My Alexander

"Not as early as you," I purred, and then I stopped short as I finally caught sight of him on the bench. "What the fuck are you wearing?" I giggled. He sat there in a white Adidas top and a pair of shorts skimpy enough to qualify as underwear. "Nice legs, by the way."

"I told my wife I was going to the gym," he explained, and by then I was close enough to see him smile under those glittering blue eyes. A secret smile, a smile for a conspiracy. I'm sure mine matched.

"Well, hell," I drawled, feeling again that sense of power I'd never known I possessed, "I won't complain." His legs stretched before him out onto the grass, crossed casually at the ankle. "I'm happy to see you here, Mr Alexander Collins."

"Likewise, Miss Sophia Flack." I saw now that he had a pair of paper coffee cups on the bench by his thigh, red with the graphics of Ahab's Roastery. "Here."

"Oh?" I smiled, knowing it was light enough for him to see my arched eyebrow. "What'd you get me?"

"Take a seat and you'll find out." My brain was vibrating with a contented, purring sense of focus as I sank to the bench beside my Alexander. I felt like I was going in for a job interview that I knew I would ace. I was feeding off his confidence, I knew. He hadn't moved from that comfortable position he had on the seat, like he was calmly waiting. Like this was something he did every day.

So if he had any doubts about this, he'd probably already dealt with them.

I sat sideways, one leg up on the bench so I could face him. The coffee felt warm between my palms, and I felt myself settle. Because even though I figured I'd ace the interview, it was still an interview. I had to be on my game, but I hoped it would be a fun game. I raised the paper cup to his and took a deep breath. "Here's to going after him." It came out quietly, almost gravely, my smile tamed now to what I hoped was something that told him I was serious.

He hesitated before he raised his coffee. "Here's to being gone after, I guess."

"You guess?" I sipped, finding he'd ordered me something with just a hint of sweetness. Cinnamon. But still very, very much coffee-ish. This was nice, since I spent a lot of time around people who added stuff to their coffee to make it taste less like coffee. I'd never seen the point. "This is delicious. Thank you. Do you like being gone after?"

"I can't say it's happened before."

"That you know of." My eyes sparkled over the rim of the cup. "I don't know what you do for a living, but I bet there are plenty of women who'd go after you."

He shrugged as if it didn't really matter much. "So why you?"

"That's the question." I held his gaze, his beautiful blue gaze, and reached out to take his cup from his hand. I kept watching him, puckering my lips toward the hole in the lid, and pulled up a sip of what tasted like black coffee, no cream, no sugar. I made sure I left a lipstick mark where he'd sip before I handed it back. "Because I took a chance. I'm the one who went after you." I held the cup as his fingers wrapped around it, lying along my hand, knowing I should savor this somehow: the first time we actually touched. "Was I wrong, Mr Collins?"

"Wrong?" He gave a half-smile and took his coffee back; I felt a possessive little thrill when he brought my lipstick stain to his mouth. "You're not doing anything wrong."

I caught his meaning and held my breath. "Neither are you."

He looked away a moment, but his posture didn't change. I didn't catch any tension or nervousness in the way he slouched on the seat. I made sure his head was elsewhere, then dropped my eyes straight to his crotch. If he'd been hard, his running shorts would certainly have shown it... but alas, no tension there either. Well, I told myself, maybe later. I had time now. Because I had him here, in person, with me. I dragged my eyes back to his face in time for him to look back at me. "I think my wife might disagree with you there, Sophia," he said gently.

I let my breath out, my brain searching for words. I could still scare this man away, and the thought frightened the shit out of me. "I'm sure she would, Alexander," I told him, my own voice dropping to match his, "but you're here now. And it doesn't feel wrong. Or... tell me. Tell me if it does. And I'll delete your number and drive on home." I hadn't expected to issue an ultimatum, that was for fucking sure, but here I was. My instincts were alive and shouting, so I followed them. "I won't even flirt when you come into Silly PUTTy's with your family. But say it now, okay? If it feels wrong? Because if you don't, I think I'll probably still go after you." I sat there quietly then, striving for the zen he seemed to have, my leg still cocked beside him with goosebumps now rippling across my thigh under the yoga pants.

I sipped my coffee and waited.

