by CRaZy ©
Margaret sat in the sidewalk cafe, staring blankly at the menu. On the pavement men in business suits were rushing by. The peak hour traffic was starting to build, the blares of horns becoming less and less patient. "What would Madame like?" asked the young waiter, his pen poised expertly to take her order. "Madame?" His words went unheard as Margaret became further lost in her reverie.
As an eighteen year old university student, she had lived in a party house. It was a big, old, rambling shack which had probably belonged to a doctor a century ago. Now, it had been carved up to create the maximum number of rooms, its peeling paint work, rusting iron lattice and loose floorboards evidence of long neglect. Nonetheless, Margaret had loved the house. Officially ten people lived there, but on any given night up to thirty bodies could be found spilling out of various rooms into the corridors.
Margaret remembered her boyfriend. Her first. Neil. It was a wholly unsatisfying relationship. He had a phobia about penetration. Only liked oral sex. On rare drunken occasions he would enter her briefly, giving her glimpses of what might be, but just as she gained a sense of rhythm he would withdraw and place his cock between her lips. Her pussy would almost burst with frustration. The joy of sucking cock, Margaret realised, was the slow, humming ache of denial that sang through her pussy, demanding the tune of his throbbing manhood inside her. Night after night she lay in bed crying, long after Neil went to sleep, for she never received the release she needed.
Margaret smiled blankly at her table in the warm sunshine as she remembered one particular night. Early in Spring. Neil away at a conference. Home late from the restaurant where she worked part-time. An essay to complete. Incredibly tired. Somewhere outside her bedroom door she could hear laughter and breaking bottles and "My Sharona" reverberating off the walls. It was early morning when she finally decided to retire.
Margaret had loved that room. She loved it in her mind's eye still. Candy pink walls that she had painted herself after much pleading with the landlord. Old fashioned shutters which she kept open, even on these cold nights. A possum often crawled along the ledge and she had no desire to impede its path by closing the window. Low on the ground, her futon beckoned with a white, ruffled, anglaise bed set, an impractical, flippant present from her mother. She loved to snuggle under the duck down quilt given to her by her grandmother. In this bed, in this room, she always felt safe. She lay on her bed for some time, watching the moon cast its glow in little rivulets across her desk.
At some point, in that nether world between sleep and semi-consciousness, between pitch black and shadows of grey, she sensed that all was not right. She struggled with overwhelming fatigue to reach wakefulness. In the midst of this state, her arms and legs flailed slightly, almost instinctively, only to find their movement impeded by a weight on top of them. Staccato breathing now as a sense of panic invaded her subconscious demanding a greater show of protest. She willed herself to kick but her body was numb. She willed herself to scream but she only managed a pitiful yelp. There were tears of dread now as she reached an almost wakeful state and a hand cupped her mouth, not unkindly, to prevent further attempts at summoning attention.
Despite the confusion, Margaret could clearly remember her distress at how her body had betrayed her, even in sleep. Her nipples were erect and faintly wet, as though someone had recently licked them. There were goose bumps all over her body, not entirely from fear, she had noted. An unmistakable, uncomfortable liquid formed between her legs. There were lips now - on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Gently nibbling, sucking, flicking at her skin till her nerve ends were fraught with electricity at his very touch. She was less aware that at some point, his hand had been gently removed from her mouth so it could explore the moistness of her lips below. He parted them with practised ease, his thumb and forefinger finding the meridian she had so longed to have touched. His fingers were soft against her delicate flesh, rolling her clit back and forth, lazily, almost with detachment.
Somewhere in the depths of her mind she heard the words, "This is non-consensual. This is wrong." Yet, before Margaret could process the thought, she felt a warm, fluffy cloud enveloping her entire body with a sense of peace. His fingers worked faster now, pressing and rolling the core of her being till she floated on the cloud and could feel only his magic touch, her crisp sheets, the brisk air, the rising storm within her body. She risked opening her eyes for a moment to be greeted by a silhouette as the moon continued to ripple through her room. He sensed her gaze and for the briefest second, she caught a flicker of his eyes staring into hers. They were not cruel. She also became aware of a hardness pressing between her thighs, rubbing against the spot that had been so carefully prepared by his fingers. She knew at this point she could stop it all. Her soft moans were testament to the fact that she had found her voice. She had not invited this man. She did not know his name. Still she did nothing.
Instead, she let her hips rise. The contractions in her pelvis became almost unbearable as she sought to draw him inside her. Yet, he merely kept circling the head of his cock around her pussy lips, till her breathing was simply a series of pants necessary for survival. She wanted to cry out, wanted to beg. The words were forming themselves in her head when a sudden movement near the window startled them both. He leapt off her, lay sideways with his arm round her shoulders in a protective gesture. A sigh of relief. A giggle. Then an incredible sense of awe as a mother possum with her baby clinging to its back slowly scrambled along the ledge till it reached a branch on the tree outside. "Beautiful," she whispered and she felt him nod in agreement.
Margaret lost her sense of urgency now. The last of her doubts dissipated. She crawled down under the quilt, forming her own little cave, willing to perform the act she knew best. She cupped his balls in her hand. They were hard and firm and pounded insistently. Her mouth was magnetically drawn to them as she licked across their surface, underneath the thin flaps of skin at their base, relishing the tangy aroma of desire that met her senses. She swallowed each one in turn, exploring them carefully with the depths of her mouth, darting her tongue around the precious, pliable flesh.
Margaret waited for him to grab her hair, drag her to the centre of his needs and force his way violently into her throat. But he did not. His hands traced the curve of her ear, stroked her hair, tickled the back of her neck. She was allowed to set her own pace as she held the base of his cock and moved her mouth steadily over the purple, desperate head. She knew how to let her breath out boldly along the shaft then swiftly suck his cock against the roof of her mouth. His body became taut. His breathing sharpened. However, his grip on her head never tightened. When he sensed she was ready, he reached down and pulled her out of the cavern into the half-light.
Margaret let him rub the length of his body against hers, let him gain a sense of the pressure to which her body responded best. Then, when she had become almost complacent, she felt his cock against her tight outer entrance...pressing...pushing persistently...fighting the contractions of her pussy walls until he hit her cervix. There was no mercy now. No time for her to adjust. He thrust quickly, short sharp bursts of hard, throbbing cock deep in her pussy followed by an emptiness that caused her to whimper and protest. He whispered the whole time, his words becoming more stilted with each thrust. He told her how fantastic her cunt felt. How tight. How perfect. How there was nowhere else he would rather be. Margaret felt tears, tears of relief on her cheeks. She tried to smile. In case he saw. In case he thought she was hurting.
His beer breath against her mouth. The rising sweat from his body sliding slickly against her skin. His pulsating flesh claiming her pussy till the cloud she had been floating on burst and she felt a shower of golden raindrops coursing through her body. First time orgasm with a man. He barely paused before ramming into her with a final thrust. She felt hot, sticky semen spurting towards her womb then leaking out to join her own river of fluid that flowed down her thighs, onto his legs, onto the sheet. First time to have a man ejaculate inside her.
He had been shy the next morning. Apologetic. He had gone to the wrong room by mistake. Then it had felt good and he had not cared. He took her to a coffee shop for lunch. One she could normally never afford. Yet, she could not eat. Finally, he convinced her to have a drink. She ordered something luxurious and wicked. Something that made her feel terribly grown up and sophisticated. Every time she drank it she remembered her encounter with the stranger in the dark.
"Madame? Madame?"
The waiter shook her shoulder gently.
"Oh yes," Margaret replied. "I've decided now. I'll have an iced mocha."
And she smiled.