“Please come to Boston for the springtime.” – song
Her name might have been Jo, and for a while we might have been in love.
As always, the walk from the plane to the terminal was the worst and best of it. You wonder who will meet you, and if they would look like the pictures they sent. I suppose it was possible they could look better, but it never happened. Different always meant worse.
In the end it was OK. Cute face, short body but a nice shape. Short black jacket with a faux motorcycle cut that narrowed in the middle to show off her waist. Tight jeans. Short boots. That might not be what she was wearing that night – but in the three days we spent together I don’t remember her wearing anything else in public, so that is the image I have in my mind.
What I remember most was her hair. Short, straight and jet black. I remember thinking that it looked like it was “well attached” (yes, that was the phrase I used in my head) and strong, that I could probably get a good hold of her. If we are being honest, and we are, the image that flashed in my mind was holding her head under water with it.
I was smiling when I stopped in front of her. This seemed to make her nervous and happy.
There was small talk, a car and some food. It was already mid evening (my plane landed around 8:45pm) and we wound up outside a low rent hotel in a few hours. I invited her in but she declined and we parted company. I settled in, called some folks (including my then girlfriend) and passed some time reading. It didn’t look like this was going to be the weekend I had envisioned but it would be pleasant enough.
A short while later the phone in my room rang and her familiar voice was there, oddly more intimate down the wires since we had only known each other that way previously. We spent some time talking. She mentioned that she was nervous now that I was actually there thinking of the things we had spoken about before, the things she had offered and especially the things I had intended to do to her.
She asked me if, now that I had met her, I still intended to do those things. I assured her I did.
As we spoke she relaxed and eventually, as she usually did on the phone, she came under her own hand to the sound of my voice. The word “love” made an appearance and she went to sleep. Amused, I read for another few hours then did the same.
I remember thinking when she picked me up that morning she was wearing something somewhat sexier than the night before – but I couldn’t tell you what it was. I took this as a positive sign and off we went to do the usual tourist crap for the day. We laughed, spoke and had an awkward silence or two. As the day went by she came closer to me, a hug, a touch, a caress.
That evening? Some sort of local car race. We drove up to the top of a hill overlooking a rock quarry or construction site and watched headlights in the distance as some of the locals partook in all manner of silliness involving automobiles. I only paid a little attention. She was getting nervous; alternating between shy and flirty sitting next to me on the hood of her car, hip to hip.
Eventually we made our way back to the hotel. During the ride I was wondering which would win between her shyness and attraction. When she reached into her back seat to grab an overnight bag I had my answer.
The room was small, seedy and intimate… no place for her to hide from what we were going to do or why she had decided to do it. I went and used the bathroom. She unpacked a few items to a nightstand then passed me when I came out and disappeared. A few minutes went by and she emerged in a nightgown that was almost laughably reserved, the kind of thing a family member might buy for you. Pretty – but not at all appropriate for what I had in mind.
I remember the kissing that started it. She had nice lips, a good neck and a way of moaning in the back of her throat when I applied pressure to her nipples that boded well for the immediate future. Time passed in a blur of lips and hands. I remember none of it in detail. Good, but pedestrian. Not my speed. She was menstruating, a fact that had contributed to her first night jitters, and we laughed about the maid service thinking I had killed her the next day.
Finally I was out of patience, playtime over. A light slap on her hip and a theatrical growl let her know the time we had talked about was now. She slowly rolled onto her hands and knees in the now classic “face down, ass up” position. Her laughter was gone, and she was breathing harder… clearly fighting an urge to bolt and try for the door. I gave her the time to decide… continuing only when she got control of her fear and put her head back down.
I spit into my palm and a quick swipe carried my saliva, her wetness and some blood across her anus. Wetting it enough for my purposes and not nearly enough for her comfort. I had a brief moment of concern as I always do when I add more of my DNA to the body of a lover, sure that someday this will get me in real trouble. She shuddered and pulled the pillow closer, burying her face in it.
Positioned behind her ready to enter I took a moment to play the choreography out in my mind, remembering how I had described it to her. What I had told her I wanted, what she had offered herself to when she put on that birthday present nightgown. Entering just enough to make sure I couldn’t miss I heard the intake hiss of her air then reached out with my right hand to grab that oh-so-inviting black hair and pulled hard.
Her head came back, her back bowed downwards and I was 3/4 of my length into her ass before she had pulled in enough air to scream. She got her mouth open but that was all before my left arm wrapped around her throat, cutting off the sound. Hey, I’m not a total prick – at least she had plenty of air.
For me, the best “pillow talk” is all true… spun so far off axis a politician would blush and full of what-if’s, but all true. It’s not hard, I just let them hear what I am thinking. Not all of it – just enough. The exact words are lost to time, but I know me well enough to be sure it went something like this….
“Oh poor baby, is it hard to breathe? If you work hard you can probably make me cum before you pass out. If I were you, I would try. Let me guess, you didn’t tell anyone who I am or where you are tonight… do they think you’re at a friends house? I wonder how long before they would miss you?”
I do remember vividly then her hands came up to pull at my arm. Kitten paws for a moment and then the edge of a nail against my left forearm (I would have a scratch in the morning). The anger came fast and I let her hear it – I quote here because I remember it vividly:
“Bitch if I feel those fucking nails again the last thing that will ever go through your mind is the wish you had enough air left to apologize. Move. Your. Ass. “
It wasn’t fair of me. She wasn’t used to this sort of treatment and it showed. Her movements were already slowing down and her chest started heaving. Fun, but we were never going to finish me like this. I said something like…
“I thought you said you could fuck? Is this what I wasted a plane ticket for? Fine. I’ll have to do it.”
Working my hips I started to do exactly that, pushing deep and hard. A little time later I could tell she was at the end of her endurance. Glad I hadn’t promised not to let her breathe till I came I let my left arm slide free of her throat and using my right hand I slammed her face down into the pillow giving her just enough time to exchange one breath on the way. Pushing her hips flat with mine I laid my whole weight on her and started fucking in earnest. Almost all the way out. Absolutely all the way in. It was a nice ass and judging from her reaction I was indeed the first one to use it this way.
The wordless sounds coming from the pillow grew steadily more insistent. Part pain, part mewling desire and maybe pleasure though I’m sure she had no idea how to orgasm like this. I hadn’t told her to put her hand on her clit – not that I would have let her anyway. Besides, She had come before.
I was getting close… the time was now for the first bit of her education if I was going to bother at all. I will quote this next bit verbatim again. Pulling her head back at what must have been an uncomfortable angle (hair again) I leaned close and gave her the key in a hiss…
“The words you’re looking for are Thank You, Sir.”
Like the good girl she might have been one day she gasped them and I came in her. Some time after the cleanup, crying, laughter and talking she was asleep next to me and I lay awake reading my book thinking this could go either way.
We woke. We ate. We laughed. We drove. I boarded a plane and left.
When I got home there was a message waiting for me in my inbox. She had thought about it and didn’t want to see me again. She told me she loved me and spun a tale of needing to stick to her life plan. College, marriage and kids. She was afraid she would lose herself with me. That she might become, as she put it, “obsessed”. We maybe connected on the phone once or twice after that, traded an email or two but I never really spoke to the girl I had known before again and even that was over inside of a week.
To this day I do not know if that was bullshit or not and I bet I never will. Maybe it was all true – or maybe she hated me when she looked back on what I had done by our mutual desire. Maybe she convinced herself it was all my fault and I had “made” her do it.
Whatever. She had a great ass and at the age of 17 I hadn’t yet had a “thank you” that sounded more sincere and so right. I wont ever forget her, and with any luck, she won’t have forgotten me.