![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Late Dinner
Series: Tales of Scarecrow and Kitten (Pt. 2)
Summary: Where Scarecrow goes upstairs.
Rating: NC-17
AN: Follows Night Encounter. Thanks go to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
melty_girl for the beta.
I haven’t kept my word, not fully, not yet. I’ve been around, watching, waiting, but she hasn’t seen me. Don’t ask me what I’m waiting for, it’s not something I can define or put my finger on. For now, I’ve been happy to simply look as she goes about her business. I would not call myself a stalker; they so often have some malicious purpose at hand no matter how subtle, while I, for once, do not. I’ve even taken out a couple of more bastards who had the gall to look at her with a greedy eye. This time, she didn’t notice at all as I snuck behind them and their screams filled the night. Have I assigned myself as her unofficial protector? Maybe. I dare say I do a much better job than the flying rat who thinks himself the savior of the city. Sure, he may look impressive and put the big names like me in Arkham, but Gotham is no safer for it. Not that I care either way (though his presence is so very vexing), but my safeguarding activities here have sparked rumors amongst the bottom feeders and I do believe that the criminal activity has diminished during my stay. Excepting mine, of course. And all in the name of a lovely little Kitten who I’m more fascinated by the more I watch her.
I could not say at what time she first leaves her apartment in the morning, for I’m not here that early, but every other day she does her grocery shopping at a small supermarket three blocks away. She doesn’t buy much: milk, eggs and cereal is what little I can make out through the thin plastic bag with that ever so cheery ‘Thank You‘ stamped on it. Her afternoon meals are taken at a small café before 5:00 pm; I’ve yet to see her eat outside after that. And every night, after ten, she leaves her building as dolled up as she was the first night I met her. I followed her down the same route we took to her place, but I hadn’t gotten more than a couple of blocks south of where I first found her until last night. My parting words that first night weren’t just an excuse. I do have business to take care of, and the night is when I thrive. I couldn’t conduct my particular brand of activities in the daytime. But I stayed with her yesterday long after nightfall, all the way to the place where I must now presume she spends every night. I regret I didn’t do so sooner.
I had wondered where she got the money to subsist, for none of the things I’d seen her do involved anything like a job. Seeing her out there with those men who greedily looked up and down her body as she climbed into their cars for a night of paid fun incensed my blood. Fun for them, not for her -- I cannot think that she enjoys it. I’m sure she doesn’t or she wouldn’t look so tired and saddened on her way back home, face drawn with a longing that I recognize and understand. It has been a long time since I’ve indulged such melancholy thoughts the like of which I saw flickering in her eyes when she passed by me, not two feet away, as I hid in the entrance of an alley. But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember that kind of melancholia. She had a red spot on the left side of her jaw -- I noticed that as the second guy dropped her off. There was nothing else, just that small abrasion to indicate that he’d been a little too rough with her. He was screaming for mercy, his neck under my foot, before the night was over.
She clearly didn’t expect to see me here, waiting for her at the entrance of her building. I might have sent a note, but then I’d have missed this lovely look of surprise on her face.
“Jonathan!” Her voice is an airy exclamation. “I’m so happy to see you!” Her wide smile radiates such joy that I’m still amazed that it’s directed at me.
“Hello, Kitten,” I say, as she hurries down the steps toward me.
“I was starting to fear that you’d disappeared on me, even though you promised you wouldn’t.” How could anyone resist such a darling little pout?
“I’m sorry,” I say, smiling at her. “I didn’t mean to be so long. I thought I might make it up to you by taking you to dinner.”
“Dinner?” I do believe her eyes are shining.
“We can go right now. That is, if you don’t have previous plans.”
“Plans? Oh, no, none at all. I wasn’t going anywhere important.” For the flicker of a moment, there’s a shadow in her eyes, but it’s gone so quickly one might wonder if it had ever been there at all. “I’d love go to dinner. I haven‘t eaten since this afternoon.”
