Indulgences
written by:
LaFlamenca

The sound of rapidly approaching high heels echoed across the empty street. It was nearly twilight. The woman in the long, cream-colored coat navigated her way quickly but cautiously, consulting a small piece of paper in her hand. She didn't fit in here, her unstudied elegance clashing with the gray squalor of her surroundings. She skirted a foul-smelling puddle, stepped over a broken pair of glasses on the asphalt and ignored the leers of a few vagrants. She looked up at a building number, then back down at the paper in the hand. Slipping the paper into her pocket, she pushed open the door and went inside.

Her nerves were stretched past the breaking point. It had been weeks - nearly three weeks since she had seen him, since she had known where he was. In the beginning, he'd called a few times, his voice too richly reassuring for comfort. Then, came the long days when she didn't hear from him at all.

And then came that terse, unsigned note directing her to an alarmingly dilapidated building in one of the city's most "interesting" neighborhoods, on this date, at this time. She wasn't even certain the note was from him. Enclosed with it was a newly-cut brass key. The lock on the apartment she'd been directed to was also new and gleaming, a contrast to the battered, peeling door. She climbed the dark stairwell and looked around the filthy second-floor hallway, feeling uneasy. God, who the hell lived around here?

Her fingers fumbled with the lock, missing the keyhole several times. When she finally got it in, the key wouldn't turn. She jiggled it several times before she finally felt it give. The lock made a surly, gnashing sound. She placed her hand on the doorknob, twisted it. The door opened a crack. It was dark inside. She paused, took a breath and pushed it open a few more inches. Just a little bit more . . .

She didn't have time to scream. She barely even registered the movement of the arm that snaked out of the opening, fastened onto her wrist and dragged her into the pitch-blackness of the apartment.

She heard the door click shut at the same moment she was thrown against the wall, her head banging against it, a broad body slamming against hers. In the next instant, she felt hands at her throat, at the lapels of her coat, ripping it open, pushing it off her shoulders. Reflexively, her own hands flew up, clawing at the vague dark shape before her, but he only grabbed both her wrists and pressed them to the wall above her head with one of his hands. A knee thrust sharply between her legs, forcing her thighs open, her skirt riding up on her hips. Hot, demanding lips moved up the side of her neck toward her face. His other hand groped at her breasts, then shoved roughly under her skirt, between her legs, cupping her mound through her silk panties. She drew in a breath to scream - not that she really expected it to help - but was immediately silenced by his mouth crushing brutally against hers, his tongue forcing its way inside, his teeth sharp against her lips. And then, she knew, and she nearly went limp with relief. She whispered his name raggedly as his lips moved from her mouth back down to her neck.

"Missed you. Jesus, I missed you so fucking much," he muttered. If his body hadn't been flush against hers, she might have slid to the floor. She was shaking. His mouth continued to move against her neck, his tongue and teeth making her shiver uncontrollably. Meanwhile, he had yanked her blouse out of her skirt, quickly unbuttoning the buttons, one or two of them popping off. He worked his fingers under the wires of her bra to pinch her nipple, hard. She cried out into his mouth, her body jerking involuntarily against his. He reached around her back, finding the clasp to her bra. It was strapless, and fell off as soon as he'd unfastened it, leaving her full, rounded breasts naked. He moved his hand down to her skirt, bunching it up over her hips, pushing it up to her waist where he grabbed a handful of the material and tugged it toward himself, so that, with her hands still held above her head, her pelvis thrust forward. Automatically, she spread her legs for support and felt his hard-on move between her thighs. She moaned, tried to say something, her hands straining for a moment against his grip, her hips straining toward him as if of their own volition.

It never failed to drive him wild, her body's unabashed response to him. His cock was already hard, he wanted nothing more than to drive it into her, and he knew that, already, minutes into it, she was ready for him. But he couldn't resist the urge to play for just a little while longer.

He slipped his hand into her panties, dipping two fingers into her pulsing wetness, rubbing his thumb against her clitoris for only a few seconds before she jerked her head away, breaking their kiss, and gasped, "Please."

He waited a beat, making a circular motion over her clitoris. "Please what?"

