Courtship for the Clueless

"Mmmm," she said, not resisting his caress at all. "I wondered when you would wake up. You have something I want, stud. I want to feel your manhood inside me. I want you to fuck me with your ramrod until I can't see straight. Do you think you're up to the task, sugar?"

"There's only one way to find out," he said, starting to roll her onto her back so he could mount her. She reversed the direction and rolled out of the bed, coming to her feet and taking a rubber out of the drawer, tearing the foil open and unrolling it down onto the erect prick that was waiting for her. She bent over him and took it into her mouth, sucking and stroking it until he was at full erection before she slipped back into bed, lying on her side, lifting her right leg and resting it on his ass.

"Now you're ready to fuck me, stud. Give me what I'm craving. Fill me up with that wonderful cock! Take my pussy and fuck me good!"

Putting his arms around her, Roger pressed against her, seeking her eager cooze. She was wet and ready to receive him, and he slid all the way into her liquid center without resistance. She moaned as he took her and turned her head to be kissed, their tongues dancing as he fucked her. He felt her pussy ripple as a small orgasm overtook her, and moved his hands onto her boobs to tease her nipples and squeeze her tits.

"Oh yes, stud!" she gasped. "I like that! Use me! Use me good! Make me cum on you! Give it to me! Use me and make me cum!"

He thrust harder into her with long, almost brutal strokes that penetrated as far as he could reach, his balls smacking into her twat with every one. She bucked back against him, her hands topping his, urging him to squeeze her mams harder, almost to the point of bruising them.

"Yes! Like that! Do me like a whore! Use my cunt and make me cum! Use me!"

She dropped a hand to her mound to rub her clit. He slapped it away and took over, tickling her clitoral bud and brushing his fingers up and down the clitoral shaft, masturbating her as he fucked her. She came again, her vag spasming as he continued to pound her, each stroke forcing words out of her as he used her the way she wanted.

"Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Fuck me! Fuck me! Don't stop! Do me! Do me good! Ohgod! So good! Give it to me! Harder! Yes! Yes! Yes! Like that! Use me! Fuck me hard! Make me cum! Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh! Oh! Oh! More! More! Use me! I'm close! Ah -- ah -- ah -- ah -- ah -- Y-E-E-S-S-S!"

She howled like a bitch in heat as she came on his ramrod, her body shaking as fireworks exploded in her twat and miniature suns burned in her brain, rapturous joy ripping through her as she reveled in his use of her cunt and tits to bring her off. So caught up in her own pleasure was she that Tiffany wasn't even aware of it when Roger came, shooting his load into the condom. She fainted clean away as her orgasm overwhelmed her, not feeling her partner slip out of her, discard the used rubber, and pull a blanket over them as he settled her against him. She smiled in her sleep as her lover cradled her head on his shoulder and caressed her ass as he joined her in dreamland.

When Roger awoke in the morning, he was alone in the bed. The odor of fresh coffee told him where Tiffany was. He was surprised to find his little overnight bag sitting by the nightstand and fresh towels sitting on the bathroom sink where he would not miss them. Showered, shaved and in fresh clothes, the bag repacked with what he had been wearing, he joined her in the kitchen. She had just slid a fresh-made waffle onto a plate and started another when he came up behind her, put his arms around her, and nibbled her earlobe.

She smiled and tipped her head back for a kiss. As they teased each other with their tonguetips, his hand found its way inside her kimono to cup her breast and caress her nipple with the lightest friction. It lengthened and tightened under his attention and he squeezed her tit very gently.

"You're a rogue, sir, to take such liberties with the mistress of the house."

"All you have to say is 'Stop,' and I will, baby."

Her hand pulled their heads together and she kissed him again, hotter. His free hand found the end of the kimono sash and pulled. The knot came loose and it dropped to the floor, allowing the robe to fall open. His free hand dipped through the gap to find her valley of delight, setting to work as she parted her legs to grant greater access to the treasure between them. Gathering her love-syrup on his fingers, he located her clitoral shaft and lightly masturbated her. She gasped and thrust her quim against his hand, wanting more sensation as he pleasured her with his fingers.