Her eyes are bright and clear like nothing had bothered her at all, and I wonder: how much is she hiding behind that smile? How much pain has stricken her life? There’s more to come--there always is. But now she’s here with me, and I don’t intend to let her suffer if I can help it. I keep surprising myself over how protective I feel about her, but I don’t question it.
“Well, then,” I say. “Shall we?”
I offer her my arm and she takes it, pressing herself against me delightfully, warm and eager and trusting, and I’m suddenly very glad that’s it’s me she’s sidling up to and not some opportunistic prick who’d take advantage of her sweet naiveté.
“Where are we going?” Her voice trills next to my ear, pretty pink painted lips so close to my skin.
“Tell me, do you like Asian food?”
“Oh, yes, I adore it. Though I’m afraid I haven’t had much chance to eat any lately.”
“Because I was thinking we might go to Koba. I haven’t been there in a while, but it’s one of my favorites.”
Sweet purr against the shell of my ear: “That would be just perfect.”
* * * * * *
The restaurant is crowded, just as I expected it to be on a Saturday night. The great numbers of people and the dim, atmospheric lighting are ideal, for it wouldn’t do to get noticed by someone who remembers my face from those pesky newspapers two months ago.
“Have you found anything you like?” I ask Kitten, who is scanning the menu with avid enthusiasm.
“Oh! I hardly know what to pick--there are so many delicious sounding things,” she says, such a radiant smile on her face.
I smile myself, wishing I could sit next to her and not across the booth.
“I could help you with some recommendations,” I say. “What are you most partial to? Chicken? Beef? Seafood? Vegetarian?”
“Um, fish. I’ve always liked fish. But I‘m not sure…”
“Well, the steamed white fish is good. And then there’s the sesame crusted mahi mahi.”
She considers it for a minute, the smallest peek of white teeth nibbling at her lower lip. The waiter comes by and takes our order. She asks for the steamed fish, with such a charming little smile that the waiter grins as he writes it down. He leaves, and we are alone, and though I had thought that this would be considered a date, I haven’t really planned anything out like I customarily do. I find myself at a bit of a loss. Have I ever before been to dinner with someone I wasn’t looking to manipulate? This is a first, and one I am particularly glad of. She looks beautiful. Her skin has a special shimmer in this low light, something I can’t quite describe. I chuckle inwardly at myself. Any more of this mooning and I’ll sound like a maudlin poet! Not that she doesn’t warrant it. She notices the intensity of my stare and ducks her head shyly, a happy smile on her lips. I lower my eyes to the tabletop for a moment.
“I’m sorry if I’m staring at you,” I say.
“Not at all.” She leans forward, propping her head on her hand. “I like it.”
“Some people find my stare unnerving.”
“Not me. I’m really quite flattered you like me enough to bring me to such a nice place and share your company with me.”
“I like you more than that.” Much more.
Her smile widens, and she bats her eyes flirtatiously. “I can’t imagine anyone finding you unnerving.”
“That’s because you like me. And you don’t know what I do.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a psychiatrist.” Is, was, same difference. She doesn’t need to know about my slight career change.
“Really? Well, I don’t see what’s so scary about that. I rather like psychiatrists. I was seeing one back home for a long time, but he left. Never found out where to.” Her voice droops regretfully at the last.
She was seeing someone? Interesting. I’d love to read his notes to find out what is ticking away in that alluring mind of hers. But now, that wouldn’t do. It takes away all the pleasure of finding out by myself. And I’m certain that it’s a most engaging story.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Were you much attached to him?”
There was no real need to ask her that, for it’s obvious in the wistful way she nods. “Yes. He helped me just when I most needed it. But I don’t want to bog you down with my problems, not when we’re having such a lovely time together. Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What you like, why you do what you do--you know. So I can get to know you a little better.”
Why I do what I do--now there’s a tricky question I cannot fully answer without her leaving me here and now, and that simply will not do. But I can at least give her the introduction.
“I like knowing how a person thinks,” I say, looking steadily into her eyes. “I want to know how the mind works, how our most basic and primal instincts so completely govern our actions. How our behavior is shaped and dictated by our desires, our needs, our wants. How the complex and powerful microcosm that is the mind is ruled by simple principles: survival, fear… attraction.” I draw out the last word, pausing before I continue. “How we are all so helpless in the face of our own desires.”
