Susan: A Story

I could feel her move away. But even after a minute's rest I was afraid to look up at her for it was just beginning to sink in — what had I done? I had brutalized an ass! I was shocked, appalled, disgusted and as I lay with my face pushed into the bed, as it had been only moments before, pushed between her cheeks, I felt a wave of self-loathing and then embarrassment. What had I done? That's when I felt her hand in my hair, tugging gently but insistently, so, though I want to flee, to hide, I knew I had to face her.

When I looked up she was sitting with her legs crossed and a wide smile on her face, "Boy, you really do like my ass, don't you?"

I pushed back off the bed, stood up and walked around the bed to the bedside table, lifted my can of beer and drained half of it then sat down beside her, though I couldn't yet look at her. "God, I don't know where that came from, I honestly don't. I've never done anything like that before, never even thought of doing it." I felt empty and lost and revolted with myself.

I felt her hand push me. She was getting to her knees and she pushed me again so I went down on the bed and when I lay there, looking up at the ceiling, she told me to straighten out and turn over and, feeling I deserved whatever I was going to get, I did. She got off the bed. Nothing happened for a moment and then I could feel the end of the bed sink with her weight, then she pushed at my knees but it was when I felt her breath on my ass that I understood what she was doing. I moved to get up but she pushed my cheeks into the bed.

"Don't, Sue."

"Lay still," she said, as she kissed at my ass, little pecks while she dragged her tongue from one spot to the other, ever closer, until I could feel her fingers peel my cheeks open and her wet tongue circled my bud. "Get on your knees."

"Susan, don't do this."

"I want to. Get on your knees." I could feel her hot breath in my hole.

I wasn't going to. I was going to roll off ... but then what? Flee? Confess? Slit my wrists? Instead, I did what I was told, slowly, uncertainly, giving her lots of time to back away, but she didn't. As I rose up she continued to pry at my cheeks and suck my bud, pushing her tongue into me. When I rose high on my knees she reached around and lightly gripped my prick, and that's when I gave in to the pleasure: I leaned down, rested my head on my arms, spread myself wide and reveled in the absolute wonders of sexual abandonment — as she sucked on me, stabbing me with her tongue and pumping me until I became so weak from ecstasy that I fell to the bed, my belly resting in a pool of my own cum.

There was absolute silence for a full minute, I hadn't even breathed, then I heard her voice, "So, what do you think? Did you like it as much as I did?"

I didn't answer right away, didn't know what to say.

"Well?"

I tried to sound ... sophisticated, if one can be sophisticated after an act of bestial degradation, "The giving or the taking?"

"Both." She said, cheerfully.

"I don't know," I mumbled into the bedspread, "I'm still kind of shocked."

"What?"

I repeated myself, even less coherently, but she wasn't listening anyway.

"I absolutely love that, Sam, I love that you would do that to me, absolutely love it." I could feel her getting to her knees, "You can do that to me any time you want," she said, with a youthful joy so at odds with my own mood. Then, with both hands, she rustled my hair, "My ass, Big Guy, is yours for the taking."

I didn't look at her when I said it — I still couldn't face her. But I did laugh, "You don't know what you're in for."

She snickered then lay down beside me and pulled me to her so our lips were touching, lips that only moment before had been probing each other's asshole. "I can't imagine you doing anything to me that I won't absolutely adore," she punctuated her words with a muscular kiss.

When she broke free and pulled my head into her chest, I said, "I thought you were supposed to be a lousy lay?"

"Not when you love somebody as much as I love you." But she immediately stiffened with her words and in a moment said, "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

I was embarrassed, too, didn't know where to go with it so I tried to cover for her, "Hey, we're both a little sexed-up right now ... and that's a good thing." When I laughed, she did too, as she rolled off the bed and headed for the bathroom.

She was gone long enough for me to finish my beer and when she returned she saw the can in my hand so she turned around and in a minute handed me a cold one while taking the empty from me. "You should have a huge beer gut the way you pack this stuff away," she said, as she put the empty can on the table.

"I seldom drink like this. It's Dutch courage," I smiled, as I took a sip.

She sat down and brushed the hair from my brow, "Do you need it ... Dutch courage?"

