Sauce*Box 19: Well Met

Well Met
by Wrygrass

E WAS SICK OF all the bullshit. Sick of the games, the come-on’s, the falseness. Dating the casual friends of friends, beautiful girls who didn’t really care. They seemed arrested in the material world. He knew his six-foot two inches and his one hundred seventy-five lean well-muscled pounds, were prime meat to some women. He was a hunk; they loved being seen with him. To him such encounters were the random glancing blows between impervious objects, dissipating energy, manufacturing chaos. He didn’t want to be prime meat.

When he dated less confident women, his beauty became a glamour, a spell which cloaked him from a woman’s view. He didn’t know how to take a woman beyond entrancement with his face and body. Probably he hid there. And if once in a while a woman had the cognitive steam to pull his ideas out towards her, the sparks between them became immaterial, scintillating their conversations, not their bodies.

Picking up girls was even worse than dating. Women fluttered as he approached. Or they came at him first. He’d even tried whores, but the less hardened pros flattered and flounced in front of his good looks just like the pickups, often joking that *they* should be paying *him* And the other whores were too sleazy to touch.

His partners seemed to chew gum, talk about TV commercials, and discuss the weather as a prelude to sex. Then they expected him to get off on a few strokes and licks. They might be willing to perform any physical act he requested, but all their actions were without context. There was no meaning behind any given gesture. In his wet dreams sex was a story expressing uncontrollable needs between sex partners. And every action was a word that was absolutely necessary to tell that story.

It was true--he did count on his looks as a barrier. He was hard to get to know, slow to develop any kind of genuine relationship. He should do something about it, attend some kind of seminar, change his personality. But he knew that, at the core, where he made life-changing decisions, he valued his hidden self—idealistic and too easily hurt; sensual under tight restraint; somehow waiting in silence to overflow toward something, someone as yet unknown.

At this point it seemed too much trouble to try to pursue his self-contradictory dream of meaningful lust. Hell, it was too disheartening to even keep dreaming that dream. Besides, he felt incapable of enacting his sharp, secret passions in the waking world. A woman capable of understanding would be capable of judging, and therefore capable of rejecting any sexual meanings he might create. He would never be able to face such a partner in the normal world. There was no situation, no place he had found, where he could make such meaning and still be hidden, protected.

He was almost in despair. At least he had been gifted with enough intelligence to make him able to forget himself in reading for hours on end. And to forget while he was at work among the intricacies of his job as a network engineer. But in the night, alone, he thought, "So this is why young men kill themselves." But the thought was more wry than serious. His mind allowed him close to despair, but his chemistry didn’t manufacture depression. He tried to dismiss his dark thoughts, guilty for not appreciating the good fortune of his genes.

+ + + + +

On the surface, she was the model of a young, successful, independent woman. Calling her own shots. She didn’t buy into the stereotypes about her profession. Strangers certainly never pegged her for a librarian. She told them proudly that she was, explaining that her job was intensely involved with computers, as well as with helping people use them. Come to my class, she laughed, "Power-Surfing the Net."

She dated sporadically. But she hated the heated gropings, the trivial kisses that seemed too wet, the automatic compliments for her trim good looks. Basically she was shy. She showed her acquaintances only her rational side, making a game of analyzing every vicarious experience from books and movies. She let no one see the depth of her cravings.

She wanted sharp, intense experience—a sexual encounter focused on the act without frills. But she couldn’t think how such an occurrence would ever happen. Once she had even taken to the road, picking up a musky stranger. The anonymity of the man and the isolation of the rest stop where they pulled over channeled her desire. But the stranger had no imagination and didn’t care to pleasure her. He just wanted to come quickly himself. And later he had been hard to shake. He wanted to grab on to her like a good thing. He promised to come around often--if only she would give him her address.

It was past time for her to be with a man. Fantasy and self-stimulation paled. In her dreams she saw herself grow pale and taut. She tried to find herself. She wasn’t there. But still she was alone.

+ + + + +

He heard about The Place on the Internet naturally. In a no-holes-barred chat room. He thought it was a new urban myth and said so. But voices chimed in to assure him it was real. Safe and discreet, not too expensive, and definitely exciting. The Place seemed to offer extreme anonymity in a situation removed from the ordinary world, a place where the sex was concentrated.