She’s gazing at me with such intense, wide eyes. Her lips tremble with a fascinated smile as she speaks.
“You’re very passionate.”
I shrug. “One should be in their life’s work--else what is the point of it?”
She looks down and ponders this a minute.
“You know,” she says softly. “That reminds me of so many things. My friends back home, my life in London.”
“Tell me. I want to know.”
She hesitates, but it’s only for a moment. Snippets of her life awaken in my mind, as she tells of childhood friends named Charlie and Irwin and of the Irish troubles that I’ve heard bits and pieces about but haven’t really paid much attention to. She’s an abandoned child whose mother disappeared to London, and she was raised by an odious foster mother, whom she speaks of with a distaste that is more apparent in her eyes than in her words. How strange that her early life should so miserably resemble mine: absent mother, absent father, caretakers that guard and punish instead of love and protect. And she is bitter. The resentment suffuses her voice, although, unlike me, retribution does not seem to have figured in. That such strife should hide behind such a joyous smile only increases my fascination and wonder.
The waiter comes by with the food and she stops, just as she was about to relate the story of her sure to have been eventful journey to London. I hunger for the rest, a need to know fed, yet never sated by, each word she says. But she’s reluctant to continue on such a depressing subject, as she calls it, now that we’re ready to eat. I shall have to find another time to get her to continue.
She’s looking back and forth between the fork and bagged chopsticks indecisively.
“Do you know how to use chopsticks?” I ask, breaking apart my own pair.
She shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. Though I would dearly love to learn.”
“Here, let me show you. It’s quite simple.”
She takes the chopsticks out of their white paper bag and splits them up. Deciding that it might be best if I show her from another angle (and not missing the opportunity to get closer to her), I get up and slide into the booth next to her.
“You place them like this,” I say, arranging the sticks on my fingers.
She mirrors my movements, but they’re not quite correctly placed, so I reach out and fix them, my fingers brushing an incredibly warm hand.
“You grip the upper one firmly between your forefinger and thumb, and you move it up and down--yes, just like that.”
She’s so close to me. Her thigh moves just the few required inches to touch mine. So tempting under her short skirt, which is riding up a little more than I’d expect that such a small action would move it, and I wonder if she’s pulling it up with her other hand. I smile, my left hand dropping to her back. I rest it there, just above her hip, not moving, just gently pressing.
“And you pick up your food like this.” I grab a tender mushroom and raise it. Her chopsticks twist on her first try, and she drops her piece of fish. But the second time, she successfully keeps hold of it and lifts it with a look of triumph. Her eyes are on me as she slips the fish into her mouth and flashes me a teasing smile that almost makes me forget myself right here and now. She leans into me.
“Like that?” she asks, in a lightly flirtatious tone.
I slide my arm around her waist. “Yes, just like that.”
* * * * * *
“Oh, please do come upstairs tonight,” she said, eyelashes fluttering.
I had no intension of refusing her invitation the second time around, especially when it was offered so very prettily, so I followed her upstairs. Her apartment is no more than what I expected: a small main room that serves as both bedroom and living room, a small kitchen, a bathroom off to one side. There are some small signs of personal touches: a yellow bedspread, a poster of the old film South Pacific. But I’m not paying attention to that as I pull her to me and lay my hand on her cheek, right where that bastard hurt her. It’s healed now, not a mark or hint of redness, just soft, warm skin under my palm. Her arms slip around my shoulders, her hand entangling in my hair, and I kiss her, and she tastes as honey sweet as she looks. She arches into me as I dip my head to her neck, her shoulder, licking, kissing everywhere, and she’s pushing against me, saying my name in a breathless voice. I slip my hands under her blouse and she tenses just the slightest bit.
“I’m not…” she says. “I mean--”
“I know,” I say, tenderly licking her adam’s apple.
