The Trouble with Time Machines

"If you want to kill me, you should do it better."

She cupped his balls in one hand and used the other to grip his thigh, letting him feel her nails. "I'll try to skirt the line." She licked her palm, and slid it down the head of his cock. Kissed the tip. Scratch that, French kissed the tip. Somewhere between sucking and kissing, she teased him, tongue snaking between the fingers that were sliding up and down.

They lay down, her propped up on her elbow next to him, going down on him all the way, stroking his balls with her free hand, her hair soft, tickling his belly. He wanted her over him, reached for her. The look of her above him, the soft thighs against his ears, made him feel drunk. She hovered, barely in range of his tongue. A tease to the bitter end, a girl who could reduce him to pleading for a taste, she could get him crawling over broken glass to get his face between her legs. But then he felt her throat open to him, and his mind was wiped clean. He pulled her hips down hard, forced the length of his tongue into her, pressed his beard hard against her, and she made that sound -- that half groan, half sigh - and splintered him. He gripped her ass and pushed his cock upward. "Please."

She took him all the way in, offering her throat, braced herself on the bed to his sides, and encouraged him to do it again. For the second time in a weekend, he used her. She offered it up, and he was down her throat, fucking her mouth.

When his vision cleared, she had slid down a bit, and he was clasped in her hand. She was dropping kisses onto his not noticeably softening dick. He needed a rest and a beer, but they were definitely not done here.

"Liquid, immediately."

"Great minds think alike." He headed to the kitchen naked, glad about all the cycling. "You look exactly the same. I mean, from the neck down."

"Rude girl."

She took herself to the bathroom to rinse her prodigiously smeared hands. "Somewhere, there is an attic, with a portrait of your tits sagging."

She held a hand up to show him. "I missed a lot. I'm out of practice." He laughed. "How much practice can you get this weekend?"

"That depends on you, old man."

He brought back two beers and a bottle of red. "Where are you?"

She was on the goddamned balcony, looking around. In the dusk. Her skin looked even whiter, she was extremely visible. "This is not New York, this isn't even Hamburg. This is Bonn. What if someone sees you?" He bundled her back inside, lecturing. Her feet were gritty, it had rained. "For God's sake."

She smiled sweetly at him, titling her head. "You always were so orderly about everything." She chose a beer. "I don't like beer, but I don't like red either, and the beer is better here. Plus, when in Rome, right?"

A dismissive snort. "You Don't like beer. You mean you don't like that piss Americans call beer."

She took a drink, grimaced. "Why don't you like red?"

"My grandmother told me when I was sixteen that it makes your tongue purple and your teeth grey, and no man wants to kiss a girl with a purple tongue and grey teeth. So I never got into it."

Laughing out loud, "Well, that figures."

"What figures?"

"Your grandmother advised you. I'm sorry, but that's funny. What was you said sometimes? 'You come by it natural'."

"Goddamn right, boy." Laughing right in his face, the look in her eye and her flushed cheeks throwing him back.

It had been a long time since he'd sat around naked, drinking with an oversexed woman. He sat on the couch, pulled her onto his lap. Her feet were cold, he pulled the comforter off the bed and over them. "I should have bought six beers and no wine."

She was chattering, head on his chest. She had a habit of speaking both too softly and too quickly, and her accent was from the south of the country, one he hadn't heard when studying English in school. He registered many of the words, but they were coming too fast for his ear to put them in order. "What are you on about?"

"I'm sorry, did I exceed your English?" He kissed her on the top of her head. "It is ok. I am sure it was clever. And it is relaxing to not understand what a woman is talking about."

"Asshole." They dozed.

§

He woke, and went for the second pair of beers. When he returned, she was on her stomach on the bed, fiddling with the remote for the music. He touched the back of her thigh with the cold beer bottle, expecting a jump and a squeal. Instead, her hips lifted and she spread her legs a little, sighed, crossed her arms and rested her forehead. He took a drink, and kissed her shoulder blade with cold lips, working his way down. Between drinks, he traveled from the small of her back to the split of her ass, cooling her skin with his breath, enjoying her little squirms as he got closer to the center of her. He got his squeal, finally, when his tongue flirted with her asshole.

"That's ... new."

"Maybe for you." He went in a little harder.

Looking over her shoulder at him, "I was kidding about that."

He spread her cheeks with his free hand. "Oh, yes, certainly. You were always a girl for the jokes."

"I didn't expect you to really buy lube."

"That I believe." Entertained by the breathy, slightly shocked sound in her voice as she pushed back at his tongue. "You love it. You want more than my tongue." He pulled her to her knees. "Up."

He handed her the beer. When she sat up on her knees to drink, he moved in, cupping a breast from behind, fingers forming the advance team for the dick nudging its way between her legs. His mind wandered to his first trip to the States, a hundred years ago.

§

He'd been touristing in New York with classmates, and they wandered off the beaten track, to the Village. After a long walk around, wanting a beer, they looked for a not-gay-bar, which is not as easy as it sounds, particularly back then. A prettily made up young guy in a sequined cowboy hat saw them peering into bars, and stopped. "You can get a pint at the Packers Bar on Christopher."

"Forgive me, but..."

"No, like Green Bay. The Green Bay Packers. Football. The owner is from Wisconsin. It's a beer cellar with football games."