She heard about it too. A patron had hacked the wimpy security program on the public Internet computer at the branch library. The hacker had set The Place as the new home page. She saw the site when she came over from the main library to change the page back and install better security software.

She entered the Web site from home. The site was well designed, full of pertinent information, and discreet--no nude photos or red wallpaper. It impressed her. And what she read there! Descriptions of the strategies they used to intensify and focus the acts of sex. It made her shiver.

They first visited The Place in the flesh during the same week. You registered and went through a thorough screening. No disease, no criminal records. You went into a private room and filled out a profile on computer. That pleased them both--no in-person interviews, no need to talk with someone about their preferences.

The range of possibilities was well outlined. You could visit professionals. You could be together with a partner in a room and remain blindfolded. You would be pleasured as you desired. Or you could be matched with another client and service each other without ever exchanging names.

The profiles that emerged as they answered the computer survey were astonishingly similar.

He indicated his preference for one woman. Though the thought of seeing men together did excite him. He might even want to fuck a man or have it done to him sometime--if a woman watched. And watching women lick each other’s slits might be good too--if he could have one of the women later in the session. But, for now, he didn’t choose any of those options. He wanted it simple, with one woman.

She wanted one man, as long as he was really excited by her. Watching men fucking each other in person might be interesting. She also liked seeing pictures of group sex. She might even want to watch in person some day. If her face could stay hidden. Then too, the image of one woman penetrated by three men, in every possible way at once--that was theoretically exciting to her. But she didn’t want to be that woman. Personally, she wanted it concentrated, one-on-one.

He wanted another client, not a professional. And he wanted to remain anonymous. But he wanted things arranged so that he and the unknown woman could decide to meet again and continue their intercourse another day.

She wanted an unknown amateur lover. She didn’t want to see his face, nor have him see hers. But she might want to do it with the same guy more than once, if they pleasured each other greatly. She should be able to pass a note to the man, making another assignation.

The profiling process was extensive. There was a personality assessment. There were questions about preferred partners and preferred practices. In the section about being partnered with one woman, he clicked yes to all the permutations of touching, licking, penetrating a woman. He indicated that he was willing to be touched, licked, penetrated in every way himself. Except, he specified, he did not want to kiss her mouth. He didn’t want that too-personal kind of kiss to intrude. He marked: might want to bind her with ropes or thongs; might want to tie down her hands; and, might want to tie up her legs. He drew the line at everything else. It had never excited him to hurt a woman in any way.

She indicated that with one man, she touch or kiss him everywhere there was, all over (except just not on the mouth). Likewise, she was willing to have him stroke, kiss and take her every way there was. She thought a while and marked "OK" to: being bound with ropes or thongs; having hands tied down; and to having legs tied up. To her, anything beyond that would not be for sex; it would be for some motive of dominance and submission that didn’t interest her. It was pure sexual experience she craved.

And both of them indicated that a straightforward man-on-top-in-woman session was what they wanted first.

And they both asked to have their experiences only in the special rooms they had read about. These rooms were what had brought them to The Place. Actually, they were two adjoining spaces that had a bed-like platform bridging a hole between the two rooms. A slab slid from one room to the other through a heavily curtained hole. It could slide all the way into either room or could be locked part way into one room or the other. A client could lay supine or face down on the platform. The client’s lower body would slide into the other room, into view of the waiting partner. A woman or man could thus show only the lower half of the body to the stranger-to-be-lover on the other side. Or the woman could offer up her breasts too—but keep her head and face hidden still from the man who fondled them.

They were excited by the thought of these two rooms. Each of them really wanted multiple couplings with an unknown body using these rooms.

They received discreet e-mails about the "almost perfect matches" that had been found for them and appointing a time for their first meeting. Parameters for the session were provided. A front-to-front coupling with "man on top in woman’s vagina," was the agreed upon outcome. An outcome for which they both longed.

+ + + + +

On the appointed day she bathed carefully, wanting to excite the man who wanted what she did. She would have him breathe in soap at first and only later smell the musk he had created in her.

