by Louisa Trent
Drawing his head tighter to her chest, the void between her legs going from merely damp to soaking wet, nerves on the outside of her skin, all sensation magnified, she gave everything she had up to Lou.
Raw. Raw. She was so raw outside and in...
Who was this stranger offering her sensual delights she had never experienced before? And who was this person she'd become when she was with him? Why was she allowing him to set the pace when she'd never allowed anyone, neither man nor woman, to set the pace in anything before?
She'd never followed anyone or anything. Not social dictates, not fashions, not other people's moralistic idea of what was right and wrong. She was her own person. No one told her what to do. She governed herself!
But when Lou mouthed his way from her breasts to suck on the tight hot flesh of her belly, and he ordered, “Your trousers ... open them,” she didn't question his authority over her.
This was dangerous territory.
Only two dim lights were lit on the pier, the night was moonless, and there was a thick cloak of fog rising up from the river to cover them. Though she'd never been an exhibitionist, she'd never been shy about her body either. It was only nudity. Only the human form. After all, she modeled for fellow artists all the time, sometimes even outside during the light of day-
Artists never have any money. What with the price of supplies, the cost of studio rentals, and the few works that ever get sold, it made sense to swap off on life modeling rather than hire a professional to pose. Everyone has to live, and models don't come cheap. For that reason, she was forever whipping off her clothes for some artist or other. After a woman spends a few hours in the buff, seen as nothing more than curves and hollows, light and shadows, that woman soon loses her maidenly modesty-
But this nudity was different. This wasn't the teasing nudity of Sprouts where she dictated the pace. Nor was this the professional nudity of artist modeling. This wasn't like her previous, under-the-covers, sleeping-with-a-man, nudity either.
Her hot hands trembled as they moved to the zipper on her trousers.
Off in the distance, a few men moved along the river pier. Fishermen mostly, she assumed, going about their fishermanly tasks, hauling tackle and bait and rope to-and-fro from their skiffs. The men were much too far away to see into the dark shadows beside the Merry Melody.
Riding high on the promise of imminent pleasure, she pulled the zipper all the way down until the trousers gaped.
“Down and off,” Lou said, voice rough and demanding, thick with the need for sex. “Boxers too. I want you bare.”
She wanted that too. Her skin was so hot! But who was this dominant guy? Where had the careful and mild-mannered Lou gone?
Pushing the trousers and underwear over her hips, she lowered them together down her legs. When they fell loosely around her ankles, she kicked free, which left her in the open shirt, work boots and socks, the breeze from the river doing nothing to lower her temperature.
“You look so soft,” Lou whispered, his intense dark eyes surveying the pubic curls on her pussy.
On the foggy pier, he squatted down in front of her. Speaking low and insistent, he said, “Open your legs.”
Back arching, she did.
And then his hand was there, on her upper thigh. “May I touch your vagina?”
May he touch her what?
Vagina. How cute!
But why was he asking first? When a girl has her pants off, wasn't that a giveaway for the guy to dive right in?
Not Lou. He wasn't diving anywhere. He was the respectful sort, the type who asks permission first.
“Sure Lou,” she answered, hiding how his respectful deference had touched her with a backlash of irreverence. “Make yourself at home. My pussy is your pussy.”
He stroked along the outer lips before gently separating the moistened folds and sending an investigatory finger up inside her ... vagina.
“You're pierced here too,” Lou said.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly just to prove she could still speak. As a declaration of sexual liberation, she'd had the piercings done the month before, and no man had ever seen them, touched them. Lou was the first.
“You're wet,” he remarked, slipping in another finger.
“Oh, golly gee whiz, Lou. Tell me something I don't already know.”
“You're beautiful.”
She melted.
Okay, she was cheap date when it came to compliments but the way Lou said the word ‘beautiful', all sincere and heart-felt, made up for the fact that it was all male baloney. That fact that she knew it was baloney explained why she couldn't just let the compliment stand as it was, just hanging there. She had to say something to let him know that she knew he was talking trash. Something funny, a real laugh riot, and original. Originality was important to a creative person like herself.
