Omakase

It isn't that none of this was interesting—on the contrary, I would love to have learned more about her. It's just that the sense I'd gotten when we were setting this up was that we were two available adults pretty obviously contemplating a one-night hookup, and here I had managed to steer the conversation into more conventional first-date territory, for which there simply wasn't time if I wanted to close the deal tonight. But now I had lost the momentum and didn't know how to get it back.

Fortunately, at the end of her second beer, she transitioned with: "Well, anyway... So I see you cheated."

"Cheated?"

"Showered. Freshened up. Me, I stink. I'm all sweat and fish funk. You have the advantage."

"How do you know I don't like sweat and fish funk?"

"Ha! You'd really be the perfect man then. So where would you like to go?"

"You mean....? "

"Like, go get a drink...?"

"We have drinks right here," I gestured to the bar.

"We do."

"I should," I started, but trailed off. "Look, I don't know how this will sound, but I should maybe mention... I'm actually staying with Amar. Like, on his couch."

"Meaning you don't have a place in the City."

"Egg-exactly," I stammered.

"I'm in Park Slope."

"Is that close to here?"

In lieu of reply she let out a laugh that was part snort, and fell silent, staring for a contemplative moment at the suds in the bottom of her pint glass. "So tell me," she said at last, "did you find your inner boy scout?"

My heart pounded and I'm sure my face flushed and I stammered out, "I-I think so."

She smiled a big lascivious smile and said "You did: I can tell by your face." I relaxed a bit, smiling as well now. "Bart, I know this is not ideal, but... I have a couch in my office...."

"Who says that's not ideal?"

She blushed a deep red and closed her eyes, shielding them with her hand and shaking her head slightly. "Welcome to the Big Apple! Where the restaurateurs will do it with you on an old ratty couch in the backroom without even so much as a first date."

"Ha. I'll have to move here."

"Seriously, I'm a little—I mean, I don't do this, you know."

"So why are you doing it now?"

She looked at me and shook her head. "I don't know," she said, falling silent again and holding my gaze for another long moment. Finally, she said: "I just want to."

"I can't think of a better reason than that."

And with that she leaned into me, awash, as predicted, in sweat and "fish funk," and gave me a gentle but passionate kiss. As our lips met and her tongue greeted mine, she supported herself on the bar with one arm while her other hand found its way around my side. I stepped off my stool to encircle her in an embrace, eager to feel her body against mine but careful to keep my hands respectfully clear of anywhere erogenous until invited.

After a few moments of making out, she said, "Well, then, shall we to the boudoir?" She stepped down off her stool and took my hand, leading me across the elegantly decorated black-marble-and-bamboo dining room, through the swinging aluminum kitchen doors with their Plexiglas, portal-style windows, and on through the cool, bleachy-sterile stainless-and-white-ceramic environment of the kitchen. At last we arrived at what was easily the crummiest room in the otherwise immaculate restaurant—the back office.

Barely bigger than a walk-in closet, contrasting coats of pastel paint had been applied by a previous owner to a cheap, fake-wood paneling that had been stapled to the wall, probably by a yet earlier owner. A safe sat in the corner behind the cluttered wooden desk; the couch appeared to sag a little but, with an of-recent-vintage blue slip cover, held its cards closer to its chest than did the other furnishings. Kiku flipped on the light and, as though seeing this all through my eyes for the first time, looked up at me and said "I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly!" I protested. "You're hosting."

"You have to understand, it would be a waste to invest money in making the office nice at this stage in the business."

"Again, don't be silly," I said, stooping to kiss her. Then I took her in my arms and felt her big, soft body crushing comfortably against my own. It was a matter of less than a moment before I had a stout erection bulging in my pants.

Kiku took a step back, one hand on my chest, the other presented with upturned palm. "Boy scout?" she said. I fished a condom out of my jacket pocket and placed it in her hand. "Thank you," she said with a curtsey, before dropping to her knees. I watched as she unfastened my belt, zipped down my pants, delicately removed my throbbing shaft from my underwear and, with practiced care, pinched the reservoir tip and rolled the condom onto me down to the base. She glanced up at me with a twisted smile and then began vigorously fellating me. The effect was blunted by the condom of course, but she was very energetic, which overcame some of the problem. Still, after a few minutes I asked: "Can I go down on you?"

"Mmm," she slurped, "depends on how much of a boy scout you were."

"Not without dam?"

"'Fraid them's the rules."

"You don't have any kitchen gloves or anything I could lick through?"

She stopped in mid-stroke, frowned thoughtfully and said, "You know, I never thought of that."