What he had been told of her preferences excited him enormously But he was as nervous as a virgin. She would not see his beautiful body at all—not at least this first time. She would never see his beautiful face. His normal charm would be completely wasted. She wouldn’t want him as a trophy. He smiled then. She would want him only if he served her well with mouth and hands and cock.

She did wonder what he looked like. From all the profile choices listed on The Place’s survey, she had specified only "big." He had specified only "thin."

They arrived at separate entrances as instructed. Both came well ahead of their time, noon on Sunday, knowing that the Two Rooms were free all morning. Each went in and waited.

He took off his jacket, pants, boots, and socks and put them in the closet provided, leaving on his long-tailed black dress shirt and his gray shorts. Walking around the room, he examined the equipment, feeling the platform, making sure he knew how it worked, testing the heaviness of the curtain separating the rooms to make sure there would be no mistaken views to scare the woman away. He saw that there were soft leather bindings for wrists and feet. He saw the stirrups that could be attached to the bed to elevate a lover’s legs. But they would not use those today.

He saw, too, the small caddy which could be turned from room to room to send written messages through. Like in a cloistered nunnery, he thought. The stray thought surprised him. But this was Sunday, after all. He had hated Sundays as a child. He could still feel those empty hanging hours, wasted because Monday and school, and all it’s awkward repressiveness loomed just ahead. He ran a hand roughly up through his hair, up against the normal fall of his hair. His mind was wandering a bit.

He noticed that the small intercom was inactivated--by both their requests he had been told. Still, he guessed he might hear her, or she him, through the curtain--if their sounds were loud enough. He hoped he could make her scream with delight; he hoped she liked to scream. He laughed, The Place had forgotten to test for that preference. He was daydreaming, sitting on the end of the platform. Then he hurried to strip off his shirt and shorts. He wanted to be naked when it was time.

She had entered earlier. She had immediately taken off her clothes. She wanted this room to be only for nakedness, to have no normal memories. She refused to even look around till she was stripped of everyday things. Then she glanced at the bed-thing. She hoped he had investigated its workings. She was tired of being mechanically competent. If he’s a *man,* she thought, in defiance of political correctness, he’ll figure out how to work the thing. I want to be able to lie down and have him pull me naked into his view.

But she did curiously examine the caddy, hoping that they would want to use it to send a note through, to arrange another meeting. She worried that her unembellished body would not excite him. She wanted to be taken today by a man in deep heat.

But then it was time--he waited till the exact minute to send the platform completely through for her to mount. Precision, she thought, and patience--two elements of good lovemaking. That encouraged her to mount quickly and place her legs facing the hole. Then she panicked; how was he to know she was ready? But he waited just a little longer and then pulled the platform and her with it into his room.

Delight swept over him at the view of her naked lower body. They had agreed that he would not even have her breasts this day. Her experience was all to be purely focused below her waist. It was her small waist he touched first with one matter-of-fact hand to show he was there. But he was staring at her auburn thatch. Reddish hair. Yes, now he knew it was the color he loved best. She was peachy, not pale, laid out there for just him.

He spanned her waist with his large hands. She had wanted big. He must be big judging by his hands. They were warm and firm. She let out her breath, confident now, knowing from this first phrase of silent communication that he would make her shimmer in his heat.

He thought much more of her today than of himself. What an ass I’ve been, he thought. Always watching the women watch me. But it wasn’t all my fault—they egged me on with their eyes. Now this was a stunning experience. To concentrate himself all on her pleasure. He stroked her hips and up all the way from her feet. He massaged her belly and saw her relax. He remembered that when he masturbated it was very good for him when he was at first all relaxed, almost too sleepy to continue. She seemed to be breathing that way now.

He bent his head and placed his first kiss just above her cunt hair. He smelled mostly soap. It had him trembling. He knew he would be able to smell her juices later without any perfume to mask them. He plunged his tongue into her belly button. She lifted from the platform. He had a doubt. Who is this woman who comes to me this way? Why does she want a stranger’s mouth on her body? There must be something wrong with her.

But he was fair. She probably had problems and desires, like his own. Sympathy swelled him larger. How odd, to feel so aroused by sympathy for this unknown body. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that. He decided it was time to work at her. He had planned his movements, planned them to build drama and to delight them both. He swept his mouth all over her belly and thighs. He nipped at her. Strictly avoiding getting too close to her pussy.