She shivers under me. I lift her blouse over her head and run my hands down her smooth, flat chest to her waist and dip inside the hem of her skirt. Kneeling, I push the skirt all the way down her long, perfectly shaved legs. I grin at the utterly enticing sight that is her half hard erection inside silky pink panties. Female clothes, female soul, but her body is all male and all mine. Her hands flutter on my shoulders. I look up and see the hesitation and uncertainty in her eyes. I place my hand on the bulge in her panties and feel her harden in my palm as a sweet moan escapes her mouth. Pulling down the panties, I kiss her hip, tasting her skin with the flat of my tongue.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur.
She sighs deliciously and grabs my head, ruffling my hair, and holds me there on my knees before her. I touch her foot, a short caress. Her hands slip inside my sweater, wandering over my shoulders, almost massaging, and suddenly she’s pulling me up. She says my name demandingly and I oblige, letting her pull the sweater off me. I throw my shoes and socks away who knows where as she takes off my pants, and I watch her, fascinated by the excited pleasure on her face. Once all the bothersome clothes have been removed, I gently push her back onto the low mattress on the corner and I fall on top of her. We kiss and we stroke, and she purrs so very deliciously as she lifts her leg to my waist and digs her heel on my thigh.
“Oh, Jonathan would you please, please…”she gasps.
“Please what, Kitten?” I ask teasingly as I trail a hand down her right side.
“Take me.” She licks her upper lip. “Please.”
How I do love her choice of words!
I place my hand on her stomach, gently rubbing her soft skin, and lick all the way around the shell of her ear. “Pretty please?”
She arches into me, a pretty moan trilling next to my ear. “Yes, yes, please, Jonathan.”
Now how can any man refuse such a tempting offer?
“Do you have any lubricant?” I ask, lifting my head.
“Yes.”
She shifts, and I move back to let her get up.
“I’ll just get it.” She lays a quick kiss on my cheek. “Be right back.”
I lounge back on the mattress and watch her walk to her dresser.
She takes out the necessary items from the top drawer. “Here,” she says, handing me the lube and a condom. I look at her, and though she doesn’t say a word about it, I see a special insistence in her eyes as she pushes the condom into my hand.
She lays back down on her back, bending her legs at the knee. Sitting between her legs, I reach down and slip my oiled fingers inside her. Her head falls back, and she utters the most delightful moan. I smear the lube all around her entrance, making sure that she’s ready for me, smiling at her insistence that I hurry, before opening the packet and putting on the condom. Settling myself atop her, I grip her hip and enter her, slowly, much too slowly, but I don’t want to hurt her. But her face shows only pleasure, not discomfort--not even a little--and I smile as I kiss her forehead. She moves with me eagerly, legs wrapping around my waist, arms tight on my shoulders, mouth wide and open and hungry as we kiss, and this feels so very, very good. Entrancing, enchanting creature under me, enveloping me, moaning my name, looking at me with such heartbreakingly beautiful eyes, and I am so very, very glad I acted against my nature that night and walked her home. I don’t lose myself--you can’t lose yourself when you’re already lost, but if I weren’t, this would come so very close. She’s repeating my name like a litany, her voice breaking on the ’o’ when I grasp her erection and start stroking it, faster as I quicken my thrusts. I come so hard, but I let the pleasant lethargy grip me only for a moment before renewing my stroking. She comes against my stomach with a soft moan.
Reluctantly, I stand up to throw away the condom. In the kitchen, I find a hand towel and soak it with water from the sink. I go back to her--she looks so lovely lying back like that!--and clean her stomach. She smiles at me, a lovely little smile. After I clean myself off, I start to get up, but she stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Please stay,” she says, with a subtle tremor of desperation.
“I was just going to put this back in the kitchen.” I lift the towel.
She shakes her head. “Just leave it on the floor. It can wait until morning. I want you to stay with me.”
There are reasons why I shouldn’t stay the night, not the least being that it’d be far easier for someone to recognize me in the daylight. But I don’t even want to resist that beguiling smile.
“Sure, Kitten,” I say.
I lie back down, pulling the bedcovers over our bodies, and take her in my arms.