The action was interrupted while we got into the supply room off the kitchen and stood there under the florescent light reading the side of the box of latex gloves together, trying to decide if the material they were made of was the substantial equivalent of dental dam. We decided in any case it was worth trying and, after cutting open one of the gloves to expose a single surface, we returned to the office, bringing the box with us for back-up.

Standing before the couch I helped her out of her happi; underneath she had only a white t-shirt and bra. She kicked off her shoes and I was quite a bit taller than she, so I had to stoop to kiss her neck, shoulders and, now, as I unhooked her bra, bare breasts and nipples. I paused to take in the sight of her sprawling belly, my pulse quickening at the beautiful sight. Then I sat her down on the couch and began the task of unfastening her pants, rolling them, pants and panties together, down over her endless round backside, and off over her socks.

Clutching my scrap of latex, I knelt to the floor and, hands behind her knees, lifted and parted her enormous, jiggling thighs. As I descended toward her pubic triangle she said: "Now, remember, I eat a lot of fish, so...."

"Shut up," I scolded her with a smile. It was true, as I drew near, that her pussy was powerfully aromatic, but had the scent only of the day's labors, of being bound up in her sweaty pants all day. If anything the fragrance only turned me on more. I was wishing I would be able to taste something other than latex.

I spread the material over her mound and began tentatively tonguing at it. It had a rubbery, strangely powdery taste, and required a bit of imagination at first, but as the latex moistened, and as her clit began to respond to the gentle pressure, engorging and eliciting quivers and moans, I quickly adjusted to the experience and started really getting into it. With my palms on either side of her sweet sour gash I gently spread the fatty shroud and dove in, enthusiastically lapping at her protected button and relishing in the scruff of trim, sweaty public hair teasing at my nose.

She was really responding now, and I discovered about her something that I would not have predicted, and something with which I didn't have very much experience: She was a talker. Me, I'm a fairly quiet lay, as were most of the women I'd been with to that point, so it surprised me—and not really in a good way at first—when she began moaning repeatedly: "Oh yeah that's it! Oh yeah, lick that pussy! Yes! Yes! Lick it oh yes! Lick that good pussy!"

It is difficult to explain what I did not care for about this, other than that it had a histrionic feel to it—it sounded forced and contrived. It was, I suppose, hard to believe that someone overcome with ecstatic pleasure could form complete sentences like that. But it was nothing I couldn't work with.

It didn't stop—only grew louder, in fact, as she began adding in instructions and questions (!) along with her expressions of approval. "You like that, huh? Does that pussy taste good?"

To which ridiculous propoundings I was necessarily only able to grunt dentist-office affirmatives. "Mm—[slurp]—Mm-hmmm!" nodding. It was a little embarrassing.

"Oh yes!" she persisted. "That feels so good I want your fingers inside me! Get another glove and put your fingers inside my pussy!" I quickly complied, so that before long I was tonguing her clit from the top-side, while at same time my now gloved, up-turned fore and middle fingers were insider her, methodically stroking the area behind her triangle, to which stimulation she reported her approval in verbose detail: "Oh y—oh my g—YES! Oh, oh, oh god, Bart, you're hitting my—YES!! Right there, right fucking there oh my god you are hitting my fucking g-spot oh my GOD!!!"

I listened to all this and found myself a little unenthused, but resolved to apply the fundamentals. I was licking and stroking in a rhythm that was obviously working for her and that was all that mattered. It was mechanical.

"Oh I'm gonna come, Bart! Bart, I'm gonna come!" At this forecast I resisted the urge to change my stroke, diligently persevering in the rhythm that had brought her to this point, and was shortly rewarded with a quaking, quivering mountain of jiggling contractions, as she began moaning (wordlessly for once) in that vaguely whimpering way some women have, during orgasm, of making it sound as though they are about to cry. "Oooooooh!" she moaned.

I deposited my gloves on the floor, first hugging and kissing, then laying my head on her gently heaving belly. My ear sank into her muffling belly fat and I could hear pulsing and body-noises. I lay there for a moment, savoring the welcome silence of her afterglow, vicariously enjoying her satisfied reposed, and therefore momentarily distracted from my own need.

But only momentarily. Before long the complaint of my aching cock could not be ignored. I rose, fished a fresh condom out from the pocket of my jacket where it was draped over the chair (the other condom had been discarded before we went in search of the gloves), and I positioned myself to mount her.

There were logistical challenges. Before, she was at a diagonal off the couch, half sitting, half reclining. Now we rotated so as to use the couch lengthwise and she was, it seemed, simply too wide. The action was interrupted once again while we pulled the slip cover off the couch, enabling us to dispose of the back cushions and thereby free up another five inches of width. Finally I was in position.