Deftly he flipped her over so that she lay face down on the slab. She felt great competence in him with that movement. It excited her to know that he saw meaning in his movements on her. She writhed her butt. Today her movements would be mostly responses, responses to his well-planned actions that were igniting her.

She dreamed of him even as he touched her butt, held her crack wide open while he laved it with a long quick tongue. Though she had enjoyed wetness in her fantasies, the wetness of her actual sexual encounters had always turned her off. She had learned to try not to think of the wetness. But this was different. This warm wetness from an unknown mouth. There was so much more of it for one thing, much more than she had ever felt, too much to ignore. Enough for her to feel bathed. She actually thought she heard him stop and drink. She had noticed a water bottle in her room too.

She felt he had laid himself out for her, tonguing her as thoroughly as he had. Her odd gratitude inflamed her further. She tired to show by her posture that he could have her all. That she was spread open for him.

He saw the slight subtle opening, almost from her pores. He smelled her odor strongly then and imagined that she had somehow released it on purpose for him. God, she was a giving creature! And he would take her all, now.

He turned her slowly this time, signaling her to move slowly. The fact that she understood and obeyed was a marvel to him. But she had gotten nervous during that slow turn before him. She lay with her legs close together, not clamped, but closer even then when she had first emerged into his room. He swept the brown straight hair of his head over her thighs and belly. It was just long enough to feel brushing against her as it framed his face. And then she risked intrusion, a move that had not been agreed upon. She reached down through the curtain and grasped his head to her with both hands. They stilled and reveled in that clasp before she drew back. The way she drew back assured him that she would keep her agreement this day—to be the unknown woman to his unknown man.

Now he could not wait. He knew the drama had built high within her. His penis was terribly engorged, so that he had that age-old fear of coming too soon. And it mattered very much this time that he stay the course. He realized he had almost always been the pursued, even when he had approached a woman first. Women acted like he was doing them a favor, and he blithely acted that way too. If he came too soon for them, they would just make him hard again. But now was different. He had to give her what she wanted. He concentrated again solely on her. Her thatch, her slit, the lips of her pussy. He stroked, he licked, he feasted. He found her living clit and watched it before stroking it with his tongue.

He had done all his work standing beside and over her as she lay on the raised platform. Now he crawled up beside her, kneeling. He swung one leg over her, facing toward her feet. She gasped and felt his strong hairy thighs on either side of her waist. He plunged his face between her legs. He pushed her down hard with his face so his tongue could go up within her. Then she screamed. She felt the rumble of his laugh inside her cunt. He laughed to know that she would scream for him.

He swung back again swiftly around and over her. Touching her waist with his hands and laying his forearms out along her hips and thighs. So that she could feel him, his size, and where he was. And so she could know what he was about to do. He would penetrate her now. She thought she had been waiting forever.

He entered only the head of his cock. He toyed with the head against her clitoris. She rose up abruptly shoving this head of his into the wall of skin between her clit and her vagina. They stopped for an instant. He lifted her, again so competently, and plunged into her slit, sliding all the hanging dripping lips around his shaft. She dripped and dripped for him. They rocked to crescendo and came big and with silent screams. He still wanted to hear her scream out loud at climax some day. He rested, at home within her.

+ + + + +

Gradually they drifted apart and anxiety set in. Would she meet with him again? If she did, would he be able to fulfill her again? Nothing much else fucking mattered now.

She raised up slightly, and the caddy swung round with a small piece of blue note paper on it. Two words were written on it, "Tomorrow please." He dashed up out of her, found a paper and pen, scrawled a hasty "Yes," and sent it through. Then he took a liberty. He sprawled across her again, loving the warmth, and resting.

Later she shifted as if absently. He moved off her looking regretfully down at her. His penis stirred upright again. He sighed. He was about to ask her for "Again?" when a note came through. "Have to work this afternoon. Don’t want to go. Can it be at 6 p.m. and for two hours tomorrow?"

"Yes, I will arrange it," he replied. She was overjoyed. He would arrange it.

(End Part 1, to be continued...)

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Return to Sauce*Box, Spring 2001