"Please fuck me," she breathed, grinding her pussy into his hand. "Please. I need you. I want your cock inside me, I need it, please . . ."

He continued moving his hand, marveling, even after all this time, how completely willing she was to say something like that. She'd never played that female game of coyness, of feigned indifference or grudging submission. And for that, he respected her deeply.

But it didn't mean he was going to do what she said. At least, not right away.

While he continued caressing her moist pussy, he dipped his head to take one of her nipples into his mouth. The scent of violets and jasmine filled his head. Her nipple was hard and swollen in his mouth. He closed his teeth lightly around it, then a little more tightly, moving the rougher side of his tongue across its surface. His three-day beard scraped across her skin, and he heard her moan and felt her back arch suddenly, her hips bucking into him. He moved over to her other breast, sucking her other nipple, bathing it with his tongue. And then, as he always did, he moved his mouth down to the underside of her breast, biting a small patch of skin and applying brief but intense suction. He knew it hurt a little, he heard her cry out, but he also knew that this moment of pain, for her, would close the gap between arousal and absolutely frantic urgency. And it would leave a tiny, private mark of his ownership on her body.

She cried out hoarsely, twisting against him. She was almost there, almost, almost. "Please," she begged, and, suddenly, he acquiesced. She felt his hand leave her wrists, and wrapped her arms around him for a moment before reaching down to unsnap his jeans. His finger left her dripping folds for a moment and hooked around the front of her underpants, intending to pull them down, but, in his haste, tugged too hard, ripping the flimsy lace side panels. She didn't care. The torn, forgotten panties fell down her legs. She heard the jangle of his belt buckle as she jerked it open, pulling his jeans and briefs down, his cock bobbing free, bumping against her stomach and smearing a little bit of slippery precum above her navel. He locked his hands around her waist, and lifted her up to impale her on it, bracing her back against the wall. Her legs closed around his back and she clung to his shoulders as his cock began to pound into her.

There was no gentleness in either of them as he fucked her, her head occasionally banging against the wall, her nails digging into his neck. She screamed like an animal when her first orgasm rolled over her, the muscles of her cunt squeezing him desperately. And yet, for some reason, he couldn't come yet, and he kept fucking her, lifting her up and slamming her back down onto his cock, his hands around her firm, luscious ass, gripping her hips so hard that she would definitely have ten purple bruises in the morning. At that moment, neither of them was aware of any of that. He was so deep inside her, she felt as though her entire body was filled with his pistoning prick. She came again, her entire body convulsing so wildly that he had to tighten his hold on her to keep her from falling. And then again, screaming, almost sobbing with the intensity of it. And, finally, he came too, his cum shooting deep into her as the clenching muscles of her tight pussy milked every last drop from him.

They collapsed to the floor in a heap, panting to catch their breath. Nestled in his arms, she breathed in the achingly familiar scent of him, feeling his semen dripping out of her, trickling over her thigh and experiencing complete satisfaction. She felt him stir beside her as he reached down to where his jeans were crumpled around his ankles, fishing a pack of Camels and a Zippo out of his pocket. As he flicked the lighter open, the flame, surprisingly bright in the dark, illuminated the woman next to him, and he paused for a moment, taking in her lush, voluptuous beauty, made even more enticing by her dishevelment. Her blouse hung off her shoulders, leaving her breasts bare. In the flickering light, her nipples cast long shadows on her creamy flesh. Her straight gray skirt was still bunched up around her hips, high enough that he could see all the way to the tops of her relaxed, slightly parted thighs, slick dew still glistening at their smooth-shaven apex. Her hair was a wanton mane around her classically molded, oval face, her lipstick smeared around her swollen mouth.

She watched him watching her, met his gaze levelly. Her eyes held that unusual mix of challenge and submission that had first drawn him to her. She knew what he felt when he looked at her, she knew of the power she had over him, but she also knew that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. She'd never hid that. Not since the first time they met.

That night, they'd stared at each other across a half-empty pub and ended up fucking wildly in the bathroom and coming out to a chorus of catcalls and grins. It hadn't seemed to bother her, and he'd been taken slightly aback, wondering if she was the sort of woman who got off on the "slut" thing. He'd looked down at her face, expecting either a guilty blush or a sly grin. Instead, she'd looked up at him with the exact expression she was wearing now, and he knew he wasn't letting her get away.

