Promises Pt. 01

After a few songs, Destinee leans forward, brushing those outsized boobs across my chest, and yells in my ear. "I'm thirsty." I nod, knowing the routine. I kiss her lightly, then she heads for our table as I make my way to the bar.

Destinee is a Piña Colada kind of girl. When I approach, the bartender waves me past the line and around to the side where he already has one ready to go, along with a double shot of what everyone but the bartender and I think is Vodka. The Time Zone doesn't, as a rule, allow people to run a tab, but they break that rule for me. Rumors have circulated that I might be connected to the Russian mafia (ludicrous), but drinking only "vodka" and occasionally using the still fluent language of my childhood does nothing to dispel that gossip.

As I approach our table, there's already a guy perched on my chair, hitting on Destinee. She gives me a helpless look, but I know better. She needs to have guys want her.

I know just what to do in this circumstance. I painstakingly researched it and worked it out years ago, and I've done it dozens of times since.

I sit the drinks down on the table and put my hand on his shoulder, not too hard, but not just resting there either. My hands are almost freakishly large, even in proportion to my outsized frame, and I can feel his shock at how far my fingers extend down his chest while my thumb lands on his shoulder blade.

He turns, his face saying he already knows I'm a big guy, but his eyes go wide when he realizes just how big.

He's not a regular (obviously, or he would have known better than to have hit on my girlfriend in the first place), but he's a good-looking guy in a slightly rough-cut kind of way. At this point, most guys bow out with a nervous smile and quick apology. Unfortunately, this guy is hopped up on liquid courage and is willing to take his chances. I can understand that. Destinee really is that beautiful.

He shrugs out of my grip, then stands and faces me. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" he demands, the slur in his words telling me that my estimate of his inebriation is spot on.

"I'm her boyfriend," I say calmly and reasonably. "I realize you probably didn't know that when you sat down with her, so why don't we just shake hands and-"

He thinks he's catching me unawares by throwing a roundhouse punch in the middle of my monologue, but he'd telegraphed it from the moment he got to his feet. I slap his arm to the right just enough to make it miss, which has the added benefit of making him over-rotate and fall backwards against my chest. Before he can blink, my arms are wrapped tightly around his head and neck.

With the particular hold I have him in, I could snap his neck up high enough on his cervical spine to where he'd be dead before he hit the floor. I'm applying about half the force necessary to do exactly that, and he can feel it. Another inch or two, and his momma will be crying over his casket. I've never taken it that far and can't imagine that I ever will. He doesn't know that, though, so he doesn't so much as twitch.

"Now friend, let's be reasonable," I rumble. "I'm here to enjoy the evening with my lady friend, not get in some kind of silly confrontation. What do you say we both just go about our business and forget this ever happened?"

It's the most generous offer this clown has gotten in a long time, and he knows it. "Absolutely," he squeaks.

I release him, and he turns to me in fear, still expecting me to deck him. Instead I hold a hand out. "No hard feelings?" I ask, a friendly look on my face.

He hesitantly takes my hand. "Uh, none at all."

I glance over at the server. She gives me a knowing look. She's seen this happen before. "Set my new friend up with a drink if you please," I say. "On me."

She nods as the guy lets go of my hand and backs away. "Uh, thanks, but I think I'm calling it a night," he says.

"Suit yourself." I turn back to the table. Normally it's not a good idea to show your back in a situation like this, but I'm quite confident that this guy won't be messing with us again.

I sit down and hand Destinee her Piña Colada. "Thank you," she says.

At least the guy has warmed my seat for me.

We dance a few more times, mingle with some of the regulars, both as a couple and singly, and run up my tab with some more overpriced beverages. Finally, we've both done what we've come here for tonight, and she indicates that she's ready to go. I nod and toss back the last of my distilled water (I'm not going to leave a half-full glass on the table, because I don't want anyone to accidently discover that I don't imbibe), then stand and offer her my arm. Heads turn to watch as we leave, guys and girls imagining trading places with one or the other of us. I suppress a sigh of relief as we leave the pounding music behind.

