Messalina: Devourer of Men (3 page)

His long eyelashes flutter against my throat as he opens his eyes to see what I’m doing. Then I feel his hand, warm and soft, reach over to cup under my knee. He crooks my leg over his and I moan softly when he places his hand on mine. What sounds like my voice growls “yes” loud enough for him to take his cue and gently press our fingers inside me.

My head lolls back against his arm as my private entrance admits us, hand in hand, with my small forefinger next to his long, thick, middle and forefingers. We work together to build a rhythm and his thumb gently rubs the top of my clitoris. My hips jerk up and I gasp. He increases his hold on me while clamping his mouth onto my neck, just like the big cats do to restrain their prey.

His lips open to suck in the flesh of my neck into his mouth before biting down. His teeth dig in and hold before releasing and repeating the process. He’s found my weak spot. I have a thing for necks and, although they may look trashy, I love hickies. These malignant bruises serve as the calling cards of heavy petting. I love giving and receiving them. But despite his amorous assault on my neck, I get caught up with the feel of his two, three—four—fingers pumping inside me. Aww—
fuck
! He’s about to get a real orgasm out of me! It’s evident by the moist, sucking sounds coming from me. I’m almost there.

“God damn, Evadne, you’re so wet,” he says with such awe it only thrills me more and this time my groan is louder than expected.

My eyelids pop open and I remember we are not alone. Focusing my eyes, I count less than six people sitting in the rows behind us but they’re on the opposite side of the theater. From what I can tell, they’re all watching the screen. Then I see one man sitting in the row directly behind us but several seats to the left.

He wears a white T-shirt and stares directly at us, unashamed. Hearing a muted, squelching sound, I glance down and see his lightweight jacket lying across his lap, bobbing up and down.

Catching my breath, I don’t know whether to stop Jared and bring the man to his attention. But he’s about to rip a climax from me and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sacrifice it. I open my mouth slightly in expectation, so does Jerk-Off Man who mouths the words
I love you
as his hand pumps harder and faster.

Instead of moaning, I scowl at our voyeur and his face crumbles as he shoots his wad. I make sure he sees me take Jared’s earlobe into my mouth to nibble on it and I think, Yeah, buddy you wish you could have some of this. Jared moans and licks at my throat in return.

“Touch me,” he begs from against my neck and his strained voice startles me. I reach between his legs and encounter a sharp rise in his jeans. He moves back and I unzip his pants and fumble for the opening. Once inside, I give his swollen cock a squeeze and he sighs as if I’ve done him a great favor.

“Oh, yes,” he whispers and rests his forehead against my temple.

A slight tug gets his whole length out. His cock is getting thicker as blood rushes to swell it, making the skin tight. My God, it feels lovely, like a thick pipe wrapped in warm suede. Then, as to be expected, a scene change lights up the room, allowing me a better look.

During my theater adventures, I have encountered a lot of men of different races and have concluded that there is no accurate way to guess a man’s penis size by looks alone. You have to experience him, literally, first hand.

And my chest heaves at the thought of getting fucked senseless by his cock. It’s long and thick and the tip of its swollen head is moist. I lick my lips, wishing for a taste—but that goes against my rules.

His thumb presses my clitoris once again and I have to bury my face in the curve of his neck to keep from crying out. I grab his wrist and start guiding him, pumping his hand, making him fist fuck me harder, faster, and when he touches my clit again, I come, for the first time in ages, all over his creative, talented fingers.

The world falls out from under me and I’m on a roller coaster going down a bottomless pit. My orgasm goes on and on, overflowing and spilling onto the seat.

“Ah, lovely,” he sighs. “That’s it, sugar. Oh,
yes
, darlin’. . . give it to me.”

And I do. I want to. But I’m not going to be alone in this. I pump my fist tighter and faster along his cock until his essence drips onto my hand providing me with just enough to lubricate my strokes. Jared thrusts, ever so slightly and I apply more pressure to increase the friction.