After lighting a cigarette, he took a drag, then passed it silently to her. She did the same and handed it back to him. It was their usual post-coital ritual - they shared a cigarette while they collected their thoughts.

She buried her head in the warm space under his chin, running her hand lightly over his chest. She knew there was no point in asking, but couldn't help it. "So. Where were you?"

She heard him puff on the cigarette before he answered. "You know I can't tell you," he finally told her, very gently, the way he always told her.

"Why not?"

"Because, if anyone starts asking ticklish questions, you can tell them you don't know and your conscience will be clearer for not lying about it."

She couldn't help smiling. "I see. So this is all to protect my conscience? Make sure I go to heaven and all?"

"Sure, and what else could it be?"

"Bollocks as usual," she scoffed.

She heard him chuckle softly. His lips briefly brushed against the top of her head. "And when are you Americans going to stop trying to steal our slang?"

She punched his shoulder lightly. "As soon as you quit messing with our women."

"Hey, maybe we would if your women were a little less flirtatious. But it's always the same with you girls - oh, hi there, how're you, love your accent, like to shag in the jacks?"

Laughing, she hit him again, harder. "Bastard!"

Pulling a grimace, he clutched his shoulder in mock pain. "Hey now, Slugger, wouldja mind continuing the beating on that couch over there? Might be a little more comfortable."

She squinted into the darkness. "There's a couch there? Damn. Didn't even notice."

He got up from the floor, offering her a hand. "Course you didn't. One-track mind. Like I said . . ."

She pulled herself up, snorting impatiently "Oh, shut up already. You're only uppity when you're flaccid, you know that?"

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to see the contours of a very large, somewhat sagging couch. Walking gingerly across the invisible floor, they made their way over to it and sank into its old, velvety cushions, hearing it creak deeply. He reached over to grope along the top of a nearby end table, finding a candle and lighting it.

She decided not to bother asking why he didn't turn on a light or at least pull up the heavy shades. The candle's high, bright flame illuminated just enough of the room for it to feel romantic. She allowed herself a little sigh of contentment. Ah, so what if he'd been away for a while? He was back now, and she could feel herself coming back to life.

He was eyeing her avidly. "Has it occurred to you that there is very little point to wearing clothes if you're wearing them like that?"

She laughed, looking down at her gaping blouse and rucked-up skirt. "You have a point." He reached for her, but she shook her head. "Uh-uh. You first."

He shrugged and gave her an impish look before easily pulling his t-shirt off over his head and dropping his jeans and underwear to the floor. "Satisfied?"

She was grinning as she allowed him to remove her blouse. "Very," she purred, while he unzipped her skirt and slid it down over her legs, kissing a shivery little trail down her hip and thigh as he did. She lay back for a few moments, letting herself enjoy the sight of him.

He would never have fit the Hollywood mold of handsomeness, but she loved looking at him. His face was a little too wide, while his chin was not quite square enough. If his bone structure had ever been elegant, it certainly wasn't any longer, not with the slight irregularities along his nose and left cheekbone. His long, sensual mouth was at odds with the plain angles of his face. But it was his eyes she loved, light sky-grey, always crinkling at the edges, and his devilish, irresistible, ever-ready smile.

And his body. He looked like a thirty-second sketch by Michelangelo - big, bulky, all rough, unrefined lines and muscles that weren't made in any gym. She knew that his friends had once nicknamed him "The Wolfhound," and she saw the resemblance. He had a primal sort of grace, a beauty that sprang purely from his undiluted vitality.

He let her ogle him for a few moments, and then stretched out next to her, letting out a happy little grunt as he sank into the cushions. The couch, though relatively roomy, was still narrow enough to force them to press close together. She threw one leg over him, her inner thigh resting on his hip, and tucked her head beneath his neck. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, her breasts almost flattened against his chest. She sighed happily, feeling warm and safe and perfectly content. He ran his fingers idly up and down the smooth contours of her back. She swirled her fingers in the scratchy sprinkle of light brown hairs on his chest. They stayed this way for a while, not speaking, not reaching for any erogenous zones, savoring the easy intimacy of this moment, the intimacy that comes only from deep, comfortable familiarity with one another's bodies.

