Adult Image Library 2/Adult_Image_Library_Volume_2_Disc2.iso/stories/takeone.txt

Text File | 1996-08-28 | 16KB | 258 lines

     On stage.  Carnegie Hall.  The orchestra churning away behind me, the
chorus bellowing in back of them, the featured soloist emoting at the top of
her lungs to my left.  I'm standing between her and the conductor, trying not
to look as scared as I am, waiting for the cue to sing my two lines, assuming I
can remember them.
     Ah, the life of a journeyman musician.
     I take the opportunity to scan the house.  Nearly full, as usual in
Carnegie, maybe a little more attentive.  I play the familiar mind games -- act
confident and you'll look confident.  Look confident and you'll be confident.
Amazing the lie we believe sometimes...
     A woman back about 15 rows or so catches my attention.  She looks... But
what would she be doing here, of all places?  It certainly looks like her, and
that dress she almost has on rings lots of bells -- some of them in
uncomfortable locations.
     She catches my eye and smiles, then lifts her opera glasses and looks
straight at me.  She doesn't need opera glasses -- not at that range.  And
she's looking about two feet south of my face, down at where a tingling and
growing hardness is going to make singing pretty damn difficult in a moment or
three.
     She lowers the glasses, smiles again and licks her lips, and I semi-
unwillingly remember the first time we met.

     We were at a wedding.  Both of us had traveled a thousand-something miles
(me from the east, she from the west) out of various senses of obligation.
Neither of us felt obligations to the party beyond our presence, which had duly
been noted some hours previous.
     She was easily the most gorgeous woman there; tall, big-boned,
beautifully-shaped with lovely, well-formed breasts and an ass that reminded me
of the Cheshire cat's tail -- so round, so firm, so fully packed.  Her dress --
black and backless, hanging in place by a pair of hopelessly overmatched
spaghetti straps -- clung for dear life to every curve and contour.  Under
normal circumstances, the dress would have ended around her ankles, but the
slit that started about three inches below her crotch made the circumstances
anything but normal.  There was no possibility -- and I considered the matter
carefully and minutely -- that she was wearing a stitch underneath.
     In a word, she was spectacular.  It was hardly possible that she was there
alone, but I guess I was either the only unattached male in the room or the
only one that wasn't terrified of her looks.
     I wish I could claim that I walked up to her and claimed her on the spot,
but it was more like the other way around.
    "Is anyone sitting here?" she asked, pointing at the empty seat next to me.
     "You mean here?" I responded, my customary wit ever at hand when
confronted with the imponderable.
     "Well, I guess I could sit over at that table," she said with a smile,
starting to turn away.
     "No!," I shouted, nearly tipping over ever glass within reach.  "No, no,
no.  Please.  Allow me."
     She settled in with a graceful and effective motion, giving me a long gaze
at a cleavage that seemed to end at her navel.  The effect on me was immediate.
 I felt myself hardening and lengthening, no more than inches from her mouth.
     She noticed, but didn't say a word.  She didn't have to; her open mouthed
smile and the way she licked her lips were all that was required.

     "A drink?" I offered.  She declined.  I waved over a double bourbon neat.
 I had the feeling I would need it.
     We chatted for a while, getting the basic information.  She was, of all
things, a commodities broker, and an avid yoga fan.  There were a couple of
marriages in the past, tidy settlements which let her speculate in the market
if she wanted to.  She didn't have to; she did it for the fun and action.
     How anyone under that kind of stress could look like that quite escaped
me.  The miracles of modern fabric design.  Better living through chemistry,
indeed.
     We talked for about a half-hour or so, and when the orchestra came back
from its break, I asked her to dance.
     The combo played a few typical wedding-type numbers when I excused myself
and slipped the band leader a twenty and a few requests.
     I returned just as the band swung into the first slow number of the
evening.  Gershwin, of course.  It was quite lovely -- amazing what a
double-sawbuck can still do.
     "It's very clear, our love is here to stay...."
     I took her in my arms and guided her onto the floor. I held her close but
respectfully, our bodies brushing each other, tantalizing.  A seduction, not a
rape.
     "... Not for a year, forever and a day..."
     She slipped her hands around my neck and put her head on my shoulder, her
perfume reaching my nose and having the expected aphrodisiac effect.  What had
subsided to a slight tumescence was rapidly becoming a most uncomfortable
hard-on.  She gently pressed her crotch to mine, the tips of her breasts
caressing my shirt.
     "... They say the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble, they're only
made of clay..."
     That's more than they can say for me.  I moved my hands lower, to the
small of her back and top of her ass, letting her feel my erection, as she
kissed my neck and ear.
     "...But our love is here to stay."
     I cupped her right breast in my hand, feeling a surprisingly small nipple
grow pebble-hard under my hand as she made a small whimpering sound.
     This vertical seduction went on for a chorus or three until I grew
concerned that either we would disgrace ourselves on the dance floor or the
good city fathers would insist we use our plane tickets immediately.  After
all, we both had hotel rooms, right?
     The song ended and her head came up off my shoulder.  She didn't appear to
be focussing too well, but that may just have been because I wasn't focussing
too well, either.
     "I feel a powerful need to drag you away and do all sorts of despicable
things to your body," I said with a grin.
     "Sorry," she said, grabbing me by my tie.  (The other obvious handle would
have shocked too many people.)  "I picked you up.  I get to do the despicable
things first."
     I somehow found it hard to argue.