She sucked his tongue into her mouth as a surrogate cock, swirling hers around it as he tightened his grip on her boob, twisting and pinching in time with the rubbing of her clitty. She moaned in her throat and rocked her hips against the fingers he shoved between her nether lips, finding her G spot and working it, feeling her womb swell like an inflating balloon as it always did when she was near to a good climax. His fingers moved in and out of her, the skin of his palm rough on her clit. Suddenly she broke their kiss.

"AAAAAIIIEEEEAAAHH!"

The balloon popped and sent its orgasmic joy keening through her body and her mind, draining all her energy into her pleasure center. Her legs gave way and Roger took control of her, lowering her quivering body to the carpeted kitchen floor. He followed her down and lifted her head into his lap, a tender look on his face as he watched hers go from ecstasy to mellow joy to post-orgasmic sweet softness. As she came back to herself, she opened her eyes and marveled at the expression on Roger's face. Once again, there was no sign of "I made this slut cum like a cheap whore;" only "I hope she enjoyed that as much as I think she did." She smiled up at him.

"Oh, what you just did to me, stud! I would not have thought you could get me off as powerfully as that, as fast as you did. That was marvelous. My insides feel soft as melted butter. But speaking of melted butter, sweetie, you had better help me up or the waffle that is cooking is going to burn."

It was only then that he noticed the delicious smell coming from the Belgian waffle iron. He smiled and helped her to her feet, collecting the toll of a quick open-mouthed kiss before Tiffany turned to rescue the waffle before it did a Joan of Arc impersonation.

They ate not at the table, but on the couch, the coffee table doing double duty as a buffet. Tiffany had not bothered to re-tie her kimono, and sat with her leg touching his and his hand occasionally straying to feather-touch her firm breasts or circle an aureola, while her nails traced the length of the proud lady-pleaser beneath his khakis. They fed each other bites of waffle covered in butter, syrup and whipped cream, each eating exclusively off the other's fork. When their plates were empty, she cuddled against him, feeling the planes of hard pectoral muscle under her cheek. She felt curiously content, which considering the sexual experiences in her life she found very odd indeed.

"You know, sweetie, it seems to me like you're being shortchanged."

"How so, sugar pie?"

"I've been thinking about it, and I think I'm way ahead of you in the orgasm department. It hardly seems fair, stud, especially when you get me off the way you do."

"Don't let it worry you, my sweet. Sex is a woman's game; always has been and always will be. The odds are all on the woman's side.

"The average guy my age can cum twice, maybe three times in a night before he's pumped dry. I've read that for some guys in the 38 to 42 year old range, it's 'one and done.' After that, while his erection may still be hard enough to fuck the girl, if he shoots at all it will be a bare sneeze, not the tons of cum girls expect from guys every time.

"On the other hand, a woman can screw for as long as she can stand it or until she runs out of energy. According to historians, Emperor Claudius's wife Messalina was the biggest nymphomaniac in Rome. She allegedly challenged Scylla, a prostitute noted for her ability to wear out men, to a 'fuck-a-thon,' to see which of them could go the longest and with the most men. Messalina won with a total of 25 men over the course of a night and well into the morning, Scylla having given up at dawn. An extreme case, sure, but it proves what I'm saying. There isn't a man, alive or dead, who could wear out 25 women in a single night!

"I get as much pleasure from knowing I'm giving you a climax as I do from actually getting off with you. I love the fact you're willing to let yourself go and let me please you the way a sweetheart and beauty like you deserves to be. I've no complaints about the satisfaction and pleasure you've given me."

Tiffany absorbed this information slowly. No bedmate of hers had ever put her pleasure first, saying that her climaxes were more important than his as if it were a natural law. Few of them had ever returned for a rematch, much less with the extra special consideration Roger had shown to her. She had been touched when, after easing out of his embrace (and bemused by her reluctance to leave the oasis of his arms) and going to his jeep to bring in his overnight bag so he could change, she had found the cooler with a bottle of good champagne still icy cold inside (how had he managed that?) along with a bouquet from the local flower shop of daffodils, white mums, and lilacs that had obviously been made up specially. Girls in the hookup culture of the new century seldom if ever were treated in a way that showed they were valued rather than simply being a mutual convenience, much less girls like her who had been branded as sluts.

