felt chilled. Her hair was a wild, disheveled mess from all the tossing and turning and twisting. She looked sexier than words could describe. He'd found a worthy fuckbuddy. It had taken a while, but he'd finally found her.

But he still needed to cum. He untied her, told her to get on her hands and knees, right on the floor. She still seemed to want more, the cum-slut. Worthy, indeed.

He took her doggie style. With one hand, he yanked on her hair, pulling her head back roughly. With the other hand, he fondled her breasts, which hung down, begging to be played with. Every now and then, he'd let go of her tits and give her ass a good, swift swat. But more than anything, he was focused on himself now. He wanted his release. He looked at her long, athletic body, her sweat-soaked skin, and perfect ass, and thought of Midnight. Thought of banging her, making her squirm, subduing her. He thought of her masked and naked and moaning before him, begging him to give it to her. That did the trick. As he continued to hammer away, he was getting closer, closer, closer . . . .

♣

She hadn't ever felt this exhausted, hadn't even known she was capable of multiple orgasms. And she didn't know that any orgasms could be this powerful. She had never felt so completely sexual in all her life. She just wanted him, his cock. And now, with him pulling her hair, taking her from behind, she sensed that he was finally close to his own orgasm. And then it would end. That thought left her feeling deflated. She didn't want it to end. She felt so alive, so hot, so sexy. He didn't respect her. He was just using her for his own sexual needs. But that didn't seem to matter, at least not tonight. After all, her own needs were being met in a fashion she hadn't thought possible.

The entire evening, she didn't allow herself to overanalyze, didn't allow herself to overthink. She just wanted to get lost in the sensations, the newness of allowing herself to be taken, the novelty of letting someone else dominate her. She just wanted to revel in the feeling of his dick deep inside of her, his hands stimulating her, his words making her feel horny beyond belief. There would be time enough for rationalization, for reflection, for normalcy, later. But not now. Not with his dick sliding in and out of her like a throbbing piston, not with his fingers yanking on her hair, not with his hand pinching and squeezing her nipples. Not now.

Behind her, she heard him groan, and then she felt his cock shrink and soften. With that, she knew it was over. . . .

♣

"I'd like to see you again, Jennifer," he said. They were in the living room now, fully clothed, by the door. He wrote his private e-mail address on a slip of paper, handed it to her.

She took it, then hesitated. After taking a breath, she said, "Can I borrow your pen and paper?"

"I'm glad," he said a moment later, taking the slip of paper she had just written on. "I think you're exactly what I'm looking for." This was an important phase of the evening. He had put away his aggression, his dominance. Now it was time to show her that it was all just a game, a part of his play. Away from the bedroom, he was simply Julian P. Covington, journalist, all-around sensitive guy. A very important point in the proceedings, indeed. If she thought he was really a jerk, she'd never be back.

"Well," she said, "thanks, I think." She smiled shyly. "I'm not even sure what I was looking for. But . . . I mean, I never experienced anything like this before. I don't even know if I like the fact that I enjoyed it so much. But . . .yes. I'd like to see you again, too."

"E-mail me, okay?" he said.

She nodded. "Talk to you soon, Julian," she said. She leaned closer to him, subtly, almost imperceptibly. Giving off signals that she wanted to kiss him goodnight.

He backed up a step. He wouldn't take the bait. He had already told her how he felt about kissing.

She looked away, then reached for the door knob. "See you," she said.

"Ciao," he said.

After she had gone, he locked his door. He needed to take a shower, then head to bed. Busy day tomorrow. Mondays were always a bitch. He needed to be at the office by seven, at the latest.

That made him think of another editorial he had in mind regarding Midnight. He wondered. Where was Midnight on this Sunday evening? While he had been having fun, fucking CallmeCallme6969, where was the city's costumed vigilante? Probably out among the rooftops, or walking the streets, he figured. Damn, that broad needed to get away for a while. She needed to unwind, stop taking herself so damn seriously. A costumed crimefighter. The whole idea was absurd.

"Well, you'll be begging for my cock someday, Midnight," he said to the empty room.

He nearly walked past the answering machine without noticing the flashing red "1." He was sure he had no messages when Jennifer had arrived. Someone must have called while they had been fucking in the bedroom.

He pressed the Play button. And his face, which had been feeling light and stress-free, as he enjoyed the memories of his night with a hot, sexy hard body, gradually hardened as he listened to the recording.

When it was finished, he pressed the Play button again, just to make sure he hadn't been imagining things. No such luck. The words were clear, firm, pointed like a freshly sharpened arrow. And very real.

Mistakes. Some you could put behind you, overcome, forget. Others never ceased to torment you. And now, apparently, someone else had discovered the one mistake he never wanted to face, the one mistake he could not erase, the one mistake he had fought so hard to conceal. No one could know of it. No one.

But someone did, and now they had him backed into a corner, pinned. Trapped.

He had two ways out. Neither was good.

He could either make a mockery of his considerable reputation as a hard-hitting editorial writer.

Or he could turn a blind eye, ignore the demands, and stay in the background as an innocent person was murdered.