Rendezvous With a Stranger (2 page)

      
I nod because I can’t speak.
 
I imagine him sneering at me, but when I look back I see just the intent look on his face.
 
I can see he’s hot, especially as he withdraws his belt and I glimpse the pouch at his legs growing more robust with each second his eyes feast on my pushed-out ass.

      
I think he’s going to whip my behind with his leather, but find that he has other plans more ingenious.
 
The door to my left opens into a stairwell and he jerks me about, forcing me through.
 
Pulling my hands behind my back he confines them with the belt wrapped three times tightly so they’re out of our way.
 
With the door closing behind us, the light around us vanishes into darkness—not the darkness that eyes become accustomed to, but a darkness where there is no trace of light, where even staring with eyes wide open no light penetrates.

      
My knees hit the stairs and I’m bent forward.
 
My torso rests on the steps above, my cheek now pressed into a hardwood step that’s covered with broken non-skid rubber, smelling old, like damp clothes and dust.
 
There’s no sound but the sound of my anxious breath.

      
I’m all touch and smells, my other senses unnecessary now.
 
His flesh is seething, his heat fusing with mine and with my need.
 
His cock parts my ass cheeks and rubs along the cleft. My hair becomes the handle to steady his hold, and his first thrust hits bottom so that a leftover shriek escapes my lips.

      
“Not a sound,” he whispers in my ear, “unless you want the world out there to see you screwed.”

      
Diving back into my body, I’m immersed in sensation—in the driving passion of his rod within me, the painful hand tangling with my hair, and the feel of his chest hot on my back.
 
He slides freely—my cunt wet.
 
I’m swallowing him whole, like he might disappear in me.
 
The pain’s not angry, but mesmerizing, a constant dull roar of sensation that’s hardly dull at all.
 
I take it in, let it play with my fantasies and my fear.
 
This stranger, fucking me as he would a cheap slut with absent virtue, can have anything I have to give. And despite all the reasons not to enjoy the rape, I’m preparing to cum.
 
For an instant the heavens are opening and my body is the new angel exalted, and then I’m back on these rickety saloon stairs getting breached from the rear by a man I’ve never met.
 
That’s enough to have me ecstatic, writhing with a drunken, good-natured willingness.
 
He’s not what I imagined, but something more crude and absolute.
 
This stranger rips the threads of decency from my cloak of honor, slashes through the jungle of self-doubt where I might be mired in shame or guilt.
 
He’s taken those options and tossed them into the murky waters beneath us both.
 
I’m cumming without an ounce of regret, and I won’t repent this night.

      
These thrusts, this cock in and out, this wetness flooding together, his and mine mingling, this moment divine.
 
He catches my clit every time he moves.
 
I’m sure I’m screaming, but I know he’ll hold my mouth quiet if I do.
 
I tingle everywhere from pain and the fine-tuned peak of a spasm that builds and builds and builds, until …

      
It’s raining down like fire and water. My muscles tighten on him and hear him gasp, then await his final surge as my cum dwindles quietly away.
 
When he withdraws, I sit on my step and feel his erection at my lips.
 
I wish I had my hands to hold his thick meat, but they remain bound behind me.
 
I open my mouth and his prick is inside without much effort.
 
He fucks my face with his hands in my hair, until he spews.
 
Then the cum is everywhere though I have no idea where it’s landed.

      
The stranger backs away as the darkness surrounds us in its blanket of emptiness.
 
The quiet’s deafening, but if I strain, I can hear the bar sounds coming from down the corridor.
 
I think it’s safe with them that close.
 
As his hand reaches around behind me, I cringe waiting for the deathblow to land, but he’s only undoing his belt, and then I sense he’s putting it back in his pants.
 
Moments later the door opens and my lover starts to walk way.

      
“You’re going to leave me here?” I wonder aloud, and he turns around.

      
“What more can I do?” he asks.

      
He ends it there.

      
“Will I see you again?” I ask, anxiously, as he’s almost around the corner and out of sight.

      
He turns again and shrugs.
 
I’m left to ponder the answer as his tight ass is the last piece of him to disappear from sight.
 
 
The stairway isn’t lonely without him, but it’s cooled with the lack of his presence and it seems like more than just his body heat vanished.

g

      
Three flights of stairs above the city, I sit in Isaac’s apartment staring out at the autumn rain.
 
How it dulls the leaves.
 
Spring rains brighten foliage, but all this sets the mood for winter, far too soon for my heart.
 
I drum my fingers on the table as I watch raindrops teeter from drop to drop to drop down the windowpane until they form small rivers.
 
Meandering along the glass they come together and slither away, eventually down some drain in the street.

      
I look at all the men that pass by the sidewalk, thinking I’ll see him next, but the ponytail and the beard never appear.
 
I wonder what it’s like to kiss his face, to feel the brush of his beard against my cheek.
 
Will it scratch? Roughen up my face? And if he were to bury that beard in my ass or cunt would I have burns from his whiskers?
 
The thought causes me to shudder. I haven’t stopped being horny since I walked out on the street after being wasted in the stairwell.
 
It’s been three days. I started back to classes today hoping I’d see him on my way, and then hoping that I wouldn’t.
 
What if I meant nothing to him, if his game was just a “one fuck wonder” that puts a smile on a woman’s face while he watches gloating?
 