Not sure how to respond to what she'd been told, she fell back on her default position of implied availability, turning into his arms and kissing him. She ran a hand through his hair and was not surprised to feel his hands slide under the silk to find her bare skin as she french-kissed with busy tongue while she tried to put what she was feeling into words.

At last she broke the kiss and said, "I still think you're due more than you've been getting, sweetie. When you get back from this trip, I'm going to meet you at the door wearing the highest heels I own, perfume, freshly manicured nails, and nothing else. Then I am going to lead you into the bedroom and have you take me until I've drained you dry, and do everything I can think of that will give you pleasure. I don't think I can match that Messalina for wantonness, but for you I'm willing to try." She looked at the wall clock and said, "I'd better start getting ready for work, even though I'd rather take you back to bed and screw you until you can't see straight. But when you're home again, I want you to come through that door ready to give me your complete and undivided attention, stud. You up for that?"

"You can count on it, baby." His hand stroked her lovely home-growns again and she pressed it to them, eyes half-lidded as she accepted his attentions, enjoying the feeling as he squeezed and teased them as if by right. Even as she enjoyed the sensations, part of her mind wondered at it. It had been a very long time since she had allowed a male to treat her possessively, but in Roger's case she didn't mind. She turned into his arms and kissed him passionately, and to hell with the clock.

When they pulled up at the Bird & Bottle only a little bit late, neither of them knew quite what to say, despite the comfort level that had been established between them. Roger finally broke the silence.

"Tiffany, could you -- would you do me a favor?"

"Sure, sweetie. What do you need?"

"My house has an alarm, but it's an old system. I need to upgrade to a modern one but I keep putting it off ... Well, anyway, I've asked the Sheriff to send a cruiser by a couple of times a day, but you know as well as I do that the deputies in this county would rather sit in the car with a cup of coffee and a doughnut than get out and walk around the house and barn to make sure everything's okay.

"Would I be asking too much for you to swing by the place once in awhile and check on it? There are things both in the house and the barn I really don't want to lose, you know?"

"I'd be happy to do it, sugar. But I don't know where you live, exactly."

Roger fumbled in his sport coat pocket and pulled out a silver business card holder. Extracting a card, he handed it to her.

"Be it ever so humble. You know the roads well enough to find it?"

"Roger honey, I grew up here. I know every road in Jefferson County. I won't have any trouble finding your place." She tucked the card into her bosom and patted it.

"There. Safely deposited in the First Valley Bank." She took his face in both hands and kissed him. She had intended it to be a quick, affectionate kiss, but of its own accord it lengthened and deepened and turned rugged as their tongues dueled and she moaned, reluctant to end it. At last Roger pulled back, stroking her hair and cheek as she leaned into his touch.

"I'll try and call you when I can," he said, looking into her cornflower blue eyes, "but coordinating will be hard. Most of the times when you'd be free, I'll be stuck behind a table or on a Q&A panel. And when I'm free, if past experience tells me anything it will be when you are either working or asleep. But I promise I'll try."

"Remember, I'm off on Mondays and Tuesdays, sweetie. Try real hard then, 'kay?"

Roger got out and walked around the car to open her door. She got out, looked at him, and impulsively threw herself into his arms, hugging him tight and to her surprise feeling tears well up. Neither of them said a word. After a minute they broke apart, and without looking back went their separate ways, her to work and him to the airport.

4.

A veteran of previous promotional tours, Roger knew better than to expect too much. Irina had sent a personal assistant to grease the ways and smooth out possible troubles, a girl fresh out of college just starting out in the publishing business and on her first independent assignment. This, plus being housed in single rooms in middle grade hotels, told him his place in the publisher's stable: solid, established, but not a star or a New York Times Bestsellers List author. It was still an improvement over his first tour, when he'd had to cover all his own expenses.

Monday was insane, what with setup and calming Kathy the assistant down when there was a minor crisis, and assuring her that this wasn't his first book tour. It would be fine for her to jump ahead to set up for the conventions in Galveston and Houston, and then to coordinate with the radio station there from which he'd be doing remote broadcast hookups with stations in Taos, Phoenix, Prescott, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Boulder and the DIY Satellite Network. (This also had the benefit of getting the over-wound Kathy out of his hair.) As a result, he found he had an unexpected free hour midday Tuesday. He used it to phone Tiffany.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Tiffany. You have a couple of minutes to talk?"

