Well, I've never done anything like this before. I know what you're thinking: That's what all the girls say. But, really, I haven't; you can trust me...If I had done it, you'd surely have read the story by now.I had spoken to him earlier in the day. He had been getting drunk and fucking with a poet I'd hooked up with a few months back. He was always a little jealous of that one, and today he was on the poet's website posting rude comments to the latest poems. They were all true; the guy was an awful poet, and a pretty dull lay on top of that, but he was a friend, and there was no need to fuck with someone's art in the public eye like that. I called him around 3pm.
“They sent all of the stories back!” he shouted into the phone without a greeting. He had been trying for months to get some short stories published in a local magazine, and they had accepted a few into a second trial round the week before. Shit. No wonder he was so sour. “I've got no money, no food, only cheap vodka and a few beers in the house.”
A writer's life, no doubt. I offered my sympathies and told him I hoped he'd feel better and have a good night. I didn't mention the poet; he deserved a scapegoat. He mumbled a few more complaints and hung up with an abrupt goodbye.
I went home to work for a few hours on the novel. I checked my mailbox and found a check I'd been waiting for all month for a chapter I'd edited the month before. It was for fifty dollars more than promised, with the enclosed note, “Impressive work; we'll call you for the next one!” I poured myself a celebratory drink with my own cheap vodka and sat down to work. After 1000 words, I poured another drink.
Around 8pm I thought of him again...sitting at home alone with shitty booze and a shitty day on his shoulders. I had cashed a fat paycheck, and I was just sitting on it. Most of it was already earmarked for upcoming bills, but I could afford to splurge a little.
I tossed my journal, a sweater, my copy of Delta of Venus, and some cash into my purse. I ran outside to catch the next bus downtown. I walked quickly from the bus stop to make it to the liquor store near his house a few minutes before they closed. It was the only one in town that carried his favorite whiskey. $30 a bottle. It's no gem, but it's a hefty price for a writer who has to choose between that and electricity for the month. I pulled the purple ribbon from my hair and tied a bow around the neck of the bottle. Now it was a gift, and worth the price.
I walked the last few blocks to his house, unsure if he'd even be home. He wasn't answering his phone. I laughed out loud. In such a sour mood, he might even be angry at me for showing up unannounced. He'd have the whiskey, though, and he would be over it quickly.
As I approached his house, I saw the light was on inside. He was home. The back door was open for a bit of relief from the summer heat, and I caught his eye through the screen door. He had to look twice, and I grinned. He was surprised, and he was happy, and he was drunk.
He didn't get up from his chair in the living room, so I let myself in.
“Hello there,” I said.
“Well, hi,” he replied, still surprised. He finally set aside the notes he'd been working on and turned to face me.
I held up the whiskey. “I brought you a present. Don's check finally came today, and I needed to squander it a little.”
He nodded and took the bottle, set it on his desk. “I've already drank quite a bit of booze, though,” he said with a shy smile.
“That's alright,” I answered. “There's always tomorrow. If you're busy...” I gestured toward the scattered notes in front of him. “I can head out.”
“Oh, well, you're here now. You might as well stay for a bit,” he replied unceremoniously and stood from his chair. He grabbed a flute of wine from the desk and downed it in one gulp. He turned on my favorite music, and dimmed the lights. I giggled and closed the blinds, pushed the door shut behind me. I hadn't even put my purse down yet.
He moved to the loveseat next to his desk. It struck me for a moment how cheesy it was to make love on a piece of furniture with such a name, but it did seem to fit. It was a deep red, like wine, plush and worn, filthy, stained with years of lovemaking.
“I was about to go to bed,” he said as he sank into the couch.
I dropped my purse on the ground and slid out of my shoes. I joined him, sliding my knees to either side of his lap and kissing him softly on the forehead.
He looked up at me with tired eyes. “And here you are, all aggressive...like a cougar...Not that kind of cougar! A baby cougar. A cougar cub.” We laughed at the reference; I smiled softly as he stumbled through the words. “A lioness,” he finally said firmly. That was the one. Tonight, I would be a Lioness.
So I kissed him hard on the mouth as he lay comfortably on the couch. I pulled off his shirt and his pants, then stood to remove mine. I moved quickly, but was sure to give a small wiggle as I turned away from him and slipped out of my panties. Once we were both naked, I pounced again with a huge smile on my face.
“I'm just really tired, but as long as that's alright with you...” he said, returning my smile sleepily.
I bit my lip and looked down at his swelling penis. “I think we'll be alright,” I answered. He had doted over me plenty in the past, and he'd had a hard day. I owed him this night.
I pressed myself against him for a few minutes until he was hard, then I slipped down between his legs and took his cock into my mouth. He ran his fingers through my hair, gripping harder as his erection grew, then reached down for my breasts. I coaxed him to lie down on the couch with my free hand, and swung myself around so my feet rested near his head. He groped desperately now at my breasts, my face, my thighs, as I sucked him harder, ran my teeth gently across the tip of his penis. I love doing that; it always makes his body stiffen with surprised pleasure.
He was beginning to wake up, and I was becoming excited from touching him. He finally gripped my thigh hard and kissed me on the neck, then slipped a finger inside me, my flesh already wet, ready for it. I moaned with my mouth around his cock, and he slipped another finger inside, then another. I gasped, and he asked “Is it too much?” I shook my head and closed my eyes, tightened my lips around him and sucked him in deeper.
We continued this, speeding up until I came, squirting onto his hand, causing his erection to stiffen in my hand. I moaned louder. He ran his fingers all over me, through the come, across my clitoris, sending shivers up my spine. I kissed him hard on the mouth, biting his lower lip. He kissed my neck, my ears, my shoulder, my forehead, my nipples.