I reeled with pleasure as my cock pushed past her tight lips and, after a few strokes, coating my rubber with her fluids, I pulled off my shirt and flopped down on her big pillowy body. My flexors flat on the couch cushion described two prongs of a tripod as, between her broad thighs, I had one leg crossed over the other behind me so that my lower half was supported on a single knee. I supinated my hands and grasped her shoulders from the back so that I could pull myself hard into her.

She started up again right away: "Oh yes oh yes oh yes!" she moaned. "Fuck my pussy!" My body was slapping against hers in a fast rhythm now, slap slap slap slap slap, her enormous round ass flattening and flaring against the compressed surface of the couch, her big belly and boobs bouncing back and forth, crushing against my chest. "Oh tell me how it feels baby, tell me baby, talk to me."

This took me somewhat aback. No one had ever asked for me for "dirty talk" and I didn't have anything prepared. "Oh," I tried, "that feels... good." It fell flat and I knew it.

"Oh come on, baby, come on," she tried again, prompting me by starting her own. "Oh that cock feels so good up inside me like that! Oh yes! Yes! I can feel every inch of that thick veiny cock of yours pounding my spot. Can you feel me? Can you feel me, baby? That pussy feel good, baby? "

"Oh god!" I sputtered. "That pussy feels good."

"That feel good? You like fucking that fat pussy?"

"Oh it feels—it feels so good!" And suddenly something strange began to happen. It did feel good. But it wasn't just that—it had felt good all along, after all. Rather, there was something about the act of saying it, of telling her how good it felt, that was suddenly freeing, exciting, exhilarating. Somehow saying it out loud focused my awareness on the intense pleasure I was experiencing and started to push me over the crest. "Oh, god, yes, Kiku, YES!" I all but shouted—totally out of character for me. "I love fucking that—" I could not quite manage the word "fat,"—"love fucking your tight pussy!"

"Oooooh!" she moaned approvingly, and I could audibly detect the change in her tone, the intensification of her moan that occurred when I finally loosened up enough to tell her how it felt without restraint. It was as if the dirty talk were an integral part of the whole sexual experience for her, and she wasn't going to be completely satisfied until she got it. Now she was getting it, and it was getting better right away. "Yeeees!" She moaned. "Tell me!"

Now, shaking off my self-consciousness about it, it started to come easily, naturally. "Oh, Kiku, that pussy feels so fucking good! I love to feel my cock up inside that tight wet pussy!"

"God I love that cock!"

"God that pussy feels amazing. I want to shoot my load up inside you, baby."

"You want to come inside my pussy?"

"...want to come inside..."

"You gonna do it baby? Gonna bust that big nut up inside me? Yeah?"

"Yeah... yeah."

And it was as though, by talking about it, we were making it happen. I was still slap-slap-slapping against her like before but I had totally crested now, rocketing past the point of no return and any second now---"OH!" I shouted, and she shouted in return, as I was besieged by an almost violent orgasm; waves upon waves riddled my whole body as I shot off thick streams into my swelling condom.

"Yes, shoot that load up inside me," she was yelling, "flood that fat pussy."

I was, of course, not actually coming inside of her. The condom held intact. But perhaps that was part of the function of the dirty talk, to weave a fantasy that grafted onto our reality, to let us imagine the happy fiction that I really was coming inside of her.

When my contractions finally passed I lay there for a long moment, sprawled sweatily over her enormous soft frame, which now rose and feel steadily with her gradually normalizing breaths. She was stroking my sweaty blond hair. "That was amazing," I finally managed.

"Yeah," she said. "It really kind of was." Then, after another moment, "'n I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"My chatter freak you out a bit?"

"No! Well, to be honest, it did at first a little—I'm just not used to it. But then it was really hot."

"I had an inkling."

We lay there in silence for maybe ten minutes before reluctantly rising to begin dressing and reassembling the room, disposing of errant scraps of latex and restoring the couch to its former condition. I caught a glimpse of the clock and noticed that it was after 4 a.m.

"Well," she said, as we walked out into the darkened dining room. "If you're ever in New York." She flipped on the house lights making us both squint painfully in the sudden harsh glare, before quickly dialing down the attenuator to more reasonable ambiance.

We exchanged lingering kisses before she said, with evident difficulty, but with resolve: "I really gotta be getting back to the Slope."

"All good things," I sighed.

"'Fraid so."

"Walk you to your subway?"

"Sure."

We stepped out into the early autumn chill and relative calm of the pre-dawn City. She locked up behind us and we walked arm-in-arm to her subway. We thanked each other for a lovely evening and I watched her, her broad body now clad in a beige trench coat, her shiny black hair in a pony tail down her back, as she descended the steps into the station. Then I turned around and started making my way back toward Amar's apartment.