Sex in Black & White - Story 01

2021 Nellskitchen. All rights reserved. The essayist asserts her right to be identified as the author of 'Sex in Black and White - Part 1, Scheming.' This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review. If you see this story on any website other than Literotica.com, it is pirated without the author's permission.

SIB&W: Part 1 -- Scheming

In shadows shying from the light,
I lived a life of black and white.
But venture out did I one day,
to chance the world in shades of gray.

Looking back, I felt good about it, almost smug, especially considering what could have gone wrong.

He could have been nasty, and I likely would have accepted it, but he was not. Instead, he was appealing, sweet, even—too much so. He could have been cruel, which I might have consented to, but he was not. He could have dumped me off somewhere afterward, but he had not done that either. Instead, he drove me to the station where he could have left me straightaway, but he did not. As if we were acquainted, he pointed to the correct platform, walked me to the barrier, even kissed me goodbye.

That was an hour ago. Now? Now, alone, I await the train, just another shivering woman in the crowd, as alone as the loneliness that brought me to chance all this in the first place.

I confess to the smugness; that is, I plead guilty. It is one of my imperfections; it surfaces whenever I succeed against the odds. Today I succeeded, pulled it off. I did this thing—and deserve a bit of joy. That notwithstanding, I might go back to him, to do it again—if he will have me.

My little happening was exciting, and the self-consciousness I drowned in three long years ago, the last time I fucked a stranger, does not haunt me this time, at least not yet. In fact, being a fucked woman feels kind of good. But whether to see him again is a decision I will make if he contacts me, although, given the way things ended, it is doubtful.

The cold evening numbs me, and I wish I had worn my heavier coat. This morning, donning the light jacket, now barely shielding my tired body, had been a decision of style and show, not warmth. The more delicate look was smarter, and as I dressed for him, looking smart mattered. That was then too. Now things are different; I crave warmth. However, the jacket will have to do as I am far from home, and warmth is a fantasy of the moment.

To occupy my mind, I browse the dozen or so beverage options offered at the station's vending machine. I think about Anya, my best friend. What will she say when I reveal all of this to her?

She will be pissed at me. Frankly, I am pissed at me, not for sneaking off to meet a stranger for sex, but for hiding it from her, mainly since she had unwittingly triggered my little experiment.

Setting aside the part about not telling her, a betrayal somehow, I am all right with the rest—about the sex, I mean. True, I had wanted more, but it had not gone badly.

The Anya concern, I, like a modern-day knockoff of Scarlett O'Hara, 'will think about tomorrow.' For now, I crave time for myself to wallow in the moment's questionable euphoria. Experience with euphoria has taught me it does not last. I know, before long, 'Mira,' the name I give my conscience, will nag me, propelling me to make sense out of something senseless.

My eyes return to the beverage machine. Orange juice is appealing, tingling liquid catching Florida's legendary sunshine. I reject it, however. Sunshine does not fit a freezing January night. Like the sex site where I found the stranger, the machine offers too many choices, and frankly, I have had it with choices.

I ponder plain water, healthy but blah, I reject it as well. That leaves Diet Coke—very chemical—very bad for me. Naturally, I press that button, even smirk at the thought of having considered a different swill, mainly since Diet Coke is all I drink.

Taking a swig, I wince as the tingling bubbles scratch the back of my sore throat, a reminder of something about which I do not need reminding. However, the addictive beverage has its place, acting as a tether, drawing me home after spending time on my back, adrift in the alien world I created. I need something normal, something entirely mine, so there you are.

I sucked a stranger's cock. Now, I need to disguise his taste. In the heat of the moment, I enjoyed eating his precum. It was sweet, but now, it is getting on my nerves. I need to think, and the journey home, especially after doing something so stupid, presents opportunity, a chance to process the day, to decide whether my actions were complete or only partial lunacy.

A frightful thought strikes me. Had the man turned out to be an ax murderer, I would not be telling this story; I would have vanished, body parts buried in his yard. Since I had not told a soul I was meeting him; I would be another missing Irish girl, an occurrence not as uncommon as one might think in a city the size of London.

Fortunately, I did not disappear, so my bigger problem is figuring a way to tell Anya. She will spot the dangers; screwing a stranger, hazarding venereal disease, God knows what else. And something just as fearsome; Anya, a prostitute, will scold me for giving my body away for free—just like I did last time. I hope Anya will not come right out with it. She hates divulging her fears—for fear I too will fear.

Yes, I had sex with a different stranger three years ago. All that came of it was a 'minor' pregnancy scare and some soreness. Since then, I lived a simple life of work, study, and the oddest friendship with, of all things, Anya, a pricey escort living in far off New York.

We grew incredibly close, so close it almost seemed she was with me through this afternoon's lust, anxiously observing as I went down on him, watching as he positioned himself between my quivering legs and frowning in agitation as he aggressively lunged.