"Thank you for doing that?"

"What?"

"I don't know what got into me."

"I liked it, Sam, honestly, I liked it a lot." Then she bent down and kissed me tenderly, "And I like you. I like you a lot."

But, I was feeling awful. It disgusted me that I would burrow my face into a woman's ass — at all, never mind before I had even given her a meaningful kiss, and I guess she could sense it because she got off the bed and walked over to the full length mirror on her closet door where she stuck out her ass and appeared to inspect it. "I don't get it though. It doesn't look that good to me."

I smiled but said nothing.

"Can you help me out here?" She flicked at one of her breasts, "I can tell you why I don't like these, but I sure don't see anything in this," she pinched a naked cheek. "What's there?"

She was trying to get me out of my funk and I appreciated it, "It's the total package, Susan."

She came back to the bed and kneeled on it with her ass facing me, "No, seriously, Sam, tell me. What's so good about it." Then she flopped down on her hands, her ass a foot away from my face and her long, thin breasts dangling down, her nipples almost brushing the covers.

That's the moment I fell in love with her. I didn't know it then, it took me maybe a month to figure it out, but that was the moment. It took a lot of guts for her to do that, to hang yourself out in the most awkward, even obscene position, with her ass wide open, with the tits she hated swinging so uselessly beneath her — and all of this just to bail a guy out. But I didn't know I loved her at the time, so I just leaned up and kissed her fabulous ass and said, "It's a case of, if you have to ask, you'll never understand," and I pulled her around and into my arms.

I've had the feeling before, a number of times, but one time I remember vividly. When I was a kid I had been going out with this girl for a few weeks and really liked her so I set it up perfectly, the right place, the right time and then I asked: would you go to the dance with me? 'Sorry,' she said, 'I'm going with Bobby.' I was crushed, absolutely crushed, painfully crushed — and that's how I felt later that night when, just before I put my penis in her, she told me she couldn't have kids. Her words made my dink go limp; I had to make an excuse to get out of the room. Why did it bother me? For a single reason. I really, really wanted to have a family and even though I hadn't yet thought of this woman as the mother of my kids, the thought that she couldn't be was just so sobering it sucked all the life from me. In fact, it was a deal-breaker; an absolute deal-breaker. We had sex, a number of times that weekend, but it was never the same for me and I think she knew it.

When I got home I did everything I could to get things back to normal, and I succeeded — for the first few days but then she started floating into my head, not the entire package, just little bits of her: her clear grey eyes, intelligence so quickly clouding to doubt; her long mahogany hair, wet from a bath, tousled on a pillow, stuck to the sweat on my chest; her firm, determined jaw, fixed in anger, rounded in joy; her thin, wide lips, set straight in resolution, curled in mischief, opened wide in laughter; her long, narrow, bublous breasts, spilled flat against her stomach, dangling teasingly over my lips. And that ass, covered, pantied, bare — her ass.

I knew I had to change, and I had planned for it. For 12 years I had used 14 hour days to get my business thriving; now it was time to pull back and start my family. So, for the first time, I dated ... often. And with my wealth and contacts it was easy, it was easy to see one woman after another after another, as if I was hiring a staff. But I wasn't. Pure and simply, I was looking for a mother, the mother of my kids — four, five, six of them. And I couldn't wait to get started.

But she wouldn't let me. She would intervene — at work, at play, on dates, before sleep, during sleep, upon awaking. Those little bits of her swirled around my imagination in a kaleidoscope of body parts and in disjoined snippets of conversation. I could resist her, at first, fend her off but then she took all the joy from me: every date became a chore; every potential mother was just another woman.

I knew at the end of the first month I was in love with her. It was that image of her resting on the bed, with her ass near my face and her tits drooping beneath her like useless udders. She had laid herself bare for me and I felt a love for her that was consuming me. But she was barren, for God's sake! And, goddamn it, I wanted kids, lots and lots of kids — so I'd set my targets and develop my plans, but each month those targets and plans ended in failure, utter and absolute failure and pretty soon my kids no longer mattered either. SHE was consuming me; crowding my unborn kids into a hidden recess of my mind. Only she mattered. A life without her was becoming unthinkable.