He turns my face to his and stabs his tongue far into my mouth, leaning into me, and I push back until I’m nearly climbing on top of him instead. He gives a moan of surprise against my mouth, driving his tongue deeper and I thrust my hips so his fingers can delve farther.

This man, whom I’ve met just over an hour ago, has gotten me more aroused than I have been in my life. But I’m not the only one excited. The skin of his penis is tight. He’s going to explode.

“Mmm, that’s right, baby.” I smile against his lips before they crush mine again, taking my tongue deep inside his mouth. Sparks of purple, yellow, and green flash behind my eyelids. Suddenly, he thrusts his hips and thick, warm jet streams of cream erupt against my skirt and seeps through to my thighs. He shudders against me and releases his pent-up breath in a low, guttural moan and relaxes. My loins weep against his hand for being left out, but—after all—we’ve just met.

He collapses back into his seat, and holding his gaze, I remove his hand from my crotch. The wet, sucking sound lets us both know that he’s plowed me deep and it was well received. I wipe his hand on the exposed flesh of my cleavage and daintily kiss the tip of each of his fingers to say thank you, tasting my spice on them.

“Good God,” he rasps out, his eyes wide with surprise as he playfully twists his pinkie inside my mouth before I let it slip from my lips.

Grinning, I gently place his cock back inside his trousers. When I look up at the screen, the cartoon selection from Poland is ending. There’s only one more film clip remaining. My heart is racing. I cross my legs and sit back in my seat, trembling, still feeling the sensation of Jared’s fingers deep inside me along with the wake of my orgasm. That was not petting—that was sex. The best sex I’ve ever had. I look at him. He’s leaning back, his face toward the ceiling, looking like he’s either asleep or in desperate need of a cigarette.

By the time the house lights come on ten minutes later, we are composed and with our clothes in order. I’ve tied my sweater around my waist to hide the wet stain on my skirt.

Although the lights aren’t harsh, they’re strong enough to shatter the bubble we created around ourselves and I feel exposed. Keeping my eyes on the floor, I rush into the aisle. Jared doesn’t touch my back like before. I’m not sure if he’s even behind me.

Entering the lobby, I walk on shaky legs out the front doors. Standing on the sidewalk, I see that rush hour has started and the road in front of the strip mall is thick with traffic.

Leaving the dark, air-conditioned surroundings of The DeLuxe only to be slapped in the face by smog and dry heat is too much. My stomach churns and my head starts to throb. I start to walk away.

“Hey! Hold up!”

I turn and see Jared approaching with a smile on his lips. We can now finish our assessments of each other without the hindrance of shadow. I estimate him to stand about six-feet-four because I’m five-feet-ten. But in my three-inch heels, I’m almost eye level with him. His thick, dark, chestnut hair curls up as it touches his collar and stylishly frames his face. I can easily imagine how he’d look with his hair all wet after taking a shower or plastered with sweat after an afternoon of passionate sex.

Ooh, how I wanted to be the one to work up that sweat! But I can’t. I’ve been naughty enough for one day. My fever has passed and now I must control myself until next week.

But what I assumed earlier about his not being masculine is wrong. His skin is slightly sun-tanned and, boyish face aside, Jared is all man. By the way he walks, with those long, smooth strides, he’s more than sure of himself.

And those eyes.

Perhaps
those eyes
are still adjusting to the sunlight because his pupils are big despite our being outside. Could he be on drugs? Maybe. He is an artist after all. But I dismiss the thought as quickly as it comes. He simply likes what he sees and I probably look like a prostitute from the 1950s with my tousled hair and smeared lipstick. All that’s missing is a Lucky Strike hanging from my mouth as I wait for him to press a $20 bill in my palm.

“Care to join me for dinner?”

My jaw drops open and, in a momentary lapse of cool, I must resemble a bug-eyed fish out of water. This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten an invitation like this. Darkness makes it easy. I can usually change their mind with a withering stare, but this time, I’m truly speechless.