He nodded, his lip pushing out in a quick, decisive pout, like a general figuring which troops to move next. "Yeah," he said at last, and there was no sighing, no exasperation as he said it. Just a fact. "She'd disagree with you there. But the moon looks beautiful tonight, and you want to sit here and watch it. So." He nodded at me. "I'll watch it with you."

I felt my triumph. It shot through me and out of me and toward him, toward the world, pulsing in time with my racing heart. But I warned myself not to show it. I wasn't a teenager, and I'd be damned if I acted like one. So I permitted myself nothing but a long, fluttering blink, the kind you make when you've just finished a marathon or hung up after they offered you a job. I nodded, adapting myself to my new reality.

My Alexander.

I said nothing, but moved in to claim my prize. I curled up in a little ball and wedged myself into his side, my head at his armpit and one hand possessively across his chest, where I could feel his heart beat strongly beneath his solid body. It didn't surprise me when he wound his arm around me and pulled me closer, tighter, his hand big and strong and confident on my hip. I did sigh then, taking in his smell, the warmth of his body, and my thumb began to stroke gently across his nipple under the workout shirt.

My other hand was pinned between our bodies, uselessly. But that was okay. I knew now that both my hands would get a chance to do amazing and glorious things with him. As his would with me. I looked, just once, down his body to see his crotch from this new and frighteningly intimate place, and just as it hadn't surprised me when he encircled me with his arm, it didn't surprise me to see the half-erection under his shorts.

I wanted to lean down and suck him. But something told me this moment wasn't over yet, and he proved it when his chest rumbled at my ear, his voice a gravel pit I wanted to fall into. "So what's next?"

"Next?" I let my hand wander, feeling his chest, the front of his shoulder, the slight swell of his belly. "Next, you do whatever you want to do, Mr Alexander Collins."

He took that in, the park silent around us but for the stir of a few crickets and the whoosh of a single, lazy car down Grove Street. "Okay." And then his hand rose, sliding up my body, palming the side of my face with slight, easy pressure; I knew what he wanted, and uncoiled enough that I could raise my face to his. The kiss was all him, his to control, a breathless and clit-thrumming dance of tongues and teeth, long seconds of him tasting me while I, for the first time, surrendered to whatever he wanted.

I almost came right there. Just from that kiss. It was perfection.

We talked afterward, sitting on our bench in the heavy summer night, our coffees cooling beside us. He was understandably curious what I wanted from him; baked into the question was his own disbelief that anything he had could possibly interest me. "I got dumped a few weeks ago," I explained, "by a guy. Older guy. It wasn't anything emotional, but it was intense."

"Ah." He was stroking the top of my ass by then, his hand taking what it wanted. "So I'm a rebound."

"Not what I'm getting at, Alexander," I sighed into his chest. My fingers had made their way inside his shirt by then, ruffling the glory of his chest hair beneath. He was by far the hairiest man I'd ever met, and I already wanted to rub my face in it. He was wasting no time expanding my horizons. "I've already had about four or five rebounds this month." Carl, Mike, that other guy... "The point is that none of them did anything for me."

"No?"

"No. Like I told you, on text? I'm tired of picking up boys. I want men now." I looked up at him, suddenly shy. "Well. One man. Does that sound desperate?"

He waited in the night, staring off toward the trees, his body still a rock beneath me. My rock. "It sounds fine to me," he said at last, and when he looked back down at me his mouth had that rakish tilt I remembered from the ice cream counter, that day of the giftcard.

I let myself chuckle. "I'll bet it does, under the circumstances," and then I had my other hand free, both my arms twining up around his neck with most of my body stretched across his lap; an awkward position, but the only thing that would have saved it would have been me straddling him. And if that happened, I'd fuck him. And I wanted that, but not on a park bench at nine-thirty at night. Because I didn't want to go to jail.

So instead I parted my lips again, offering myself, the second kiss just as perfect as the first. He was a good kisser, slow and insistent like a tide, rather than wet and violent like a wave. His hands found my back, my sides, sampling what I felt like, and there was no way suddenly that I was going to break this off. So I listened to my body and came up slightly off the bench, my legs uncoiling a bit so I could press myself to him more fully, and when I opened my eyes his were closed.