     The elevator, when it came, was empty.  As they tend to be in large luxury
hotels, it was mirrored.  We looked at each other and broke out laughing.  Not
a word was necessary.
     The old cartoon gag has lovers climbing into an elevator, pressing the
stop button, making mad passionate love and leaving some time later.  Take it
from me: it's a fantasy.  Pressing the stop button tends to set off fire
alarms, and gushing fire hoses are erotic only in phallic symbolism.
     Not that elevators are exactly boring.  Before I could ask what floor we
were going to, she pressed the Penthouse button. Since the hotel had better
than 60 floors and we were on 3, it would be quite the ride.
     She did not jump me.  She did, however, back me against the back wall and
turn her back on me.
     "Tease me, Bill," she whispered.  "Make me want your cock."

     Who am I to turn down an offer like that?  I kissed the back of her neck,
my hands wrapping around her to feel the weight of her tits.  She pushed her
ass back against my prick, moving in circles and back and forth.  I pinched her
nipples and she moaned.  I licked my fingers and eased the straps off her
shoulders, exposing her breasts to the air and mirrors.
     "Oh, no, Bill," she sighed.  "We don't have the time. Someone might come
in."  Still, she stared at herself in the mirror as I moistened my fingers and
went back to her nipples. She pushed hard against my hands and my cock, gasping
and closing her eyes.  Could she be this easy to bring off?
     The elevator slowed, giving us both a tremor and reminding me that teasing
under G-forces is something to be explored further.  She quickly adjusted her
straps, tucked her breasts back in, and gave me a kiss that delivered plenty
and promised lots more.
     "You," she said playfully, "are a nasty man.  I like that in a guy."
     The elevator door opened just after she gave my prick a firm squeeze.  A
prim-looking family of five stood there waiting.  She grabbed my hand and
dragged me away.

     A loud crash of cymbals reminded me where I was.  Two pages to go before
my part.  With an effort and a determination not to look in her direction, lest
I be distracted again, I wait out the interval and sing the brief fugue. The
conductor looks pleased and I can go back to my memories.

     I'd been wondering why we were headed for the penthouse area.  My room was
far below, and I assumed hers was too.  My curiosity was further aroused when
she led me to a door marked "EXIT".
     "Excuse me, dear," I started.  "You don't mean to bounce me down the
steps, do you?"
     "Not hardly," she giggled.  "Just come on!"
     She pushed through the door and led me up the concrete and steel stairs,
our foot steps echoing.  We reached a door at the top -- alarmed but unlocked.
She pushed the door open and we stepped out onto the roof of the city's tallest
building.
     "I love it up here!" she shouted over the wind.  "I can see everything! It
makes me feel so free!"
     Then she was in my arms, her tongue running along my lips and teeth,
clashing against mine.  Our bodies clutched at each other, tighter, tighter.
Our groins pushed against each other, pressing fiercely, trying to burn through
our clothes.  The wind whipped her dress around, raising it almost to her cunt.
My hands were all over her tits, pinching the nipples, hefting their weight,
teasing them with my thumbs.
     I could feel her moaning -- feel her, not hear her, because the wind was
so loud.  Then her mouth was at my ear, and I heard her say...
     "Didn't I mention doing something despicable?"
     She dropped to her knees, smiled wickedly and again lowered the straps of
her dress, exposing her breasts to the cold night air.  Her hands reached out
and caressed the outlines of my long-since uncomfortable hard-on, running her
fingers and palms up and down its length, pressing just behind its head.
     Then she lowered her head over my cockhead, still confined in my pants,
warming it and making it jerk.  I wanted nothing so much as for her to take it
in her mouth, take all of it, and make me come.
     As though she had read my mind, she tugged down my fly, reaching inside to
caress my prick through my underwear.  She tugged the last cloth barrier aside,
and my cock popped out, freed and bobbing in the wind.
     She drew her breath, then stuck out her tongue and licked my cock
carefully, starting at the back of the head and working forward.  I reached
behind me, looking for something to help support me and found a brick house
that enclosed the top of the stairs.  I leaned back against it, nearly overcome
by her.
     She had closed her eyes, and cupped her hands around the base of my cock.
Her mouth slid over me, her tits pressing against my thighs as she took my
entire length.  She rocked back and forth two, three, maybe four times (I'm
sure I wasn't counting), licking me as her head pulled back, her lips and mouth
covering me firmly.  I reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair, guiding
her back and forth, back and forth and I felt my cum building in my balls.
     The she pulled back, still stroking me with her hands, and shouted
something.  She sat up a little straighter, and enveloped my cock with her
tits, incredibly warm and spectacularly arousing.  Her nipples looking as tight
as they could get, the breasts themselves firm and inviting.  I reached down
and squeezed her tits with her, and her eyes closed, and her head went back.
Clearly, I had something there.