Destinee doesn't really like my ride, despite it being nearly new, powerful, and expensive. It's got a turbo-diesel Cummins and all the amenities; leather, chrome, and killer stereo, but it's still just a pickup truck to her. She thinks I should drive a big Mercedes or BMW. The garage space at my shop is only big enough for one vehicle, though, and I don't feel safe having another one sitting outside in my neighborhood, especially since I'm not supposed to be living there. I need a truck for the things I do, so I've held firm on that.

I hand her in and we pull away from the club. Our talk is light and inconsequential. She's learned that while I'm polite and make all the right responses about her exciting day, working at the salon, it doesn't actually interest me in any way. Similarly, I know better than to try and regale her with the news of the progress I made on my project this afternoon.

I am certain that my encounter with the Lilliputian woman on the street today would interest her, but not in a good way, and I haven't yet figured out how to tell her about it. Meanwhile, we drive between the dark warehouses and small production facilities that are de rigueur in my neck of the woods. Turning into the small parking lot that my home shares with several other small cinderblock and galvanized steel buildings, I hit the remote and pull into the closed off section of my shop that serves as a garage. The heavy door thumps shut behind us.

Destinee used to say that where I live was kind of chic and cool, but recently her comments have been more likely to include words like "shabby" and "scary." Still, she's here with me tonight. She has her own apartment that she shares with a girlfriend, but I get her to myself a couple nights a week.

After the first time I brought Destinee home with me, I installed a separate spiral staircase that goes straight from the garage area up to my loft. She'd decided that having to make her way between my metal-working machines on the way to the front staircase was a bit intimidating. She evidently worried that they might suddenly come to life and jump out at her like in the Transformer movies that a previous boyfriend had insisted she watch with him. Designing, fabricating and installing the new stairs took me a full day, and like everything else about having Destinee as my girlfriend, it wasn't cheap.

I do admire her amazing ass as I follow her up the stairs though. The girl has got some bodacious curves, and the way that thing moves under her short skirt would be every teenage boy's midnight fantasy. As we hit the top of the stairs, I hit the switch that brings up the low, soft lighting I installed for times like this.

When I originally put my loft together, I'd hoped that I'd eventually be bringing women here, so I boned up on architecture and interior design, picking a style out of a magazine and following it slavishly. There are lots of warm woods and soft, colorful fabrics, and you'd never know you were up above a machine shop.

One wall is a bookshelf filled with the classics and modern best sellers. (The books I actually read are hidden in custom-built roll-out racks under the bed.) And what a bed it is. I splurged when I moved in, buying a custom-sized mattress. It's as wide as a king, but a foot longer to accommodate my height. You don't want to know what custom-sized, high thread count sheets cost.

There's a small but stylish kitchenette in the corner, all stainless steel, hand-rubbed cherry, and granite, complete with a built-in espresso machine. "Can I get you anything?" I ask her. She shakes her head and, without a word, comes into my arms.

We kiss deeply for a while as I run my hands up and down her magnificent body. She's a terrific kisser and I can quickly feel myself rising. She can feel it too and grinds her firm belly against me.

I slowly unzip the back of her dress, then slip a hand under the fabric and around her side, cupping a magnificently heavy breast. "Jesus, that's good," she whispers. Her nipple isn't hard yet, but it perks up when I run the side of my thumb across it a few times. I gently pinch and pull, and Destinee moans. She pulls the back of my expensive designer shirt up out of my pants and slides her hands up underneath, firmly caressing my back and tracing my muscles. I feel the bite of her nails, but she's careful not to press hard enough to leave lasting marks.

I use my other hand to slip her dress off her shoulders. Gravity does the rest and her garment pools on the thick carpet at our feet. She's now wearing nothing but the gold necklace I bought her for her birthday and a tiny yellow G-string that matches her dress.

I skillfully remove her necklace, reaching over to place it in the antique crystal bowl on the dresser, then she slides down the front of me, onto her knees. Looking up and giving me a grin, she unzips my pants and pulls my hard cock out. I'm nearly quivering in anticipation, because Destinee is an acknowledged master in the oral arts.

