The Anniversary

"Please ..." she whispered.

"Please what, baby?"

"Please ... fuck me. Don't tease me, Justine ... please. Just finish me."

I felt my pussy throb as she said those words and a fresh flood of juice dampened the soft leather plastered against my cunt.

"Of course, baby," I whispered gently, "Anything you want."

I gripped the slippery shaft in my fingers and placed the swollen head against the slick, pulsing mouth of her cunt. And then, I fed it ... slowly, lovingly ... into her depths. She moaned like a stricken animal. And I was just about to give her more. I withdrew until barely an inch was buried in her passage and then drove in, driving the air out of her lungs. I found my rhythm quickly. I could get used to this, I thought, as I watched my baby go to pieces as her pussy was plundered. On each downward plunge, as I buried myself to the hilt in her cunt, the slick surface of the leather skated along the surface of her clit wrenching a gasp, almost of pain, from her throat. It didn't take long for her to explode around the cock buried in her pussy. I held her as she jerked, her eyes glazed over with lust, soft little noises leaking from her mouth. It was a long time before she was still. And then I resumed.

Her eyes snapped open, the expression in them one of disbelief. I smiled at her sweetly.

"You didn't think I was done, did you?" I asked her softly.

No words issued from her lips, which were trembling helplessly. There was something akin to panic in her eyes.

"I'm not done yet, baby, not by a long shot," I hissed, "I'm going to fuck you so hard and so deep that you will walk bow legged for a week. And as for swimming, coach ... for a while, all of us girls are going to whip your sweet little ass in the pool."

She sobbed as I dripped those words softly into her ear and then her hips began to move. She was sliding up and down the shaft buried in her cunt. She wanted more. That night, she got it. When I got up to leave, she was still strewn across the bed, a sodden well fucked mess, her eyes vacant, her lips softly parted, her breasts quivering deliciously as an occasional tremor racked her frame. She had been one hot little fuck.

My life changed overnight. I had tried not to think about it too often, but there had been times when I had been assailed by an overpowering sense of loneliness. There were nights I had lain awake wondering why I wasn't "normal," why I found intimacy so difficult, why I found the boys I knew so unappealing. It was a relief to find out that I just needed different things. It was a relief to find out just what it was that I needed.

For the rest of that blissful year, it was Karen. My timings in the pool improved dramatically. I worked longer and harder than the others did. I loved the intimacy of splashing about in the pool with Karen as the shadows lengthened and the world darkened around us. I would lend her a helping hand as we clambered out of the pool and then not let go as we sauntered back to the locker room. I would flip her, naked, onto the massage table and then open her up - to my eyes, my fingers, my lips. And then I would feast. She would try to be quiet, but the possibility, rather remote, of a security guard being attracted to the soft sluicing sounds of my fingers sliding in and out of her cunt and catching us in the pale yellow circle of his flashlight only added an edge to our hunger. After she had stained the soft leather of the table with her cum, I would take her home, splay her open on the bed and eat her out until she begged me to stop.

"You get so greedy," she would protest, cupping her swollen ravaged cunt protectively with one palm. I would look suitably contrite.

"I can't help it. You're like a fix. Once I start, I can't seem to stop," I would moan helplessly, my lips nibbling at the hand shielding her sex. She had a soft heart and an insatiable cunt. So, she would yield. I would dip my lips again into her wetness or I would fuck her senseless, taking her to peak after peak until we both collapsed with exhaustion in one wet, steaming heap.

It ended because swimming took her to places that I couldn't follow. For a year, we tried to stay in touch, but our attempts were half hearted. We knew it was hopeless. We slowly and irrevocably drifted apart. The last I heard, she was in New York, married to a Bonds trader with a Wall Street firm, wallowing in domestic bliss with two kids in a plush apartment overlooking Central Park. Sometimes, I wonder whether I knew her at all.

In the years that followed, I had my share of relationships. But, I was wary of commitment. I guess I never really recovered from losing Karen. She took with her a piece of my heart that never grew back. It came to a point where I would seek women only for the relief they could offer me during the brief space of one passionate encounter. I seemed no longer willing to put my heart on the line.