He was wide awake, and I wanted to come again. I sat up, turned my back to him, straddled his legs. I slipped my own fingers inside of myself for a moment, then guided him inside of me and pressed my moistened fingers against my swollen clitoris. We were fucking now, thrusting and moaning, screaming, using each others' bodies to garner the most pleasure for our own. It was at least 80 degrees in the house, and our bodies were slick with sweat. After I climaxed again, we paused, his cock inside of me with my muscles pulsing around it. He sat up and kissed my body again, covered my damp breasts in his hands and squeezed gently with his fingers, bit my earlobes and breathed warm air across my cheek with his nose. I closed my eyes and let out a low moan as the world was shut out around me. We moved in slow motion now, his hands on my skin, his breath on my face, his pelvis softly thrusting his penis around in my satiated flesh.
We rested for only a moment; he still hadn't come. Alcohol is more sustaining than Viagra for a younger man, and he was lucky to have the Lioness to lie with him tonight.
I went to the closet for a condom, handed it to him, and searched for a bottle of lube. I found one, almost empty, in the drawer of his desk. I shook it at him and smiled to tease him as he pulled on the condom.
“That's mostly from you,” he assured me. I giggled and nodded skeptically.
I mounted him face-to-face this time; we were feeling quite intimate after forty-five minutes of fucking. I let him thrust inside of me at his pace, which quickened and intensified rapidly.
“I think you're the one who's an animal now,” I whispered into his ear.
He stared hungrily into my eyes, then scooped his arm around my waist and dextrously flipped me on my back, slipping my legs over his shoulders and swooping in at me below my feet. He was thrusting hard and fast and steady now; I was kissing him hard and fast on the lips and the cheeks and the shoulders and the neck, clawing his back and shoulders. He reached up and grabbed my hands gently, one by one, and pinned them to the couch above my head. I was bound in place by this animal now.
He was fucking me now, and I was screaming and gasping with the raw pleasure of it. I had been the Lioness, but I was now his doll, pinned in place as he thrust hard and deep, taking my breath each time. I struggled as my arms felt the impulse to embrace him, my fingers to claw at his flesh, and the rush of the struggle sent adrenaline through my body, exciting every nerve he couldn't touch. He held me fast and fucked me hard until he came, pressing himself deep into my soul in the midst of the black hole we'd created in the world around us.
He never screamed or grunted or moaned when we made love. He just fucked with such intensity and desperation that I could feel his pleasure growing, and then he stopped. With a hard, slow, deep thrust; and I could feel the throbbing of his penis as he came inside of me.
And, as always, a soft kiss, and he slowly lowered his body to mine on the cushions as his energy evaporated with his erection. He loosened the grip on my wrists, and I enveloped him tenderly in my arms. After a few minutes of kissing, cuddling, accepting the exhaustion that was heavy on our bodies now that the adrenaline of arousal had dissipated, he walked away to clean himself and fill a glass of water. I lay on the couch and watched upside down as he walked around the house above me, still slightly in slow motion-- a woman's orgasm always takes a little longer to subside than a man's. He downed a glass of water without a break, then collapsed in the chair at his desk. At some point, the glass of wine had hit him, and he was wasted now.
“Do you mind if I use your shower?” I asked. “Of course not,” he replied, and I sauntered in a haze toward the back of the house while he flipped on a movie in the living room.
His bathroom was sparse, and a little dirty, reassuring me there was no woman of the house. I started a lukewarm shower and stepped in. I ran my hair and my face under the water to cool off, rinsed my sweaty body, and held my mouth under the stream of water to rinse the taste of cock from it. It was a fine taste, in the moment; but there is no need to go around with the taste of cock in your mouth all night, interfering with your dinner and what not. His soap smelled undoubtedly like Man, and I lathered it in my hands and scrubbed myself briefly with it. I patted myself dry with one of the used towels hanging on his rack, wringing out my hair over the tub. I checked my face in the mirror and wiped away my melted makeup. I wrapped myself in the towel and walked back to the living room, my hair still nearly dripping wet.
I kissed the top of his head as I walked by, and gathered my clothes from around the floor. I dressed slowly, still naturally high from the orgasms. It was pouring rain outside again, for the third time that day, so I sat to watch a bit of the movie and wait for it to pass before heading outside.
“You're not walking home alone, are you?” he asked as he lay down drunkenly on the couch.
“No,” I answered, slipping on my shoes. “I'll catch the bus downtown.”
“Good.” He closed his eyes. “I worry about you. You're too brave.”
I smiled and bent over him, brushed back his hair, and kissed him gently on the forehead. “Don't worry about me, dear. I am only brave when I feel safe.”
My knees were wobbling when I left the house. I was glad I had actually left in time to catch a bus. I grabbed a sandwich from the late-night market downtown; a decadent thing with tomatoes and avocados and alfalfa sprouts, thick soft bread. I love a plush meal after sex, with all of my senses still aroused. I ate half of the sandwich as I waited for the bus, and tucked the other half away to save for the next day. I had squandered quite enough; tomorrow I would have to go back to being thrifty, living like a poor artist, and this would be an incredible treat.
An old man who looked maybe half-crazy took a seat beside me at the bus stop as I jotted notes of the night in my journal.
“What do you write about?” he asked.
“Sex, drugs, and rock and roll,” I answered, without looking up.
He stared at me for a moment, then looked away without another word.
I tucked away my journal once I got on the bus. I was beginning to come down from the high of the evening. The fluorescent lights and arctic-cold air-conditioning of the bus came into harsh focus as I traveled across the empty town. Once home, I trudged up the stairs to my room, tossed my keys on my dresser, started a pot of coffee, and poured another cheap vodka drink. I had a story to write.