There’s a student in my second hour that makes me think of him—dark ponytail and beard, but so much younger and less masculine.
 

      
I even stop by the bar on the way back to Isaac’s thinking he might be there, but after one beer and no stranger I’m off.
 
I have papers to grade, and a mid-term exam to put together and all this before Friday.
 
Robby says he really wants me home.
 
Maybe Chelsea didn’t come or she’s sick.
 
One could hope.
 
But how will it feel to be in Robby’s arms when I’ll be thinking of the beard and ponytail, the fierce blue of the stranger’s eyes, and that perilous cock?

      
Isaac has a collection of XXX videos and a stack of magazines in the bottom of his chest of drawers.
 
I’m deliberately nosy, though my host told me they were there.
 
I’m sure he did it in jest, thinking I wouldn’t be caught dead looking at pictures of nude women.
 
I suppose he doesn’t know that I love female nudes.
 
After all, I love myself when I’m naked, and especially now that this body feels so hot.
 
Every minute excites me.
 
Streams of steamed heat, like vapors, wind their way around my flesh, between my legs and inside.
 
All the cracks and crevices are full with sex.
 
I think my clit is perpetually hard and my cunt juices with the singular image of his body and face inside my thoughts.

      
I pull from Isaac’s stack of magazines an envelope of colored pictures he’s taken of his women.
 
He’s come a long way since I was his lover and he used the old Polaroid that now sits dusty on his closet shelf.
 
You could almost call the poses artful. The women are all like me, big breasted—though most of them improve on me by a whole cup size.
 
Still, I wouldn’t want to be more than a “D”.
 
It’s such a hassle, so I’m told.
 
At least he gives them decent surroundings to highlight their sensuousness: some in the woods and at the beach, other shots with a plain black drop as though he were going for a professional effect.
 
I remember the ones of me. There was always yesterday’s spaghetti dishes destroying my cute smile, or a bedroom strewn with clothes, or the TV behind my back, making my skin look strange and oddly yellow.

      
At the bottom of his drawer there’s a lone video—all the others are stacked in the credenza in the living room.
 

      
The label says:
“Shelley”
.

      
Going into the living room, I pop the tape into the player and sit down to watch. Taking the chair right in front of the TV, I can turn it off if it’s too stupid—which knowing Isaac is highly likely.
 
I’m unimpressed at first.
 

      
Shelley’s much slighter than I, with breasts that shock me, they’re so small.
 
I remember horny Isaac telling me once that he’d never have a small-titted woman as long as he could have one with big ones.
 
All this time I assumed that Isaac was incredibly shallow, but seeing Shelley I’m encouraged to think otherwise.
 
She would appear to have more than a pleasing face and ample breasts since hers are ample handfuls at best.
 
She moves effortlessly, running her hands over her skin, completely ignorant of the camera’s focused eye. After just a few minutes, it becomes clear that Isaac filmed this without her knowledge.
 
That fact intrigues me.
 
What arousal I glean from thoughts of the stranger are only augmented with this secret knowledge.
 
Playing for herself alone, Shelley’s the peep show I’ve never seen.
 
She’s a woman in lust with herself the same way I’ve been in lust with me, doing her dirty deeds in private for the entertainment of one.

      
And then Isaac … and now me.

      
For a time she lies back on a rumpled bed with her hand between her legs.
 
Then, she changes her mind and pops up to root through the drawer beside her, drawing out ropes and a hairbrush, clothespins and clamps.

      
She stands in front of a mirror happy to watch herself.
 
If I stare at her eyes long enough I imagine I can read her mind.
 
I wonder what toy she’ll think to use first.
 
I’d go for the hairbrush and spank my ass, but Shelley goes for the rope.
 
Starting at her neck, she loops the cord around her and then begins to draw it down her body, criss-crossing, doubling back, looping here and there.
 
In the end, two cords run through her crotch.
 
There’s a grimace on her face as she draws these cords tight and pulls them hard.
 
Bending over she tightens them more, drawing up the slack.
 
When she stands again the cords cuts her flesh so much I wonder if they could tear the skin.
 
She’s sweating and in pain, but not about to stop.
 

      
Shelley loves the mirror, gazing into it as though she and the image she sees are making love … it feeds her fantasy, talks dirty from the corner of its mouth, stares with lust and a rock hard cock.
 
Then again, perhaps she sees the wet pussy of a woman in thigh-high boots tapping a riding crop against her palm.
 
Shelley’s sweet for the woman and submissive.

      
Picking up the hairbrush she smacks her behind so her lover sees.
 
I can see the red and see the slut slack off because it starts to hurt.
 
Then I see her wince as she goes back to spanking her ass harder because this phantom in the mirror is looking at her displeased for going soft.
 

      
Her lover is a cruel one.
 
Shelley’s ass is as bright as a new apple, but the domme wants more.
 
With her molten eyes caressing this apparition, Shelley takes one clothespin after another pinching slips of flesh on her breasts.
 
Two, then three, then four, then one for each nipple, then more clamped tight over the plump labia.
 
She looks like a creature from an alien fantasy.
 
Tucking a clothespin under each cord through her cunt, her pussy’s splayed so I see the purple center in the mirror.
 
Wishing I had the camera, I’d move closer to see that center throbbing.
 
But then, I remember that I’m peeping with Isaac uninvited on Shelley’s fantasy.