Series: Tales of Scarecrow and Kitten (Pt. 2)
Summary: Where Scarecrow goes upstairs.
Rating: NC-17
AN: Follows Night Encounter. Thanks go to
melty_girl for the beta.I haven’t kept my word, not fully, not yet. I’ve been around, watching, waiting, but she hasn’t seen me. Don’t ask me what I’m waiting for, it’s not something I can define or put my finger on. For now, I’ve been happy to simply look as she goes about her business. I would not call myself a stalker; they so often have some malicious purpose at hand no matter how subtle, while I, for once, do not. I’ve even taken out a couple of more bastards who had the gall to look at her with a greedy eye. This time, she didn’t notice at all as I snuck behind them and their screams filled the night. Have I assigned myself as her unofficial protector? Maybe. I dare say I do a much better job than the flying rat who thinks himself the savior of the city. Sure, he may look impressive and put the big names like me in Arkham, but Gotham is no safer for it. Not that I care either way (though his presence is so very vexing), but my safeguarding activities here have sparked rumors amongst the bottom feeders and I do believe that the criminal activity has diminished during my stay. Excepting mine, of course. And all in the name of a lovely little Kitten who I’m more fascinated by the more I watch her.
I could not say at what time she first leaves her apartment in the morning, for I’m not here that early, but every other day she does her grocery shopping at a small supermarket three blocks away. She doesn’t buy much: milk, eggs and cereal is what little I can make out through the thin plastic bag with that ever so cheery ‘Thank You‘ stamped on it. Her afternoon meals are taken at a small café before 5:00 pm; I’ve yet to see her eat outside after that. And every night, after ten, she leaves her building as dolled up as she was the first night I met her. I followed her down the same route we took to her place, but I hadn’t gotten more than a couple of blocks south of where I first found her until last night. My parting words that first night weren’t just an excuse. I do have business to take care of, and the night is when I thrive. I couldn’t conduct my particular brand of activities in the daytime. But I stayed with her yesterday long after nightfall, all the way to the place where I must now presume she spends every night. I regret I didn’t do so sooner.
I had wondered where she got the money to subsist, for none of the things I’d seen her do involved anything like a job. Seeing her out there with those men who greedily looked up and down her body as she climbed into their cars for a night of paid fun incensed my blood. Fun for them, not for her -- I cannot think that she enjoys it. I’m sure she doesn’t or she wouldn’t look so tired and saddened on her way back home, face drawn with a longing that I recognize and understand. It has been a long time since I’ve indulged such melancholy thoughts the like of which I saw flickering in her eyes when she passed by me, not two feet away, as I hid in the entrance of an alley. But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember that kind of melancholia. She had a red spot on the left side of her jaw -- I noticed that as the second guy dropped her off. There was nothing else, just that small abrasion to indicate that he’d been a little too rough with her. He was screaming for mercy, his neck under my foot, before the night was over.
She clearly didn’t expect to see me here, waiting for her at the entrance of her building. I might have sent a note, but then I’d have missed this lovely look of surprise on her face.
“Jonathan!” Her voice is an airy exclamation. “I’m so happy to see you!” Her wide smile radiates such joy that I’m still amazed that it’s directed at me.
“Hello, Kitten,” I say, as she hurries down the steps toward me.
“I was starting to fear that you’d disappeared on me, even though you promised you wouldn’t.” How could anyone resist such a darling little pout?
“I’m sorry,” I say, smiling at her. “I didn’t mean to be so long. I thought I might make it up to you by taking you to dinner.”
“Dinner?” I do believe her eyes are shining.
“We can go right now. That is, if you don’t have previous plans.”
“Plans? Oh, no, none at all. I wasn’t going anywhere important.” For the flicker of a moment, there’s a shadow in her eyes, but it’s gone so quickly one might wonder if it had ever been there at all. “I’d love go to dinner. I haven‘t eaten since this afternoon.”