I called her on a Thursday, three months after I met her. A strange voice answered the phone, Sally she said it was, and she told me to hang on while she got her. I listened to laughter in the background, a glee club of women at play and then her voice.

There was a long silence after I gave her my name, a long painful silence, finally punctuated with, "Yes?"

I told her I was visiting Vancouver for the weekend, could I see her? Maybe we could meet at the wine bar across from her apartment.

I didn't breath waiting for her response. "No," ended a full minute of dead air. Then, from the pit of my despair, I heard her add, "I will meet you at 6 at the bench in the park where we walked."

"What if it's raining," I said, with a rush of relief — trying to engage her in conversation.

"We'll get wet," she said, as she hung up the phone.

I was there, shifting from one foot to the other, a half hour before the appointed time, my nerves more jangled than I could ever remember them. She arrived on time. I watched her follow the path curving between the trees and as she got closer to me I thought of the kids I would never have but when the tears collected in my eyes, I knew they weren't for them but for her.

She wanted to walk, not sit and she didn't want to talk, certainly about anything that mattered. Like strangers, we toured the park perimetre twice before I suggested a drink at a bar I had staked out, hoping to use its alcochol if I needed to loosen her up. Instead, I was forced to feed my jangled nerves coffee and silence until we were back at the park bench and she was looking at her watch. "I have to go," she said, and she turned and walked away.

As I watched her go I felt lost and empty and hopeless. Finally, I called to her, "Can I see you tomorrow?"

Without stopping she said over her shoulder, "When?"

"AT 10 in the morning," I yelled, exhilarated with hope, "I'll pick you up. We can go for a drive."

Her head nodded, barely perceptively, as she quickened her pace, and my blood began to flow again.

We didn't go for a drive. It was a beautiful, sunny day so we went to Stanley Park and walked the sea wall — in near silence: nothing I had to say interested her. But I was with her! It was enough. And she was with me. I'd give her time, all the time she needed but it was hard. I wanted her to bump into me; I wanted her to tease me; I wanted her to get mad at me, yell at me; I wanted her to kick me — I knew I had been a prick, I knew I shouldn't have left her as I did; I knew I should have called her. But I was here, goddamn it! She had frozen me out long enough.

And I guess she thought so, too because after we had walked to Granville Island and as we were walking through the Market she said, "Do you want to come to supper?" I couldn't have said 'yes' any faster.

But dinner proved to be as convivial as the walks. She didn't speak, I didn't speak; we both hunched over our plates and poked at the food that would remain uneaten.

I didn't know what to say. So far, nothing I had said resulted in anything more then a perfunctory one line. Then she took the initiative, not with a sentence, but a word: "Why?"

"Why what?" I asked the question without thinking, relieved just to hear something from her.

"What do you mean 'why what?'" Anger curled her face into an ugly mask. "If you want to be coy with me, you can get the fuck out of here right now." Tears were welling in her eyes and she wiped them away without looking at me.

"Will you listen to me?" I said. I was looking at her, trying to get eye contact, but she wouldn't look at me.

"Of course I'll listen to you but you'd bloody well better have a good explanation for your vile conduct."

Remarkably, I hadn't planned for this moment and now it was too late, but, perhaps it was just as well for the only thing she deserved was the truth, no matter its consequences. "Before I answer your question can I say something?"

"Of course you can say something." She wasn't trying to disguise her growing impatience and irritation.

I planted my feet more firmly on the floor, clasped my hands tightly together under the table and leaned towards her. "I want to apologize for my conduct." I took a deep breath, I had a lot riding on this. "And before I give you an explanation of why I acted as I did, I want you to know that I will try to do everything I can to make it right again, to make it like it was at the beginning. OK?" She wasn't looking at me, but, while she wiped a tear from her cheek and blew her nose into her serviette, she nodded her head. "Do you have any beer or some wine?"

She nodded again, "Both."

I got up and turned towards the fridge, "Do you want some wine?"

"No. I don't need any Dutch Courage."