I reveled in the feeling of a young, ripe body twisting beneath mine, exulted in the soft yearning noises that I tore from their lips. I acquired a taste for converting women who thought they were straight, rewiring their brains and pussies in one long ecstatic night into creaming also for chicks. If they were married, it was a bonus. But when morning came, I couldn't wait to see them on their way.

I would have been lost but for Nicole.

When I saw her for the first time, she was squirming uncomfortably in a business suit one size too tight for her as I scanned her resume, which was unremarkable. I didn't hold that against her. I was interviewing her for the position of my personal assistant, my earlier one having moved east with her husband who was relocating to a new job of his own. Nicole was fresh out of college and hadn't had any experience to speak of, unless tossing burgers to pay for tuition qualified. But she seemed bright and I was sure she would learn on the job.

When I looked up from her resume and smiled, she seemed visibly relieved. She let herself relax enough to flash me a shy little grin in response.

"So, do you like me?" she asked, with an eagerness I found touching.

Actually I did. Very much. She was petite and curvy, with a face that was open and honest. She had curly blonde hair that fell to her shoulders in soft ringlets and she had powder blue eyes that were so clear that I swear I could see my reflection in them. Well, if I looked hard enough, which I wasn't doing at the moment.

Honestly, though, I didn't hire her because of how she looked. I was sure she could do the job. I have built my business – in graphic design – the hard way and I don't compromise on the quality of my employees.

It is a bonus, however, if my employees are people I can get along with. I love my work and end up spending rather longer in my office than I should. So it really helps if the people I hire are likable. I liked her. She had a ready smile, which was infectious. I could use some of that good cheer.

"Thank you," she said, suddenly very solemn, "You won't regret it. I promise." She did seem to need the job badly.

She was already at work the next morning when I arrived, her desk painfully organized, ready to take on the world. She could start, I thought, with coffee for both of us. She did live up to her promise. She gave me no reason to regret my decision to hire her. She was efficient and unobtrusive – never in my face when I wanted to be alone, but almost magically at my elbow when I needed something. I began to suspect that she could read my mind.

She was polite, but never ingratiating. She wasn't overwhelmed by the fact that I was her employer. She was the sort of person who would speak her mind, not because she wanted to be rude, but because she was utterly without artifice. I got used to that candor and soon began to welcome it. Sometimes, being the boss can be tiresome. You miss having someone that you can speak to without reservation and expect an honest opinion. She quickly became that for me. She was scrupulously fair and since she didn't have a devious bone in her body, brutally forthright. We soon took to spending time together outside office. We would traipse off, giggling like schoolchildren, to do a spot of shopping during office hours if the mood took us or we would catch a quick coffee in a café before wending our separate ways homeward after work.

I'm not sure at what point affection became attraction, but one night, I woke up with a start clutching my sheet for dear life, my mind filled with the vision of Nicole naked and writhing in my arms, the lines of her face transformed by passion. I couldn't go back to sleep. As I chewed on that dream like a dog with a bone, I had to admit the signs were already there. I hadn't been my usual philandering self. For months now, I hadn't been plotting another conquest or cruising some friendly bar for easy pickings. Now, it all made perfect sense.

There was a problem though - not an insuperable one, but a problem nonetheless. She was straight and had a boyfriend whom she seemed to be rather fond of. From what I could gather from an occasional petulant outburst, he seemed to cause her more grief than he was worth. But then who was I to talk? For me, he would be more trouble than he was worth by just being a man. Not his fault, of course.

The next day, while we sipped our coffee in the local Starbucks, watching the lights of the city come on, she must have noticed my preoccupation.

"What's the matter?" she asked gently, "You don't seem yourself. Can I help?"

It was sweet of her to notice, but my problem wasn't exactly one I could share with her.

"You know what?" she said breezily, "I know exactly what you need. You need a man."

Count on a woman to always come up with that solution.

"So, why don't you date?" she asked.

She was leaning forward curiously, expecting a response. My lips were suddenly dry. I ran my tongue quickly over my lips and cleared my throat before I replied.