Her eyes are bright and clear like nothing had bothered her at all, and I wonder: how much is she hiding behind that smile? How much pain has stricken her life? There’s more to come--there always is. But now she’s here with me, and I don’t intend to let her suffer if I can help it. I keep surprising myself over how protective I feel about her, but I don’t question it.
“Well, then,” I say. “Shall we?”
I offer her my arm and she takes it, pressing herself against me delightfully, warm and eager and trusting, and I’m suddenly very glad that’s it’s me she’s sidling up to and not some opportunistic prick who’d take advantage of her sweet naiveté.
“Where are we going?” Her voice trills next to my ear, pretty pink painted lips so close to my skin.
“Tell me, do you like Asian food?”
“Oh, yes, I adore it. Though I’m afraid I haven’t had much chance to eat any lately.”
“Because I was thinking we might go to Koba. I haven’t been there in a while, but it’s one of my favorites.”
Sweet purr against the shell of my ear: “That would be just perfect.”
* * * * * *
The restaurant is crowded, just as I expected it to be on a Saturday night. The great numbers of people and the dim, atmospheric lighting are ideal, for it wouldn’t do to get noticed by someone who remembers my face from those pesky newspapers two months ago.
“Have you found anything you like?” I ask Kitten, who is scanning the menu with avid enthusiasm.
“Oh! I hardly know what to pick--there are so many delicious sounding things,” she says, such a radiant smile on her face.
I smile myself, wishing I could sit next to her and not across the booth.
“I could help you with some recommendations,” I say. “What are you most partial to? Chicken? Beef? Seafood? Vegetarian?”
“Um, fish. I’ve always liked fish. But I‘m not sure…”
“Well, the steamed white fish is good. And then there’s the sesame crusted mahi mahi.”
She considers it for a minute, the smallest peek of white teeth nibbling at her lower lip. The waiter comes by and takes our order. She asks for the steamed fish, with such a charming little smile that the waiter grins as he writes it down. He leaves, and we are alone, and though I had thought that this would be considered a date, I haven’t really planned anything out like I customarily do. I find myself at a bit of a loss. Have I ever before been to dinner with someone I wasn’t looking to manipulate? This is a first, and one I am particularly glad of. She looks beautiful. Her skin has a special shimmer in this low light, something I can’t quite describe. I chuckle inwardly at myself. Any more of this mooning and I’ll sound like a maudlin poet! Not that she doesn’t warrant it. She notices the intensity of my stare and ducks her head shyly, a happy smile on her lips. I lower my eyes to the tabletop for a moment.
“I’m sorry if I’m staring at you,” I say.
“Not at all.” She leans forward, propping her head on her hand. “I like it.”
“Some people find my stare unnerving.”
“Not me. I’m really quite flattered you like me enough to bring me to such a nice place and share your company with me.”
“I like you more than that.” Much more.
Her smile widens, and she bats her eyes flirtatiously. “I can’t imagine anyone finding you unnerving.”
“That’s because you like me. And you don’t know what I do.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a psychiatrist.” Is, was, same difference. She doesn’t need to know about my slight career change.
“Really? Well, I don’t see what’s so scary about that. I rather like psychiatrists. I was seeing one back home for a long time, but he left. Never found out where to.” Her voice droops regretfully at the last.
She was seeing someone? Interesting. I’d love to read his notes to find out what is ticking away in that alluring mind of hers. But now, that wouldn’t do. It takes away all the pleasure of finding out by myself. And I’m certain that it’s a most engaging story.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Were you much attached to him?”
There was no real need to ask her that, for it’s obvious in the wistful way she nods. “Yes. He helped me just when I most needed it. But I don’t want to bog you down with my problems, not when we’re having such a lovely time together. Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What you like, why you do what you do--you know. So I can get to know you a little better.”
Why I do what I do--now there’s a tricky question I cannot fully answer without her leaving me here and now, and that simply will not do. But I can at least give her the introduction.
“I like knowing how a person thinks,” I say, looking steadily into her eyes. “I want to know how the mind works, how our most basic and primal instincts so completely govern our actions. How our behavior is shaped and dictated by our desires, our needs, our wants. How the complex and powerful microcosm that is the mind is ruled by simple principles: survival, fear… attraction.” I draw out the last word, pausing before I continue. “How we are all so helpless in the face of our own desires.”