He lost his slouching passivity about halfway through the kiss, sitting up and dragging me with him like a limpet on a shark. By this time his hand had a firm and greedy grasp on my butt, kneading it, and even before we parted in a chin-slicked mess of spit I knew that I wouldn't be able to keep my hand out of his shorts for much longer. He stared at me, our bodies painfully close, eyes wide in the night. "When do you have to get back home?" I whispered urgently.

"I've lost track of time," he admitted, "but it's not like I have all night."

I nodded and held his gaze, feeling the heat rising up my body from my legs now. "I told you a little bit ago what was next," I rasped. "What do you want to do, Mr Collins?"

He sighed raggedly. "I want to get off this bench." It came out with something of his usual self-assurance, but I could hear a note of urgency way back in his throat that turned my heat up a little higher. "But I can't."

"Can't?" I frowned in confusion, but only for a moment before my whole face opened up into a joyfully wicked smirk. I backed away from his chest and let him see me look long and hard down at his lap. And, speaking of long and hard... "Yeah. I can see that might make it difficult to walk." I squinted. "Wait. Those are those shorts with, like, a liner? Like briefs?" He nodded. "Jesus. That must hurt."

He smiled back at me with that hint of swagger most men get when you talk about their dicks. "It's okay. But, like I said, getting up off the bench..."

"Yeah." We stayed like that a few seconds, smirking, his hand groping me in a most delightful way. "I'm not sure it's going to go away, just sitting here."

"You're probably right," and his face took on a gloating leer as I lowered my hand very deliberately to his lap, landing right on top of what felt like a shotgun barrel. He watched me, one hand brushing my hair out of my eyes, his legs parting slightly as I explored his length. "Not with what you're doing."

I laughed. "You have to get home," I pointed out, my voice very husky as I gripped the hard-on I'd caused, "but is there somewhere else we can go? Real quick?"

"Real quick?" He laughed. "How quick were you thinking?"

I straightened, feeling a tautness through my entire body, my hand greedy on his cock. Claiming it, like a conquistador. "As quick as you want me to be, Alexander." I purred it, even in my sex-crazed brain reminding myself this was about him. For him. I wanted him in control. "What I'm thinking doesn't matter. All I'm doing is going after a man." We both giggled at that, and now my hand was making slow, even strokes in his lap. Squeezing a little. "Tell me what you want, Mr Collins."

It came out as a long, tense sigh. "I want you, Sophia."

Oh my fucking god, yes! "Then you're going to have to get up off this bench, I'm afraid." I set the example, ripping myself out of his arms and rising fluidly to my feet. I felt like a track star, ready to race, my senses totally clear. Focused.. "My backseat isn't all that big," I apologized.

"My truck," he rasped.

I made a show of looking around. "We're pretty much alone. I think you can get up." I watched, my grin spreading, as he burrowed his hand into his shorts and tried desperately to maneuver himself in there. "Come on." I held out my hand, and when he grasped it it already felt natural. Like we were dating. I watched him stand over me, both of us smiling at the way his shorts stuck out, ridiculously. "You really should have worn something else, Alexander."

"Start walking," he growled, my vagina responding with a twinge of its own, and I obeyed without another thought, the two of us leaving our half-full coffees there like the forgotten props they'd always been. We marched quickly through the shadows behind the bandstand and back into the glow of the parking lot lights, buzzing above as they always did. "Hold on," he said from behind me. His hand left mine, a quick stab of emptiness before I heard his truck beep loudly a couple times. "Okay. It's unlocked."

"Fuck yes." I had to reach up high to pop the door handle, the steps well off the ground for a woman as short as me. It thrilled me to know he was there behind me, dick in hand, studying my ass in the yoga pants as the door swung open before me into a storm of candy wrappers and crumbs.

"Sorry about the mess." But he wasn't. He was just filling a conversational pause, and I couldn't possibly have cared less as I hiked up off the step and flew across the bench seat, the extended cab feeling as big as a master bedroom around me. This was moving much faster than it should, faster even than I had hoped, but my body knew what it wanted and, apparently, so did his. I bounced off the far door and then turned quickly, kneeling low on the seat to watch him climb up into the cab and shut the door behind him.

He crouched under the headliner, sort of half-sitting on the seat with his eyes squarely on mine under the dome light. "Well," he said at last, his voice still all raspy, "you went after the man."

I just smiled at him and, very slowly, peeled off my shirt.