"Well, actually," I said, a little ruefully, "I swing the other way. If I were dating, it would be a woman."

I sounded vaguely apologetic about being into women and I'm really not like that at all. It was just that I wasn't quite sure how she would react. And at that moment, it seemed terribly important to me. To her credit, she didn't blink an eye.

"So, then" she asked evenly, "why don't you date women?"

There it was - the million dollar question. And I wasn't sure what to say. The truth? For one mad moment, I considered it seriously and then rejected it as a particularly poor choice. So, I plumbed for something as close to the truth as I could get.

"There is someone. But she doesn't feel the same way about me as I do about her."

Her face was creased with concern and her hand softly covered mine. She sensed that the whole thing was painful and not something I wanted to talk about.

"You poor thing," she cooed in sympathy, "I hope she comes around. She would be a lucky woman to have you."

You have no idea! I thought.

After that, during our jaunts together, she began scouting the local talent for potential mates for me. "That one looks hot", she would whisper or "Isn't she cute?" with a nudge and a wink. She was doing her bit to take my mind off this reluctant paramour of mine. If only she knew!

"For a straight girl, you do seem to have an eye for hot chicks," I teased her. She blushed very prettily.

And then, one day, that blackguard broke her heart. She didn't seem her usual self. Even though she hadn't said a word all morning, or maybe because she hadn't, I sensed her distress. I called her in and asked her straight out what the matter was. She was fighting back tears and those soft luscious lips were quivering. It was all I could do to keep myself from gathering her into my arms and consoling her with a long lingering kiss that would never end.

"It's Fred," she said, "He's been seeing someone else behind my back. I just found out."

She sounded distraught.

"He was cheating on me and I didn't even know," she sobbed, "I'm such a fool."

"The wife or the girlfriend is usually the last one to find out," I told her matter of factly, as I quickly fished out a handful of tissues so she could dab those powder blue eyes to stop her makeup from becoming all splotchy.

Actually, I'm not very good at this sort of thing. But that day, I was determined to try ... to be just affectionate and supportive, to just be there for a friend who needed me. Honest.

"Okay, this is what we are going to do," I said as I snapped shut the document I had been reading, "we're going to call it a day, have a leisurely lunch, go shopping and then curl up on my couch in the evening to watch a relay of movies on DVD until we're totally numb."

She giggled through her tears.

"That's awfully sweet of you, but you don't have to do that for me. It's not even noon yet. We can't just up and leave."

"Actually we can and I want to," I said, to forestall all further argument.

So, we did. Her mood did improve over the day. I could see that she was trying really hard to get over it. And then the movie happened. There she was on my couch, crumpled up in my arms, sobbing away. In hindsight, "Titanic" probably wasn't an inspired choice. But I really thought that a movie in which the boyfriend dies in the end would perk her up. Apparently not. What's with girls and sentimental movies, I mused as I gently draped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.

Her long lashes were wet, glittering in the light from the teardrops suspended from their tips. My heart ached at the sight of her grief. She seemed infinitely precious then, this little bundle of warmth nestling against my side. How could anyone bear to hurt her? I felt a sudden rush of anger at the person who had crumpled up her heart and tossed it in the bin like a roll of waste paper. And I felt protective. I wanted to shield her from a world that could do that to her.

I crooked my finger under her chin and gently tipped her face upwards. Her blue eyes, usually so clear and so lucid, were clouded over with anguish. I couldn't find any words adequate to staunch that pain. So, I kissed her softly on her forehead just to let her know I was there and that she wasn't alone in this impossible world of ours. When my lips drifted downwards to gently kiss her tears away, she whimpered. I drank from her lashes and softly warmed her lids with my lips. I was all wound up inside like a tight spring. I wanted her so badly, the yielding, sighing softness of her. But I also knew that I had to be achingly gentle. This was not about me. This was about her, about her wounded little heart and her tears that refused to stop.