"To look at you, Taryn, no one would guess you love danger," Anya observed. She was correct; risk taunted me, and I habitually nibbled at it. She was correct; to me, risk was a toy, to her, a lifestyle. However, when it comes to fucking, knowing that does not matter. Sometimes a woman needs sex, to feel a man's strength and carelessness, to discover whether his manhood might make her feel more alive than before.

Once I decided to have sex, I turned into my usual obsessive self. I browsed internet cocks as one might sample forbidden fruit at some virtual farmers' market. Like a modern-day Goldilocks, I analyzed erections, finding this one too big, that one too small, another—just right.

Now, as I wait to return home and a full hour after the abrupt finale to our Biblical 'joining,' I am satisfied, even vain. Strangely, sex with the stranger did it for me. There was excitement and zero commitment. It was simple, perhaps too simple. Thinking back on my brief time in his bed and standing here hiding amid a gaggle of other women, I grinned.

There is another matter, however. Minor in the grand scheme of things, I am furious with myself over the rudeness of my departure from his house. I practically ran out on him moments after he ejaculated. Through those final moments, I panicked, pushed him from my aching sex, scurried about his place, snapping up clothes like a schoolchild caught in the supply closet with her teacher. It was ill-mannered. Still, he was a stranger; he fucked me free of charge—tough shit!

Keeping secrets from Anya is worse. It is inexcusable, and I am determined to tell her every lurid detail when I get home. My issue with her is complicated. To begin, she looks out for me. Had she known, she would have said 'don't.' That is why I kept it from her. I needed sex, not her brand of in-your-face common sense. It was strictly a, do it, and beg forgiveness afterward, kind of adventure.

Before today, I did not keep things from her, nor had she from me. Now, I need a girlfriend's take on my misbehavior.

Of course, part of having a call girl as your best friend means the subject of sex surfaces regularly. I love when it happens because she gives me ideas I do not think of on my own. I ask her questions. She is candid with me, clipping my investigatory wings only when it threatens to breach the ironclad privacy of her clients.

One January day, out of nowhere, she flippantly turned to my erotic longings by dictating a mock schedule of raunchy tasks. She was joking, but I listened and tuned in to her experiences, making mental notes for future reference:

"Find a guy, Taryn," she advised, "anyone you like. Give him a hand job. Do it by March. That way, you can learn to handle semen. I will teach you to play with it after your guy ejaculates."

"Yuck!" I replied. "I can't do that. Playing with cum is my red line in the sand!"

"Don't give me that, Taryn," she admonished. "If you can't handle jizz, you can't handle sex; it's that simple."

"Play with it? I can't, Anya," I countered, knowing how childish I sounded. "Why can't I just wipe it up with a tissue or something?"

"Because," she answered matter-of-factly, "men love cum-play. You want to please your man, don't you? If not, he'll find someone else to do it."

I dug in my heels. "I can't do that!"

Having none of it, Anya snapped at me. "Consider it anyway," she restated. "You'll think up something. You better get used to sperm, or you will never experience those shocking fantasies of yours. Are you listening to me?" Sheepishly, I nodded.

"By May," she continued, "do a blowjob, and don't you dare swallow—not the first time! I don't care how much you like him!" Her tone was grim. I did not argue since her guidance conformed to my 'cum is gross' narrative.

Things got worse. "Have vaginal sex by July," she went on, "and anal by August. That's your schedule. Oh, and pick somebody whose baby-maker isn't huge, just in case you reach the anal stage with all this."

She laughed hysterically. I laughed too, but only a little. To Anya, her harmless sex schedule amounted to harmless banter. To me, it struck a chord, and though I laughed along with her, deep down, it was serious business.

Following her schedule meant informing her every step of the way, something I knew would be too embarrassing. As it played out, I told her nothing and assumed she assumed I took her suggestions as a joke.

Anya had more exciting things on her mind than the make-believe sex life of a practical virgin. But unbeknownst to her, I resolved to do what she half-facetiously recommended—with one crucial variation: I was an accountant; I liked efficiency; I determined to experience all of her sexual assignments in a single helping!

Soon after, I chose an internet sex site, studied men and what they offered, and ordered up a sex buddy who would leave me alone after our 'meet and fuck' finished. There would be no wining and dining. I did not want flowers or fictitious romance. Some doe-eyed boyfriend nipping the heels of my cherished privacy, pestering me for more of something that was not real to begin with, meant nothing. Scheming, I chided myself for not doing it sooner.

I kept the plan simple. And while I was curious about how relationships feel, they are high risk, and risk makes me uneasy. Much as that yearning urged me to lift the lid off the mysterious multicolored world of emotional intimacy, for the moment, having a real connection with a man was off the table. Taking that step means opening to another, showing my true colors. No, I decided, colors could wait for the day, if ever it came, when Mr. Right happened along. Sex would be physical, satisfying.

Thoughts, of course, come and go as they please, and the idea of romance loitered despite efforts to suppress them. Sometimes they even interfere with my otherwise detached approach to everything wicked. At that moment, however, I had decided on sex in black and white—no colors, no gray.

With scheming over, I decided to browse.

End Story 1 - Scheming