"Sure do, sweetie. Where are you? New Orleans?"

"Uh-huh. Book signing in a big independent bookstore. Business is slow but steady; it should pick up later in the afternoon. Tomorrow I travel to Galveston and more of the same, and then four days in Houston at a DIY convention there.

"And I managed to arrange a meeting with some of the Gas Monkeys at the Gas Monkey Bar N' Grill next week. I want to pick their brains for anecdotes for the book I'm working on."

"You're doing a classic car book?"

"Not exactly. It's a book on car restoration, with the object of the exercise being the example that shows how you go about it. Considering the cable companies have entire channels devoted to car restorations and modifications and that they have been doing well for a couple of years now, the time is right. Half of writing a successful book is in the timing.

"Take Plumbing for the Panic-Stricken; if it had come out right after Hurricane Katrina or Superstorm Sandy, I might have cracked the Top 20 on the Times' nonfiction list, at least for a week or two. As it is, what with a vicious winter and lots of frozen pipes up in the northern states in the Snow Belt, it's selling well. The purpose of this tour is to promote it in states where storm damage is not likely, but renovation is."

"And is your publisher's strategy working?"

"Ask me in a couple of weeks, after I've been to the home improvement conventions. You can't tell much from a single city and one bookstore. It's the conventions where you do the business, because the people that come there are serious about fixing up their homes. You have to generate word of mouth."

Tiffany smiled. "Speaking of homes, after we get off the phone I'm going to go to your place and do a walk-around. Anything I should watch out for, like trip wires or Burmese tiger traps?"

"Surprisibus, surprisibus!" She laughed with delight at his getting the reference as he went on, "No, nothing like that. No body capacitance wires, invisible laser beams, or anything exotic. I do get critters on the porch when it rains sometimes, but that's about it. I just worry about stupid kids breaking windows and the odd meth-head looking for something to steal, you know?"

"Yeah. Meth is a real problem around here, a lot more than the media is letting on. The county mounties, Gardendale cops, and the odd state trooper have casual get-togethers at the bar now and again and I hear things, sweetie. It's not just users, either. There are a bunch of abandoned hardscrabble farms in the county, and nobody knows them all. Some of the smarter local scumbags want to play Walter White, and there's lots of places out in the sticks where they can. The latest wrinkle is to break into a house or a hunting cabin where the power and water are on but the owners are away, do one production run, then leave. The owners come back and find their place is a mess, and there's nothing they can do. Oh, the cops come and take things for evidence and file a report for an insurance claim, but they can't stop it, if you know what I mean. Too many places, too few cops."

"I'd heard a little about that, which is why I asked the Sheriff to have his boys watch the house, but I didn't know it was as bad as you say. You be real careful when you check out the place, you hear me?"

He heard her smile over the phone. "Now don't y'all worry your cute li'l haid about li'l ol' me, sugar. This gal has her concealed carry permit and I never go out without a little surprise for any bad guy in my bag. But if it will make you feel better, I'll carry my purse gun and my house pistol. Twenty-six rounds of 9mm are enough to deal with most problems!"

"Tiffany, you and I definitely have to get together when I get back. I have a little range out beyond the barns built into a hillside with a rack of Bianchi plates and some clangers for fun, and a moving target setup too. We can match your wondernine against my 1911."

"It's a date, sweetie. But what I'm really looking forward to is your coming back and having me again. And again. And again. I'm missing that. Or are your female fans going to keep you so busy that I won't be able to get a rise out of y'all?"

She heard him laugh. "You obviously have no idea what being on a book tour is like, baby! Either that, or you've mistaken me for a rock star. The fans of writers don't throw their room keys or their underwear onstage like groupies at a rock concert. Maybe someone like James Patterson, or Stephen King, or more likely some famous athlete who wrote an autobiography with the help of a ghostwriter gets a note and a room key tucked into their pocket, but not me. Mostly I get through the signings and the interviews and the panels, and then go find a quiet restaurant or order in room service if there is any -- there usually isn't -- and just settle in for the night with my laptop and the TV for company."