     A blowjob was fine -- and I intended to have her finish it later -- but I
had other things on my mind.  I pulled her up and clamped my mouth firmly on
hers, my hands lightly pinching her nipples.  She ground against me, and I
reached under her dress and grabbed her lovely butt.
     Only then did it occur to me that I was right; there really was no
underwear.  None at all.
     Her cheeks were everything they had appeared to be -- round and firm.  I
pulled them gently apart, ran my fingers down her crack and over her cunt lips.
 Lord, she was wet!  I slid a finger, then another, between her moist lips and
into her tunnel.  Pressed her face into my ear, caught the lobe between her
teeth.  She raised a leg and wrapped it around me, trying to slide her cunt
over my cock.  That was the general idea, but not yet.  Not yet.
     I eased my fingers out slowly, letting them rub against her exposed clit.
Then I ran a single finger slooowly over the clit again.  Then again.  Then
faster.  Then harder.  Her ass tightened and her leg grabbed at me harder.
     Then I stopped.
     She pulled back her head, breathing like a miler.  Absolutely not
focussing.  Not at all.  I spun her around, leaned her against the brick house,
and pulled up her dress, leaving her ass and pussy as exposed as her tits.
     She was yelling something; I couldn't hear, but I could guess, and I
intended to oblige.  I guided my prick to her cunt opening and slowly slid in.
She pushed back against me as though possessed, then lunged away and lunged
back, taking my whole length in single strokes.
     It would be nice to report that this all went on for days at a time.
Remember, though, that we had now been teasing each other for almost an hour,
and we were not precisely made of stone.
     We bucked at each other, my hands holding her ass cheeks apart, then
together, my prick sliding in and out as her cunt lips clenched and unclenched.
 There was no restraint, just prick and cunt, pressing at each other until I
felt her pussy grab once, twice, three times and the cum pressure built in my
balls and it was exploding, jetting out of me in pump after pump after pump
after pump after pump.
     I collapsed on her and she collapsed against the wall.  We stayed that way
for a couple of minutes, the wind subsiding but the night chill lifting some of
our heat.
     "I love the lights from out here," she said, lifting herself from the wall
and looking out over the city.  "It's like I can do anything from here."
     I nodded, sliding my arm around her and pulling her close to my side.
     She looked down at herself -- her dress not in shreds but certainly not
fit for public display.  "Any thoughts about how we get down from here?"
     "Depends," I said.  "I'm on the 18th floor.  You?"
     "I'm on 32."
     "Well, I don't guess we'll meet anyone on the stairs."
     She smiled.  "I should think not.  After you?"
     It took us a while to get to her room, but the thing of it is, we kept
getting distracted.  Soon as we arrived, she called the front desk.  Extended
her stay for an extra evening.  No way were we getting out of bed before
check-out time.

     Intermission.  Time for me to pull myself together.  I was standing on the
tiny landing just to the right of the stage, half-listening to the conductor
say how well the first half had gone when I saw her walking down the hall
toward me.
     In the old Carnegie Hall, anyone could get backstage merely by passing
down a corridor lined by portraits of composers.  Here she came, just walking
down the hall, past Liszt, past Bizet, passed Berlioz and into my arms.
     No question -- it was her.  All of her.  I thanked the muses that I was
done for the night.
     We squeezed each other for what seemed like hours, and it still wasn't
enough.
     "What on earth are you doing here?" I asked her.
     "I was in town on some business and caught the ad in the Times," she said.
 "I asked around, and when I heard you'd be here, I extended the trip. Got some
time for an old broad?"
     "Nope," I smiled.  "Just time for you.  Grab some dinner?"
     "Nope.  Grab something else."  She did, and I suddenly wasn't hungry any
more.  Not for food, anyway.

                                The End
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