Her “I'm not beautiful” retort fell somewhat short of the mark.
“Believe it, Blue, you are beautiful.”
The two thick fingers inside her pussy began to move. Slowly. Up and down. In and out. Her hot juices easing the motion. Breasts pointing, thighs going taut, tendons tightening, she leaned back against the boat.
He asked, his awed voice a compliment in and of itself, “Do you ever have trouble taking large-sized men?”
Men?
One lover and a few tepid penetrations does not a slut make.
To be fair, though, how would Lou know how many men she'd had?
She'd just picked the mild-mannered dude up for a weekend of randy sex. Naturally, he thought she was that kind of girl. Still, what the hell kind of a question was that to ask in the heat of the moment? What was she, a game show contestant?
“No,” she moaned, and with some difficulty, as the two-finger accommodation left her with little oxygen. Still, breathless as she was, she fought valiantly for a dirty joke, something to lighten the heavy mood!
She couldn't come up with one. Not even an old dirty joke. Not even a flat and unfunny clean joke. She could think of nothing humorous to prove that this, that what he was doing, was less than what it was.
When he massaged the top of her sex with a thumb, she groaned full out, all pretence of control gone. When he pressed against the sensitive nub, she cried out uninhibitedly. When he pinched her clit, she screamed, no restraint, and screamed and kept on screaming.
The climax was hitting her hard and unalterable, claiming her there against the boat as Lou knelt at her feet.
Two huge dock toughs, not the fishermen she'd seen earlier off in the distance, materialized from out of the river fog. At her scream, they looked over. At her. At her bare and heaving breasts, at her splayed thighs, at the junction of her body where a pumping finger glistened wetly with her juices.
Driven by need, by hunger, desperate for Lou's touch, she'd behaved foolishly, irresponsibly. Foregoing privacy for sensation, she'd put them both at risk. She was naked and splayed, and those two threatening toughs looked like they wanted a piece of the action. They'd double rape her and do who knows what to the quiet businessman kneeling at her feet. Oh, God, what had she done?
She wheezed through airless lungs. “Lou! Look out! Behind you!”
Panther-swift, Lou pounced to his feet. Blocking her naked body from prying eyes, he spun to face the men as they stealthily approached.
“It's two against one,” she whispered from behind the protection of Lou's broad back. “Don't be a fool. They look dangerous. Use the cell to call the police-”
The men kept coming.
And Lou wasn't reaching for the cell.
“Lou!” she rasped, horrified when one man broke the beer bottle he was carrying against the side of a piling and wildly swung the broken glass, slicing the fog in front of the Merry Melody, the jagged edge within cutting range of Lou's face.
Lou didn't back down or retreat. Unruffled, he removed his somber dark suit jacket and passed it behind him to her.
“Cover yourself with this,” he said.
In no particular hurry, he unhooked his gold cufflinks, placed them in his pant pocket and then proceeded to roll up his pristine white shirtsleeves.
What? Was he actually preparing for a fight? Two river rats, one of whom was brandishing a nasty-looking weapon, against one quiet-spoken businessman? Was Lou insane? He didn't stand a chance!
Lou didn't share her negativism.
“Keep moving, boys,” he said calmly, “and I won't have to hurt you.”
Funny man. Like he could hurt those two rodents.
The vermin looked at Lou-obviously they were sizing him up-then at each other. Averting their jaundiced eyes, the river rats turned and scurried back into the fog from whence they had come, the beer bottle weapon one had carried making a splash as it was thrown into the river.
Why? Why had those two men retreated?