She’s gazing at me with such intense, wide eyes. Her lips tremble with a fascinated smile as she speaks.
“You’re very passionate.”
I shrug. “One should be in their life’s work--else what is the point of it?”
She looks down and ponders this a minute.
“You know,” she says softly. “That reminds me of so many things. My friends back home, my life in London.”
“Tell me. I want to know.”
She hesitates, but it’s only for a moment. Snippets of her life awaken in my mind, as she tells of childhood friends named Charlie and Irwin and of the Irish troubles that I’ve heard bits and pieces about but haven’t really paid much attention to. She’s an abandoned child whose mother disappeared to London, and she was raised by an odious foster mother, whom she speaks of with a distaste that is more apparent in her eyes than in her words. How strange that her early life should so miserably resemble mine: absent mother, absent father, caretakers that guard and punish instead of love and protect. And she is bitter. The resentment suffuses her voice, although, unlike me, retribution does not seem to have figured in. That such strife should hide behind such a joyous smile only increases my fascination and wonder.
The waiter comes by with the food and she stops, just as she was about to relate the story of her sure to have been eventful journey to London. I hunger for the rest, a need to know fed, yet never sated by, each word she says. But she’s reluctant to continue on such a depressing subject, as she calls it, now that we’re ready to eat. I shall have to find another time to get her to continue.
She’s looking back and forth between the fork and bagged chopsticks indecisively.
“Do you know how to use chopsticks?” I ask, breaking apart my own pair.
She shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. Though I would dearly love to learn.”
“Here, let me show you. It’s quite simple.”
She takes the chopsticks out of their white paper bag and splits them up. Deciding that it might be best if I show her from another angle (and not missing the opportunity to get closer to her), I get up and slide into the booth next to her.
“You place them like this,” I say, arranging the sticks on my fingers.
She mirrors my movements, but they’re not quite correctly placed, so I reach out and fix them, my fingers brushing an incredibly warm hand.
“You grip the upper one firmly between your forefinger and thumb, and you move it up and down--yes, just like that.”
She’s so close to me. Her thigh moves just the few required inches to touch mine. So tempting under her short skirt, which is riding up a little more than I’d expect that such a small action would move it, and I wonder if she’s pulling it up with her other hand. I smile, my left hand dropping to her back. I rest it there, just above her hip, not moving, just gently pressing.
“And you pick up your food like this.” I grab a tender mushroom and raise it. Her chopsticks twist on her first try, and she drops her piece of fish. But the second time, she successfully keeps hold of it and lifts it with a look of triumph. Her eyes are on me as she slips the fish into her mouth and flashes me a teasing smile that almost makes me forget myself right here and now. She leans into me.
“Like that?” she asks, in a lightly flirtatious tone.
I slide my arm around her waist. “Yes, just like that.”
* * * * * *
“Oh, please do come upstairs tonight,” she said, eyelashes fluttering.
I had no intension of refusing her invitation the second time around, especially when it was offered so very prettily, so I followed her upstairs. Her apartment is no more than what I expected: a small main room that serves as both bedroom and living room, a small kitchen, a bathroom off to one side. There are some small signs of personal touches: a yellow bedspread, a poster of the old film South Pacific. But I’m not paying attention to that as I pull her to me and lay my hand on her cheek, right where that bastard hurt her. It’s healed now, not a mark or hint of redness, just soft, warm skin under my palm. Her arms slip around my shoulders, her hand entangling in my hair, and I kiss her, and she tastes as honey sweet as she looks. She arches into me as I dip my head to her neck, her shoulder, licking, kissing everywhere, and she’s pushing against me, saying my name in a breathless voice. I slip my hands under her blouse and she tenses just the slightest bit.
“I’m not…” she says. “I mean--”
“I know,” I say, tenderly licking her adam’s apple.