"I just love your pole, Peter," she murmurs, wrapping two velvet-soft fists around it. "I wish I had three fists, so I could cover it all at once. I've been wet all day, just knowing I get to play with it tonight." Then she slowly and gently twists each fist around me, working one higher and one lower until they meet in the middle. Even dry, she knows how to do this in a way that is frankly astounding. Then she begins to work on the dryness problem.

Destinee opens her mouth and takes me inside, just sucking and tonguing the head at first, but then taking me deeper. One downside of my size is that no woman will ever deep throat me, but she puts on a convincing show of trying. She begins to bob, banging me against the back of her throat and making the coughing and gagging noises that have evidently become popular in internet porn. A side benefit of this is the copious amounts of saliva that begin to coat me. She takes full advantage, running a fist up and down in long, wet strokes while her other hand caresses my balls. As always, it's amazing.

Destinee's aim is to make me come fast. The quicker she can make it happen, the better she feels she's doing, so I just relax and enjoy, employing none of my slowing techniques. I remove my shirt and kick off my shoes as she lowers my pants and removes them with my socks. Her G-string is now the only thing either of us is wearing.

It's probably no more than three or four minutes later when I feel myself teetering at the brink. Even now, I could easily pull myself back, but hey, this is just the first round.

"Oh Jesus, Destinee," I moan. "You're making me come!"

That's her cue, and she reaches over to the low table next to the dresser and snags the hand towel I placed there earlier. Holding it open on the palm of her hand, she releases me from her mouth and strokes me firmly until I blow my load onto the towel. She gently caresses me as I shudder, milking every last drop into the puddle. When I'm finished, she drops the towel into the large bowl on the table, then takes me gently back into her mouth as I come down from my high.

Destinee was very upfront with me the first time we made love, saying that she never lets men come in her mouth. She intimated that there was something in her past that gives her bad associations with it. Frankly, I suspect that it has something to do with her stepfather, for whom she has open and rabid contempt, but I'll probably never know for certain.

Sure, it would be cool if she let me come in her mouth, but in my experience, very few women actually enjoy a mouthful of cum, whether they spit or swallow. For Destinee, it's one of the perks of being gorgeous that allows her to be picky about what she will and won't do in the bedroom.

It's not long until I'm recovered enough to move on. Destinee takes my hands and I pull her to her feet. By now, her kiss has only a hint of my flavor, which I can live with. I knead her full, round ass cheeks, then use my grip to lift her up to me. She wraps her legs around my waist and grinds her privates against my stomach. She's more than ready for what's coming next.

I walk us over to the bed (on which I pulled the covers down to the foot before I left for the club) and supporting her back with my hand, lower us down onto it with me on top. I support my weight on an elbow as we kiss for a while longer. I run my free hand up and down her nearly naked body. Then I begin my southward trek.

My lips leave hers and I kiss her chin, then nibble my way down her jaw until I can suck an earlobe into my mouth. (Destinee learned early on that I like this, and tonight, on the drive back from the club, she had surreptitiously slipped her earrings into her purse.) I'm sure that her passionate moan now is strictly for my benefit, but that's quite all right.

I mix up my pattern a little as I move down, never wanting her to know exactly what's coming next, but she knows that my next stop is going to be high on her chest.

Destinee's breasts are amazingly buoyant, even when she's on her back, and it didn't take the discovery of the faint scars underneath them to tell me they're not all her. When we're alone, they're a bit bigger than I'd prefer, but they get a lot of attention when we're out, which, for my purposes, is more important. Her breasts are so big that they're complete handfuls for me. I love them and make sure she knows it, licking, sucking, and even gently biting down on her nipples.

Eventually, though, it's time to move on to the part of tonight's activity that she really loves. I kiss my way down Destinee's stomach, which is flat more due to her fanatical dieting than exercise. I lathe her navel for a long moment, making her squirm, but then show her some mercy and move down further.

This would be the moment that I would normally remove a girl's remaining clothing, but Destinee doesn't like to get completely naked. I'm imagining her stepfather again, but I've made my peace with her request.