It was then and only then, as Lou adjusted his sleeves, that Blue noticed the hard, lean, muscles the neatly tailored dark business suit had kept hidden. His was a quiet and deadly animal intimidation, strength restrained by steely will, primitive savagery disguised by civilized manners. In a jungle, Lou's control would make him king of the wild cats. On a dark city pier in the low rent district, his feral cat coolness would chase two river rats back into the fog.
Now that it was too late, Blue realized that she was in way over her head. She'd picked the wrong man when she'd picked this man for some mild sexual experimentation.
Lou Franco wasn't tame and he wasn't safe. He wasn't tame or safe at all.
Excitement exploded bright within her.
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CHAPTER FIVE
“Better get dressed now,” Lou said, placing a kiss on Blue's high cheekbone.
“Those men-”
“Are gone. Don't worry about them. I'm only sorry they scared you. Please accept my apologies for letting that go so far. I have no excuse.” He shook his head ruefully. “I want you, Blue. But I also want to do this right.”
Dazed, Blue didn't seem to hear. “I know what we'll do ... we'll go right down to police headquarters, file a report. It's dark and foggy, but I got a good look at both of those creeps and I'm sure if we give a description, then-”
“I know who they are, Blue. And they know who I am. I'll be paying them a little visit tomorrow.”
“You can't do that! Those men are vicious thugs.”
“Yeah, they are. Now hush.” He ran his knuckles over her tousled hair; the careless style was beginning to grow on him. “Let me worry about them.”
The skin under his fingertips was still soft and warm. Kind of dewy, like a woman's skin should feel after a climax. There hadn't been many such dewy occasions in his life, not many opportunities to pleasure a woman, but those few times he'd been in a lovemaking situation, he'd always tried not to be selfish in bed.
With Blue, there was no trying involved. There was nothing he wanted more than to get back down on his knees again and finish doing what he'd been doing before the interruption. Her vagina had felt silky to the touch. He wanted to kiss her deep, inside her sweet silky vagina, deep.
He'd never gone down on a woman, never found the courage to ask if he might. If she let him, he wanted to taste Blue, wanted to tongue that small gold hoop that pierced her sweet silky folds. That ring drove him crazy-
Damn! Who was he trying to kid?
It wasn't the piercing. She drove him crazy. Blue did. With her boyish body and straightforward manner. And damn, her passion!
On a pier that smelled of bait and that day's catch, Lou noticed that Blue's hands shook as she tried to get her gear together.
“Here, let me,” he said.
Dropping to his knees again, he rounded up all her clothes, except for those red plaid boxers. Those he put aside.
He ran his hand up the back of her leg and when she shivered, he looked up into her face. “You okay?”
“This has never happened to me before. You know?”
Blue's confused and excited look got to him as nothing else could have, that slightly dazed look doubled his eagerness to get her somewhere, anywhere, so long as they were alone and they could have some privacy and that privacy came with a door he could lock. Man, a fishing pier! What kind of lunacy had driven him to pet her outside on a damn smelly dock?
“I know,” he whispered, and without losing sight of her face, picked up the cargo pants. “This has never happened to me before either.”
Her lush mouth, which had been slack with desire, tightened when she saw that he'd deliberately ignored her red underwear.
“What about my boxers?” she asked.
“You're not wearing them.”
Her tone went from bedroom to boxing ring. “Why aren't I wearing my boxers?”
“Because I don't like ‘em,” was his subjective, completely arbitrary answer.
As an argument, it had no basis in anything, and he knew it. And for that reason he felt bad.
“You find my underwear threatening in some way?” she asked.
Lou sighed. Here we go...
Blue no longer looked either confused or excited; Blue looked like she was just itching for a fight, itching to make a needless stand for her independence when the only thing he wanted to take away from her was a pair of ugly underwear. He had no hidden political agenda whatsoever; the only thing he was interested in doing was keeping Blue's sweet bottom bare.
“I'm not threatened,” he replied. “And you've got nothing to prove. Not with me, anyway.”
Her hands went to her hips; her legs spread militantly wide. “Oh, don't I?”