She shivers under me. I lift her blouse over her head and run my hands down her smooth, flat chest to her waist and dip inside the hem of her skirt. Kneeling, I push the skirt all the way down her long, perfectly shaved legs. I grin at the utterly enticing sight that is her half hard erection inside silky pink panties. Female clothes, female soul, but her body is all male and all mine. Her hands flutter on my shoulders. I look up and see the hesitation and uncertainty in her eyes. I place my hand on the bulge in her panties and feel her harden in my palm as a sweet moan escapes her mouth. Pulling down the panties, I kiss her hip, tasting her skin with the flat of my tongue.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur.
She sighs deliciously and grabs my head, ruffling my hair, and holds me there on my knees before her. I touch her foot, a short caress. Her hands slip inside my sweater, wandering over my shoulders, almost massaging, and suddenly she’s pulling me up. She says my name demandingly and I oblige, letting her pull the sweater off me. I throw my shoes and socks away who knows where as she takes off my pants, and I watch her, fascinated by the excited pleasure on her face. Once all the bothersome clothes have been removed, I gently push her back onto the low mattress on the corner and I fall on top of her. We kiss and we stroke, and she purrs so very deliciously as she lifts her leg to my waist and digs her heel on my thigh.
“Oh, Jonathan would you please, please…”she gasps.
“Please what, Kitten?” I ask teasingly as I trail a hand down her right side.
“Take me.” She licks her upper lip. “Please.”
How I do love her choice of words!
I place my hand on her stomach, gently rubbing her soft skin, and lick all the way around the shell of her ear. “Pretty please?”
She arches into me, a pretty moan trilling next to my ear. “Yes, yes, please, Jonathan.”
Now how can any man refuse such a tempting offer?
“Do you have any lubricant?” I ask, lifting my head.
“Yes.”
She shifts, and I move back to let her get up.
“I’ll just get it.” She lays a quick kiss on my cheek. “Be right back.”
I lounge back on the mattress and watch her walk to her dresser.
She takes out the necessary items from the top drawer. “Here,” she says, handing me the lube and a condom. I look at her, and though she doesn’t say a word about it, I see a special insistence in her eyes as she pushes the condom into my hand.
She lays back down on her back, bending her legs at the knee. Sitting between her legs, I reach down and slip my oiled fingers inside her. Her head falls back, and she utters the most delightful moan. I smear the lube all around her entrance, making sure that she’s ready for me, smiling at her insistence that I hurry, before opening the packet and putting on the condom. Settling myself atop her, I grip her hip and enter her, slowly, much too slowly, but I don’t want to hurt her. But her face shows only pleasure, not discomfort--not even a little--and I smile as I kiss her forehead. She moves with me eagerly, legs wrapping around my waist, arms tight on my shoulders, mouth wide and open and hungry as we kiss, and this feels so very, very good. Entrancing, enchanting creature under me, enveloping me, moaning my name, looking at me with such heartbreakingly beautiful eyes, and I am so very, very glad I acted against my nature that night and walked her home. I don’t lose myself--you can’t lose yourself when you’re already lost, but if I weren’t, this would come so very close. She’s repeating my name like a litany, her voice breaking on the ’o’ when I grasp her erection and start stroking it, faster as I quicken my thrusts. I come so hard, but I let the pleasant lethargy grip me only for a moment before renewing my stroking. She comes against my stomach with a soft moan.
Reluctantly, I stand up to throw away the condom. In the kitchen, I find a hand towel and soak it with water from the sink. I go back to her--she looks so lovely lying back like that!--and clean her stomach. She smiles at me, a lovely little smile. After I clean myself off, I start to get up, but she stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Please stay,” she says, with a subtle tremor of desperation.
“I was just going to put this back in the kitchen.” I lift the towel.
She shakes her head. “Just leave it on the floor. It can wait until morning. I want you to stay with me.”
There are reasons why I shouldn’t stay the night, not the least being that it’d be far easier for someone to recognize me in the daylight. But I don’t even want to resist that beguiling smile.
“Sure, Kitten,” I say.
I lie back down, pulling the bedcovers over our bodies, and take her in my arms.
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