My lips followed the trail of her tears down her cheek, nibbling softly on her skin. One teardrop was poised, glistening in the light, at that sweet little crease where her lips meet. I hesitated for a moment and then let my tongue flick lightly over that wedge, gathering the salty taste of her into my mouth. Her lips parted in a soft sigh and she stirred in my arms. I was terrified I had gone too far and began to pull my face away from hers, conceding her the safety of distance. That's when I felt her fingers in my hair tugging, drawing me back with barely concealed urgency to where I had been.

I covered her lips with mine softly ... tasting, teasing, exploring. She tasted every bit as delicious as I imagined she would. As my tongue swiped across her skin, she surrendered, her lips parting in a soft moan that made my pussy lurch. I ran my tongue along the insides of her lips, flicking and then sucked the swollen flesh of her upper lip into the wetness of my mouth. Her body was now undulating softly, rocking against mine. As I gently released her engorged lip from the prison of my mouth, she moaned and then she whispered those words that I had despaired of ever hearing from her lips.

"Make love to me ... please," she pleaded. Her eyes were still clouded ... but with something else, with desire and newly awakened hunger.

She didn't know that she didn't have to plead. A look, a single word of command and I would have been putty in her hands. What she sought was what I wanted – to make love to her. Not fuck her, not have sex with her, not use her ... but make tender aching love to her until she begged for release. I could feel my heart pound against my ribcage and for a moment, I thought I would pass out from the fullness of it all ... the fullness of wanting her, of needing her ... of knowing that I could have her. I groaned my answer and I sounded as though I were in pain, "Oh, baby ... I'll take care of you."

She waited quietly as I unwrapped her, stripping away her shirt, her soft woolen skirt and her plain cotton underclothes until she was completely naked. She was beautiful - soft and liquid. I scanned her face for a reaction as I trapped a soft pink nipple between my thumb and forefinger and gently squeezed. As her sensitive nub hardened between my fingers, her face softened and her eyes glazed over with lust. That was all the permission I needed. I dipped my head to capture her other nipple in the soft prison of my lips and began to softly suck. I babied those delicate nubs in turn, licking, tasting, tugging, nipping until her body began to heave restlessly and soft little noises began to bubble from her throat.

I ran my palm down the length of her torso and dipped an exploratory finger between the swollen leaves of her sex. She was wet ... very wet. Her sweet little pussy was screaming for me and I couldn't ignore her anymore. I abandoned the soft mounds of her breasts, now wet and glistening with my spit, and dropped to my knees on the carpet. Her juices were dripping from her slit and had formed a slick patch on the leather. I wet the tip of my forefinger in the liquid gathered there and drew it into my mouth. She tasted delicious. I couldn't wait to have more.

I whispered her thighs apart until she was wide open, her sopping cunt and the crinkled opening of her anus exposed to my gaze. And then, as I was about to dive into her welcoming wetness, the enormity of what I was about to do came down on me like a ton of bricks. This was a point of no return. After this, nothing would ever be the same again between the two of us. I was suddenly terrified at the prospect of losing what we had between us – the easy camaraderie, the affectionate trust. But I also knew that this was the worst moment for my crisis of conscience. I was being unfair to her.

She sensed my hesitation. I felt her fingers twine in my hair. When I looked up at her, my indecision writ large on my face, she whispered softly, "You promised ... to take care of me."

And I knew then that there was no other way that this evening could end. There had never been any other way. I dipped my lips into her sex and split it open with one long greedy sweep of my tongue. As her taste exploded on my palate, setting fire to my senses, I began to lick in earnest ... hungrily, eagerly until there wasn't an inch of her I hadn't worshipped. I sucked the juicy thickness of her lips between mine and rolled her flesh against the roof of my mouth. I circled my tongue along the rim of her hole and then plunged into her depths to coax more of that sweet nectar into my throat. I ran my tongue along the length of her quivering clit, firmly enough to set her nerve endings ablaze, but not hard enough to make her cum. Finally when she was half mad with longing and the guttural sounds that spilt from her throat were barely human, I sucked the soft flesh of her pussy into my mouth, her clit reclining against the wet pillow of my tongue. That's how she came, inside me, her flesh part of me, her thighs trembling against my ears, her body convulsing, drenching my throat with the juices of her release. I didn't miss a drop.