She remembered the first time she ever saw him. She'd had the day from hell, the kind of day that called for a light buzz to shake the trend and start the evening. So she'd stepped into a nondescript little pub. It had been perfect - cool, dark, quiet. There were only a few customers there, most of them watching a rugby match on the television set. She took a seat by the bar and asked for a Jack and Coke, laughing off the grey-haired bartender's friendly admonition that it was a "waste a' good liquor."

After gulping down her first drink, she was nursing her second, finally feeling the day's accumulated tension leaving her. She watched the television passively. Somewhere behind her, she heard the door open and the bartender's quiet exclamation of surprise as he rushed to greet the visitor.

There were the sounds of a couple of glasses banging against the bar. They spoke under their breath, but in plainly excited tones, snippets of their conversation vaguely reaching her. The bartender seemed to know the new customer very well, and she turned around to see what the commotion was all about.

He was sitting at the far end of the bar, slightly hunched over a couple of shot glasses, the bartender leaning close to hear him as he spoke. She didn't know why she couldn't seem to look away from him - he was attractive enough, with the broad shoulders and long legs, but he wasn't really her type, unshaved, his shaggy reddish-brown hair sticking out everywhere and his eyes slightly puffy, either from lack of sleep or excess of liquor. Perhaps he fascinated her because of the intense, animated look on his face as he spoke to the bartender, the jabbing motion of his hands, the constant jiggle of his foot on the floor. It was as though he had too much energy. When he had finished talking, he shook his head grimly and knocked back the small glass of amber liquid in front of him. And then, setting it down, he looked up and suddenly met her stare.

She'd never felt like this before - nor since. It was almost a physical tug, as though a magnet had been turned on inside her body. Something hot seemed to flare suddenly inside her stomach and moved downwards. In less than the space of a second, her mind flashed to an image of this stranger, naked, his face swaying above hers, contorted with pleasure. To her shock, she felt herself becoming wet. Her thighs flexed under her skirt and her hand twitched involuntarily on her sweating glass, her fingers slipping, the glass nearly popping out of her hand.

It was only this that made her break eye contact, but as soon as she'd steadied her glass, she couldn't resist looking up at him again. He was still watching her, one corner of his mouth quirking slightly upward, his eyes frankly appreciative. The bartender looked from him to her and back again, grinned, and, whistling, walked away.

Flustered, she looked away, staring at her drink without seeing it, blood pounding in her ears. She heard the scrape of a chair, then a few unhurried footsteps and willed her hands not to shake when she felt him sit down next to her.

Much later, she admitted to him that she had no recollection of anything he said to her at this point. There had been a few more drinks, his fingers had brushed hers, she'd placed a hand on his forearm, he'd touched her shoulder, which made her nipples tighten almost painfully inside her bra. Their faces had drifted very close together, and she had no idea what he was saying, only that those wide, startlingly soft-looking lips were moving, that his heavy-lidded eyes were perfectly level with hers, and that his breath was warm on her face. She fought not to squirm tellingly in her seat. So this is what it was like for men, she thought at one point, to talk to a woman with enormous breasts. She couldn't concentrate on anything but how much she wanted to fuck him.

She was way past the mixed stuff and on to straight Jameson's when she knew what she was going to do. Sliding off her stool, she placed a hand flat on his chest. He looked up with interest. Looking straight into his eyes, she slid her hand down, over his ribcage and stomach, stopping just before she hit the most interesting part. She didn't say anything, but turned on her heels and walked slowly and purposefully to the bathroom, keeping very conscious of how she placed her feet, and wobbling only a little.

When she walked through the doors of the bathroom - it was a miraculously clean single-person powder room, no stalls - she had a momentary panic attack. No way, she had not drunk nearly enough to do what she was thinking about doing, and with a total stranger, no, she would just lock the door and splash water on her face until she was either a) sure that he had probably left the premises in disgust or b) no longer this horny. But she made no move to lock the door and only stared at herself in the mirror, wondering whether she could trust her own judgment as to what she looked like at this point and whether there was time to reapply her eye liner.