I thought I detected a slight smile and I found that enormously encouraging — as encouraging as the long drink of beer then I sat and I began to pour out my feels: I had worked for years to build a company, worked long hours and all of that, which was absolutely true, and I went on and on, trying hard to make my case, make my sale and I ended with the truth, that I had done it all so I could have a family: a loving wife, a bunch of kids and a happy-ever-after life, that's what I had worked so hard for. "It was when you told me you couldn't have kids. That's what did it. I fell apart, it was like the end of a dream."

She was looking at me now, totally surprised, her eyes wide in wonder, and she seemed excited, anxious to hear more so I said what I had come here to say. "It took me awhile but I've finally realized that I want you more than I want the kids."

I don't know what I expected, but I didn't expect her to flee, to bolt from the table and run down the hall to her bedroom — at least she didn't run from the apartment or boot me out, so I was still, technically, in the game. I finished my beer and got myself another, counting the number remaining in the fridge and wondering if I'd be around long enough to finish them. God knows, I needed them.

Then I just sat and waited. I didn't second guess myself. I had only one choice, the truth and now that I said it, I had to live with it. And I didn't bother trying to figure out how she'd react to it, either, I'd know that soon enough. No, I just sat there on that kitchen chair with an empty head, a gut twisting in a knot and a feeling of absolute powerlessness. You can never talk your way out of the truth.

She came back in 18 minutes and sat down across from me. She had been crying and she looked like she wanted to say something so I kept quiet and waited. But she didn't speak, instead, strangely, she started to undo her blouse. She took her time, looking at the buttons as she undid them and when she was finished she pulled her blouse open to reveal a lacy red bra. But she didn't stop there. Still concentrating on her task she brought her hands up to her bra and to my utter astonishment she somehow hooked her fingers under her breasts and they spilled out over her now crumpled bra to hang almost obscenely in front of her — in front of me. That's when she looked at me, without a flicker of self consciousness.

"Do they look any different to you?"

She didn't look like she was kidding and I sure as hell wasn't going to risk laughing, comic though she appeared. Instead, I took her seriously and studied the breasts that I had so loved to suck, and would love to suck again. They didn't look any different, but I had no idea if this was the right answer, but I was into truth, so that's what I said.

Now she held them in her hands and bent forward over the table, "Look a little closer."

I did. More curious now, I leaned forward and she let me take them in my hands and I actually did study them, even though I had no idea what I was looking for, but really, I was just thrilled that I was touching them again, feeling their heat, their softness.

But I guess I waited too long, "They're bigger," she said.

I nodded my head and felt them slip from my hands as she pulled away. I didn't know where she was going with this so I speculated, "Been working out?"

It was the wrong thing to say, "Working out!" It was almost a scream, "They're fat for fuck's sake."

I sat back in my chair, taking my lumps — but also finally understanding a joke I'd never really thought through.

"What are you smiling about?"

She didn't seem still to be mad so I told her. "A joke I've heard. How do you make ten pounds of fat interesting?"

She shrugged.

"Put a nipple on it."

She didn't laugh, she just sat back in her chair with her breasts flopping down and asked, "Do you want to know why they're bigger?"

"Yes, of course, I do," I said, as if I did.

"Because they've got milk in them."

"Oh," I said, glad that the problem was solved, but not glad of the long silence that ensued.

And it lasted about a minute before she said, with obvious exasperation, as if she was talking to an idiot, "And do you know why there's milk in them?"

I didn't, not at first, I guess I thought all breasts had milk in them, I don't know, I've never thought about it but there was something in her eyes ... she seemed almost ready to explode. Then she did, she was trying to hold it in but she couldn't, she just shot forward on her chair and when she did, so help me, her left breast ended up in her food. But she didn't care about that and pretty soon I didn't either, "I'm pregnant, for God sake."

When you hear something so entirely unexpected it takes a little time for the information to sink into a place where you can process it. This was one of those times and the whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion: she spoke the words > I received them > I dispatched her words to my own, personal CPU > they didn't make any sense because she had told me she couldn't be pregnant > her words went back to the CPU for more processing > I read her face > that told me her words were true > she was, indeed pregnant ... but the next part took most of the time, it was just too complex to be processed efficiently.