There's always something special about revealing yourself to a guy for the first time, even a rando guy who's not going to get inside your pussy. This was way, way more significant. Because, for the first time, I'd made a cold-blooded decision to give myself to a man, a real man with a real life and real consequences, and now I was actually doing it. Giving myself. And as my sleek tits popped out into the glow of his backseat, nipples firming under his gaze, I straightened my back until my head brushed the roof and just looked at him.

Because clearly, now, words no longer mattered.

He stared back at me, taking in my chest, every detail of my dark nipples and my firm curves, before his big hand reached out once, strongly, and engulfed my pale young tit. I gave a raggedy exhale, just once, feeling like that chick in the King Kong movie: powerless, like an object. Like I was just there to be pawed, groped.

I fucking loved it.

His adam's apple bobbed once, then twice, then he was untying his drawstring and fumbling his shorts, amazingly, down over his hips. The elastic drew his shaft down, down, down, until it freed the tip and the whole glorious package went bouncing fitfully back up.

"Ohh." I know I let out a moany little sigh, as corny as that is. I'd seen dicks in the backseats of cars before, many times, but this was different. There was something magical about this experience, something hushed, almost religious. His penis was a thick, stubby mass of hard male flesh, raw and bumpy, full of delightful shadows and with a long, prominent vein squiggling across its top.

I was reaching for it while he still pushed his shorts down to his knees, needing to feel its weight. I couldn't quite make out his shadowed balls yet, but I wanted to bury my face in them and just inhale. Just breathe him in. I needed his scent on me, and something in my eyes probably told him that; he sat down on the crumb-covered seat and scooted closer, looking down at me with that inscrutable look in his icy eyes. My fingers reached his cock just as he got himself all set in the middle of the seat, my knees sliding to the trash-filled floor of the extended cab.

His dick was hot, like a curling iron that had been plugged in and left on. As he sat now, I could finally see his balls, big and firm and leathery, waiting between his hairy thighs; I grinned at the sight just as the dome light winked out, leaving us in that momentary wash of darkness before the parking lot lights made their way through Alexander's window tint and painted us both in golden light.

Still holding him, I eased myself between his knees. Neither of us spoke, nor needed to: this was the point where everything was perfect and sublime. I could look up at him and feel, even without seeing his face clearly, that I was being whatever it was he needed me to be. I was enough for him. And that was enough for me.

In a frenzy of lust, I raked my hands down the top of his thighs, then back up past his dick and under his shirt, feeling the thin synthetic fabric give against the backs of my hands as I forced it upward until he got the message and wriggled out of it, both of us now bare-chested in the frosted light. I saw the way the moon bounced off his chest hair, each coarse curl giving way to my slowly dragging fingers, grass under the passage of a snake. I savored him, his body, his skin, my hands coming together through the thicker, bushier hair at the root of his dick, my spread fingers framing his cock.

He was beautiful.

He inhaled sharply when I dived forward. I'd been longing to bury my face in his crotch, and now I was tired of waiting. My nose parted his balls, my lips and tongue wide open to taste his taint; I reveled in his scent. He smelled strong, rich, like a man, and I raised my face slowly to let his sack drag along my mouth. "What do you want to do, Mr Collins?" I asked it with my lips resting atop the tip of his cock, in a slow whisper with my hands still bracketing his root.

His answer electrified me. For he was all action now, no words. His big hand came down to grasp my head, a giant palming a basketball, and then he pulled me up over his head and down, down that thickly veined shaft, his flavor filling my mouth and traveling straight to my pussy.

I know I moaned. I know it because his fingers tightened in my hair, almost painfully.

Slowly I sank down, determined to be this man's goddess, the best he'd ever had. I wanted to fill myself with him, but even more than that I wanted him to feel more pleasure than he ever had. I wanted my mouth on his cock in the light of the parking lot to be something he'd remember on the day he died. So I stared up at him unblinking, my thumbs caressing the sides of his balls while I took him deep, my throat pulsing when I tried to swallow his head.

Fuck, he was thick. And still he pushed me down onto himself, the pressure firm and slow, wanting me to keep going. I knew I was gagging, but it wasn't too bad, and in my mind was one clear, solid thought: that I'd wanted nothing in my life so badly as to deep-throat this man. Nothing at all. So when at last my nose met my fingers, still twined among his pubes, I felt a sense of... fuck, of what? Achievement? Peace? Contentment? All of those things.