Her time was running out. In the mirror, she saw a dark shape appear through the pebbled glass panel on the door. The doorknob swiveled and she turned around just in time to see him ducking into the small room, which immediately felt even smaller. She felt suddenly terrified. What must he think of her?

He locked the door and leaned against it, looking at her. And then, he smiled. It wasn't a lascivious smirk, it wasn't an expression of arrogance or triumph. It was a big, open smile, and she suddenly wasn't afraid anymore, feeling her own lips curving in response. "Well," he said, coming a step closer, "fancy meeting you here."

She didn't say anything, but she trembled when he moved closer. He hesitated for less than a second before placing his hands firmly on her waist. She put her hands on his shoulders. For a moment, they paused like this, as though they were about to begin dancing. And then, he pulled her to him and lowered his mouth to hers.

That was the trigger. Tangling her hand in his hair, she urged his head closer to her, opening her mouth wide under his. He tasted like cigarettes and whiskey and she wanted to devour him. He, like a gentleman, was only just beginning to feel his way a few inches below her waist when she began to unbutton his shirt, her fingers hungry for the hot flesh beneath the fabric. Not to be outdone, he skipped the subtleties, grabbing her firm, rounded ass and bringing her right up against the bulge in his pants. Even through their clothes, he could feel her damp warmth there, and he knew she could feel his hardness. She tipped her pelvis up to grind against him; through the cotton of her loose skirt, she could feel the rough texture of his jeans. She nipped his lower lip lightly, heard him groan, and felt a new surge of arousal at knowing that she'd made him do that.

She pushed harder against him, moving her hips up and down, gyrating against his groin. She could feel herself getting wetter and wetter, her lips rubbing together inside her panties. Suddenly, he lifted her up and sat her onto the high sink counter, bracing himself on his hands on either side of her as he continued to kiss her. She didn't know what was making her feel this lightheaded, the alcohol she'd consumed or her desire. Whatever it was, she was becoming impatient, and, tired of waiting, pulled her sweater off over her head, breaking their kiss as she did so.

He stared at her. Her face was flushed. Her chest was heaving against her bra, a lacy black concoction that looked absolutely delicious against her pale skin. Through the lace, he could see the hard thrust of her rosy nipples, like small wrapped candies. He bent to take one in his mouth, right through the thin lace. She gasped, her head falling back - through the texture of the clinging wet lace, she could feel the pressure of his tongue and the heat of his mouth even more intensely. He had taken her other breast in his hand, massaging it roughly. It almost hurt, only it didn't, and she bit her lip to stop the sounds of pleasure that kept escaping her mouth.

Almost unconsciously, she slipped one hand down to pull up her skirt and reach into her panties. For a few seconds, she mindlessly caressed herself, her eyes closed, her mouth open, her breaths coming fast. Then, she felt him push her hand out of the way and replace it with his own. He shoved a finger inside her abruptly, then another, curved up just so to press against her G-spot. He began moving his fingers in and out of her quickly, and heard her muffled cry by his ear, but didn't stop.

She barely knew what she was doing when she began to undo his pants - the mechanics of the buckle escaped her and she wrestled with it blindly until it finally came loose. Her hand closed greedily around his throbbing cock, her palm sliding over the length of it. She stroked the tender ridge at the underside of his head and, for the first time since they began, felt his movements falter as he fought to control himself. Delighting in her sudden power, she closed her hand tighter around him, pumping his cock for a few seconds. He'd stopped kissing her, and she looked up at him. His eyes had darkened, glazed over a little. "Take off my panties," she whispered, and he obliged, pulling them down her legs and over her boots. "And my skirt." Expertly, he undid the button holding the loose, flared skirt closed at her waist. She shifted her bottom, and the skirt fluttered to the floor. She didn't need to tell him to take off her bra; he took the initiative on that one.