So they went, and sure enough, sitting hunched in the dark was a dusty, smoky, downstairs pub with darts, bookcases and American sports on the telly. They bellied up, talking over the girls they'd met the previous night. Deciding who was to get which girl, tomorrow. The owner, a David Letterman lookalike, drew their drafts. An elderly and obese man, with an epic comb-over and a food-flecked mustache, was parked in what was obviously his regular spot in the crook of the bar. Without looking at them, he took a long drink of his pint, wiped his mouth and said:

"Fellas. Fellas.

Never, and I mean Ne. Ver. put your dry finger - or dry cock, for that matter - inside, onto, or even near a woman's pussy. Simply never do it. Nothing major is required to avoid this. You have spit, she has spit, you have pre-cum. Chrissake, the lotion you'll use to finish yourself off if you fuck it up with her, is right next to your goddamn bed. And it is not as if, when you are reduced to these sad circumstances, you won't put that lotion on your palm before you begin, because you no more want to slide your scaly, dry palm down your cock, than she wants your hangnailed, raggedy-ass thumb pushing into her tender flesh without so much as a cursory dip into some baby oil.

And yes, we all know there is plenty of moisture inside her, if things have been going well. But you have to get to it. Why bruise her along the way? A woman is delicate. Soft. Fragile. Her pussy is a flower. And if you bruise the petals, she will wilt. She will close to you. If, on the other hand, you coax that rose open, she will fuck you like an animal. She will fuck you until your spine fractures."

He returned to his Pilsner, all gravitas.

He and his friends had just stood there, gaping. The man finished his pint in one pull, gestured for another and said, "Piss off, boys. Just trying to be of service. Take it or leave it." He and his friends had their pint, left, and after a few snide remarks, never spoke of the man again. But he, for his part, took the man as his sexual Yoda, that advice his touchstone. Words to live by, indeed.

§

She rolled her hips, wiggled her ass against his cock. But he wanted to see her face when he had her again after all these years. He turned her over onto her back and got very close, nose to nose. With her resting her beer on his shoulder, legs wrapped around, he pushed into her (after, per Comb-Over Man, making sure the head of his cock was liberally smeared with pre-come). He was like a hot knife in warm butter. Very warm butter.

He looked at her face while he did it, feeling every millimeter of her flesh give way, saw her mouth open, saw the flush bloom on her chest. She held the small of his back close to her while they fucked, grinding herself against him. The song changed. She nudged him, wanted on top. They finished her beer while she rode him. "I don't like beer."

"Yes. You said. But it's important to stay hydrated." He stroked her lower lip with a pussy-wet thumb. "You're spending all your liquid." The song changed again as she sucked his thumb, and leaned in to lick the sweat from his neck. She was getting close, he was getting close, and he had to ask, before it was too late. "May I?" His fingers trailing along the split in her bottom, lingering. Her voice was a bare whisper into his collarbone. "Yes."

He pulled out of her, she went to hands and knees. He slipped into her from behind, fucking her easily, wetting a finger and pushing it a centimeter into her ass. She stretched to reach for the lube, he stroked her back, kissed her neck, his finger deeper into her, but not too far, and pulled it out. Again. Getting her accustomed to the feeling of the back and forth. He pulled it out, took the bottle, and put some lube on his palm. Stroked his dick with it, and then her, from her clit to her tailbone. He took her by the hips and set his cock there. Right there. Reached down the front of her, between her legs, to palm her pussy, and just held still for a moment.

Sure enough, her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned into him a little. He wrapped his arm around her breast and pushed forward, just a bit. Rinse, repeat. Same again. They each made their own shocked sound when the head of his cock pushed past. He wrapped his arm tighter, leaned harder. He drew back, but not far enough to pull the head out. Wait for that, maybe, til she can handle it.

Further. Same again.

And then he was inside her. He didn't fuck her, but waited. Kept his hand cupped over her pussy, pressing. Let her move if she likes. Focusing on not coming, for Christ's sweet sake. She put her hand over his, and moved against his fingers. Which moved his cock in her ass.

She made a throaty sound, reached out to brace herself against the wall over the bed, and then she was fucking him. Pushing her pussy into his hand under her hand, and then fucking back at him. Moving, she was slick with lube, and impossibly tight. But it was awkward. As much as he liked the view, and he did, it was awkward, the reaching down under her. So he returned her to her back, and pushed back inside. Her eyes were open to him, he could see all the way into her. "Does it hurt?"

"A little. Yes. Yes, it hurts."

"Do you like it?"

She made a sound that wasn't a word, but then, "Yes. Yes, please. I want it. Every time we move, it pulls on my clit. I feel so full of you. It's killing me. I love it."

"You want me to fuck your ass?" And he did pull his cock out, so he could push it in again. The feeling of the head of his dick pushing past that ring was insane. Again. Then a long stroke, all the way into her, balls deep.

"Take it out again. Push it into me again." That almost sent him over. "I don't have English for this." She shifted her body so her legs were wrapped higher around him, and him on his knees, now holding her up by the ass. "Take it all the way out, and push it all the way in."

Proving her intent, she pushed him back by the hips, out of her, and then close again by the small of his back. He looked down at her, watched the head of his cock pull out, and then enter her. She rubbed against his groin at every downstroke. "Yes, my god, do it. I always wanted you to do this. Do it to me. Fuck me like this."

When she started to cum, she cried out. His mind was an utter blank, except that he could feel her body grip him and release him, and then grip him again. With her asshole spasming around his cock, he practically climbed up the wall emptying himself into her.

Fucking Facebook. That is some Wellsian shit, right there. Seriously.