At her stance, his gaze dropped to her opening, his avid gaze stroking the wet folds. “Inside Sprout's, we were standing close, so you know what I've got, making this particular competition pretty much over.”
“The size of your dick is not what this is about!”
“You want to argue? Okay,” he said, gloomily. “Here, I'll make it easy for you.”
He rolled the men's underwear into a tight ball and tossed them in the drink.
“There! Go ahead and let me have it. Make your political statement, call me a sexist pig or whatever the current expression is nowadays. As for me, I don't want to argue. My blood is pumping plenty hot enough already and it's pumping for you. And for this.” Reaching out a hand, he lightly caressed her labia, his thumb sinking a little ways into the sweet passage made just for him.
At least it would be made for him, eventually. Right now, it'd be a tight fit.
“Don't try to break my balls, Lou,” she countered.
“I never would,” Lou said solemnly. “The truth is, I don't need to. I know who I am. I don't need to break anybody's anything to make me feel like a man. Let's keep this date respectful, okay Blue?” He withdrew his hand from her body.
“We're not on a date, Lou. We're just gonna fuck ourselves silly.”
She looked at him pointedly. “Maybe. We'll have to see how things go in that regard. I have to tell you right now that things aren't looking too cool.”
Yeah, this he knew.
His eyes were smack dab at her pretty pink opening, on level to it, so he knew she was wet for him, knew that she wanted it as much as he wanted to give it to her, and he would've done just about anything to keep that momentum going...
Except let politics cause a rift between them.
This was between Blue and him, nothing else. He needed her to understand that.
“I'm sorry to hear that things aren't looking good, Blue, because I really want to take you to bed.”
“Like I said, I'm horny. But this is about more than underwear. This is about...”
Damn! Damn! Damn! He already knew what this was about!
Her boxers were a stand against male tyranny, sexism, a patriarchal social system. He knew this because the kid whose diapers he'd changed explained it all to him. And while he admired her passion, he wasn't about to bear the brunt of her political agenda. In the here and now, he just didn't give a crap.
&n
bsp; Round-the-clock, militant stands on idealistic dogmas were for the young, and he was no longer young or idealistic. He just wanted Blue. That simple.
He sighed. Why couldn't she site the affordability of boxers? Or their practicality? Why couldn't she say she preferred wearing boxers because panties were flimsy and they ripped after a few washings and manufacturers made sturdy male underwear meant to last? Why couldn't she say she wore male underwear because boxers don't ride up or give wedgies? This, he could've appreciated. Wedgies were the pits.
Not Blue. She was glaring at him with a storm brewing in her eyes and he knew that meant trouble.
Here on out, Blue was on a witch-hunt for subversive sexist meanings in his sentence structure and sooner or later he'd slip and she'd find just what she was looking for, because frankly, no matter how many times Pete coached him, he still wasn't completely politically correct. He made mistakes. He held open doors for women. Stood up when a woman entered a room. Carried heavy packages. He liked that women wore panties! And he was grateful they came equipped with a vagina.
Why would any woman even want a penis?
Penises weren't all they were cracked up to be. They got in the way a lot. They got hard at inopportune times. They needed protecting during sports. They were great for marking a tree in the woods during camping trips and they came in real handy when a man wants to get inside a woman's body-
He wanted to get inside Blue's body.
He was kneeling at her feet; she'd brought him there. His dick was aching, his was heart racing; she'd done that to him. He could hardly breathe or speak. Forget rational thought; making sense was way beyond him. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss abstract ideologies. He was a man; she was a woman. Wasn't that enough? Did they have to drag doctrines into things? Couldn't they just let their attraction happen without clouding up what was important?
They were of different mindsets. So what? He wanted her, dammit! And she wanted him. That was what was important. Didn't that wanting speak for itself?
Guess not; Blue was looking at him real perturbed.
“Never mind what this is about,” she said. “What's the point of even discussing it? A man like you would never understand.”