It didn't occur to her that she was completely naked, save for a pair of boots, in a public bathroom, that, though the glass door would camouflage the details, it would not hide the unmistakable motions of the couple inside. It didn't occur to her that she barely knew him, or that they weren't being safe. She spread her legs, almost acrobatically, raising one knee high enough to place her foot on the counter beside her, moving the other knee all the way to the side. He stared at her, spread out before him like a raunchy illustration, her vivid pink pussy gleaming melon-wet before him, her clitoris protruding from its hood like an insolent red imp. He ran his fingers up the slick, inviting crease, and she shivered, arching her back, her breasts pointing up as she did so. He admired them, cupped them briefly in his hands, feeling their heavy roundness, like ripe fruits, their swollen, reddened tips fully erect. She did not move; she let him touch her at his leisure, knowing that it would only be seconds until satisfaction, and he nearly shook himself to be sure he wasn't dreaming.

When he poised his cock, bringing it up to press against her opening, he felt a tremor run along her entire body. He sank it slowly into her, feeling her unfold against its entry. She bit her lower lip and let out a long, low moan. He moved deliberately slowly, feeling every slippery, wonderful inch of her inner passage. She did not move, as he did not want her to, and he marveled at her intuition, feeling the tense vibrations of her pelvis as she valiantly held still on the edge of the counter. He moved slowly out of her, and he could feel her muscles tightening involuntarily over his cock, pulling him back, as though she wanted to suck him into her body. He moved almost all the way out of her, only the head of his penis holding her open, his minute movements stimulating the sensitive edge of her opening. And then, he slowly moved back inside, pushing all the way in, until his pubic hair nestled against her mound. Her body trembled, but did not move. At least, not outwardly. She breathed deeply, and then, it was as though she began to vibrate from the inside, clenching and releasing rapidly. It was his turn to moan. She knew what she was doing. Partly to stop her from making him finish too quickly, he thrust in and out of her a few times, moving at his own pace. Her mouth flew open in a loud gasp, and he could see the deep marks her teeth had left on her lower lip. She seemed to breathe out a syllable, but he couldn't hear. He leaned closer to her. "What?"

Her eyes opened. He'd never seen any woman look at him this way - like a slave and a master at once. "Now," she said clearly. "Fuck me. Now."

He fucked her - or perhaps he made love to her - or perhaps he simply fucked her after all. In that moment, there were no distinctions, there were no colors of emotion, no rationalization or even basic cognition. They were reduced to a mindless pair of bodies - no, to primary and secondary sex organs - cock, cunt, nipples, balls, lips, groping hands and shuddering limbs and panting, gasping mouths that muttered words no linguist would have dared to translate. He fucked her, and he pushed a hand into the mass of her hair and jerked her head backward so he could devour the fluttering pulse at her neck and watch her upside-down face with its gaping mouth and the wanton bounce of her tits in the mirror behind her. He fucked her, and he sank his fingers into the soft flesh of her thighs, not caring if he left bruises, almost hoping that he did. He fucked her, and he relished the sudden pain of her fingernails slashing across his back and arms, the sharp bite of her teeth against his shoulder, the low, jagged sounds that ripped from her throat. He took her as one takes a whore, and in doing so, accorded her the highest homage possible. She demanded him as a capricious queen demands tribute and, in doing so, made him feel as powerful as God.

When they came out of the bathroom, there was not a single person in the bar who was not fully aware of what had gone on. There had been grins and hoots and exclamations of "well done!" from the men and conspiratorial smirks from the women. He'd looked sheepish, a pink tinge creeping up his neck and ears, but she had felt almost entirely untouched by any of it. She was completely, absolutely certain that what had just happened was right and proper and as natural as the color of the grass or the texture of sand. She did not feel embarrassed or titillated by what they had just done; she did not feel as though this was a story to tell back home - "oh, this one night while I was working abroad, I got so drunk that I . . ." - and she did not feel this was a dirty little secret to surreptitiously scribble into her diary. There was nothing that felt inherently unusual in this - the only reason she had never banged a stranger in a public bathroom before was that she had never before met this particular stranger.

Something occurred to her as they left the bar. They walked close together, their hips touching, his hand on her waist, as though they had always walked like this. She went up on tiptoe to murmur in his ear.

"What's your name?"

He looked at her in a strangely tender way, as though he was touched she asked. "Tim. What's yours?"

"Julia."

He nodded, looking thoughtful. "Well. What now, Julia?"

Her sudden smile was like sunshine under the streetlamp outside the bar. "My place?"