I begin to kiss and lick her through the silky fabric, and she begins to moan in earnest. She only gets louder when I use my teeth and lips to move the tiny scrap of cloth to the side and expose her prominent lips. As might be expected of a girl who works in a full-service salon, Destinee is waxed clean.

I don't mess around now, plunging my tongue deep down into her folds. Destinee cries out at the sensation. I like it too. The fragrant bouquet is wonderful, but the best part about it is knowing the honest pleasure that Destinee gets when we do this. She's not faking anything now, and I throw myself into the process wholeheartedly.

Destinee likes it when I suck a whole lip into my mouth, and I take turns doing that with each of her lips in turn, going back and forth between them. I even chew a little, which really gets her going. She's getting very wet, and I periodically reach down to her taint to lap up the excess.

Finally it's time to do her very favorite thing, so I move up fractionally and slurp her clit out of its hood and begin to tongue it. Destinee explodes.

I have to hold her hips down as she thrashes, but I'm up for the challenge, not letting up even when she begs. "No, no, no!" she shrieks as I work her clit unmercifully. The first time I did this for her, I took her protests seriously, then learned that in this case, no really does mean yes. Now it would take a bulldozer to pull me off her sensitive center. I've learned that too much is still not enough when it comes to Destinee's clit.

As I work, I slide one, then two, long, thick fingers into her, pressing upwards and working her G-spot hard. Having those sensitive nerves stimulated in two places at once is more than enough to put her over the edge. Destinee comes hard for me. I don't let up on her, though, going flat out as she comes, then comes, then comes some more.

I know that most women need a respite, but not her. I've never found the point at which she's completely satisfied, but tonight I stop just before I cripple her.

I slide up and (after wiping my lips with the back of my hand) kiss her mouth. I don't believe she actually likes the taste of herself, but she likes to kiss after coming, so she puts up with it. When she's gotten herself back on an even keel, I reach over onto the nightstand for the condom that I unwrapped earlier and quickly roll it on. Destinee is barely conscious at this point, but she still takes me in her hand and guides me in.

We always start in missionary position, because that's where she is when I get done eating her. I begin to push into her, just a little at a time.

"Oh Jesus, Peter, you're so big," she moans. That may well be true, but I have little trouble sliding in. As tall as she is, she's unusually deep and can take most of my length too. Soon I find a rhythm, moving easily in and out while being careful to keep my weight off her.

This is when it always strikes me. Unbelievably, I'm actually making love with a beautiful woman. The sheer preposterousness of that nearly blows me away every time.

Twenty-two years ago, as a six-year-old, I found out that there was something profoundly and irrevocably different about me. You see, I don't experience the world in the same way that other people do. I probably don't even experience it in the same way that people with severe Autism or Asperger's do either. In me, the native ability to intuitively understand facial, verbal and relational cues is almost completely absent. Whatever part of the brain it is that handles that kind of stuff, with me it just didn't develop.

The vast majority of people unfortunate enough to be stuck with cognitive disabilities as severe as mine end up living their entire lives dependent on family or in an institution. But where nature cursed me in one way, it blessed me in another. I have an extremely high native intelligence. Like off-the-charts high, and I've been able to use it to compensate for my disabilities.

It took me time, an unfaltering desire to fit in, innumerable embarrassing experiences, and the heavy use of logic to figure out things that most people grasp intuitively. I spent years studying facial expressions until I could recognize them reliably and memorize what each of them meant. My journey to being able to decipher meanings from the nuances of speech was exceedingly long too, but I persisted until I could comfortably participate in conversations.

I was a decade late to the party, but my efforts to become, or at least to successfully mimic, a social being eventually led me to attempt relationships with women. These turned out to be another order of magnitude more difficult and, until now, none of my tries at a successful romantic relationship have gone well. There were many attempts, but only seventy-three women (I track these things) have agreed to a first date. Twenty-seven were willing to risk a second, and three (including Destinee) eventually agreed to become intimate with me. I was a virgin until a year ago, but all those women were crucial in my quest to understand the female mind. Each one served a purpose in advancing me toward my goal. That goal was to be able to get, and keep, a girlfriend like Destinee.