I go to the movies to abandon myself, content to leave my fantasies inside the building. The fantasy is not supposed to ask me to dinner. That’s against the rules. My rules.

OK, so I’ve been selective with the rules today—but this isn’t supposed to happen! I have reduced my appreciation for men into faceless gadgets requiring batteries, or faceless men in a dark theater.

Faceless. Why couldn’t he just remain faceless, sit next to me in the dark, and leave without introducing himself? I could’ve beaten a quick retreat without remorse. We both could have. But Jared is all flesh and waits for my answer. He also knows my name . . . and where I work.

Shit.

If ever I needed a reason to stop doing this, I have found it.

I’m about to reply when Jerk-Off Man comes out of the theater. He sees me and walks in our direction. I frown but he keeps walking with a half smirk, half grimace on his face as he passes.

“Is something wrong?” Jared asks.

“What? Oh! No, I’m fine.” I get my keys out of my purse and head towards my car.

“Well?” he asks again, his long strides easily matching mine.

“Sorry?” I’m playing for time. I really have no contingency for such a development. I’ve even lost my ability in telling a man to fuck off. We reach my car. I’m about to put my key in the lock when he grabs my arm.

“Are you free for dinner?”

I drop my keys. He immediately crouches down and picks the spiked jumble off my foot. His gaze burns through the sheer material of my skirt and seems to focus on the damp apex between my legs. I shiver.

Standing upright again, he places the keys in my hand and we touch. My body heat activates the lingering scent of the orgasm I used to perfume my chest and when he inhales deep and takes a step closer, my breath catches in my throat. I need to slow the man down.

“No,” I lie. “Ahh—my cat got spayed today. I have to go pick her up.”

I can only describe his look as stunned disbelief. A flicker of disappointment, or is that resentment, crosses his face. He purses his lips into a thin line, and, with a sweep of his hand in a gesture I suspect he’s done since childhood, he combs back the hair that’s falling over into his eyes and huffs through his nostrils.

“I see.”

Suddenly it occurs to me that few people—or specifically, few women—have ever denied him anything. Then again, he’s never met me. And I’m in no condition to follow up what we just did with casual conversation.

“Seriously, Jared I do have to go.”

“Well then tell me, Evadne, do you plan on coming here next week?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in doubt, but there’s a touch of eagerness in his voice.

“Listen.” I look around the parking lot to see if there’s anyone watching. “Let me give you my number. Call me later.”

I reach into my purse and find a pen and a piece of paper. For a split second I thought about giving him a fake number, but when I look up to see him watching me so intently with those damn eyes—I give him the real digits. He’d make an excellent lie detector with eyes like that. Besides, if I was good at denying myself what I want, I wouldn’t be coming to this place to get my kicks . . . I’d probably be a size zero too.

“Borrow your pen?” he asks and takes my pen in such a way that he grasps my hand with moist, sticky fingers and leaves a smudge of charcoal on my flesh. He writes his number on the back of the sketch.

“Well, Jared.” I smile, trying to act casual as I open my car door. “Hope to hear from you soon.” Perhaps I sound trite, because his reply isn’t convincing.

            “Yeah. Sure.”

Chapter Two

“TGI Thursday”

            With my hands behind my back, I take a step away from the desk, move away from the podium, and slowly walk to the front of the room. Before me are five rows with five desks each. Ten of them support the bodies of students who claim they want to take a summer seminar about cultural criticism.

            For two hours a day, Monday through Thursday, over a period of six weeks, I get students who sit here during the best time of the year only to end up wasting my time.

            Well, shit. We assistant professors have other things we’d rather be doing too.

            Plus, it’s been a week and still no call from Jared. I haven’t been back to the theater since and my “fever” is back with a vengeance. I could call him, but why?  I need to keep focused. I started at Bellingham College five years ago, and after a year as associate professor, I was made an assistant professor and have been on the tenure-track. I can’t afford to let myself get distracted by trivial things like daydreaming about sex. I need to exploit my mind not my body.