© Sauce*Box, Winter 1996/97. All
rights revert to author.
Eating Out
by Guillermo Bosch
I will never understand why he chose me. Despite
what he told me that day, I know I am not beautiful. Attractive, yes, but
not beautiful. My tits are too small. Nice nipples, yes, that's true, and
they grew long and hard when he nibbled on them with his hard white teeth,
or sucked on me with his wide full lips, like a baby, yes, my baby. But
my nose is too long, my mouth too narrow, my green eyes set too far apart.
Of course men notice me; they do. They look, consider, sometimes they even
stare, contemplating a move, but then they turn away. I believe they think
I will require too much work, too much work for too little reward. They
are mistaken. Somehow he knew that.
I was sitting at a small table in front of an old cafe on the wide
boulevard that cuts across the lower part of town, down along the river
where the ancient oak trees form a cool, natural canopy from the relentless
summer sun. It was hot, very hot. I was reading a book, that new erotic
novel-the passage describing when the young, curious Loretta cautiously
enters the bedroom of the swarthy duke Don Carlos while he lies naked, asleep,
his heavy black and gold brocade covers tossed aside to reveal his thick,
curly black hair, his sneering, arrogant lips, his bare, well-muscled chest,
his boyish waist and powerful, rounded buttocks. She studies his body, frightened,
expectant; she reaches for the knot on her blue silk gown, unties it and
lets the material slide from her soft shoulders across her ripe, full breasts,
down the curve of her hips, past the soft blonde hairs of her delicious
mound, further down along her perfect legs onto the cold stone floor. For
a moment, Loretta stands there naked next to the sleeping Don Carlos, but
even in his slumber, the duke senses her presence. He stretches and turns
onto his back. The moonlight from the tower window illuminates his thickly
veined penis-hard, rigid, engorged, pulsing with explosive Latin blood.
The young Loretta groans, places one hand on her swollen right teat, the
other she rubs against the golden hair between her legs. When one small,
clear drop of fluid forms on the tip of the duke's throbbing cock, Loretta
leans over his body to more closely inspect the duke's magnificent erection.
Her hot breath disturbs the soft black hairs covering the duke's scrotum.
He awakens. His menacing eyes lock on Loretta's flushed face, her wet tongue
not more than a few inches away from his throbbing organ.
"Are you alone?" A young man's voice broke through my reverie. I looked up. He was standing there, smiling, looking down at me, at me! The sunlight filtered through his shoulder length, wavy blond hair. The clear blue sky was reflected in his azure eyes. He had long lashes, an earring dangled from his right lobe, and I saw the stern face of an American Indian chief tattooed onto his upper left bicep, just below the edge of his soft brown leather vest which hung open to reveal the sun bleached hairs on his well-defined pecs. He wore dark cotton shorts, loose, but not so loose that I could not see the bulge his cock made along the zipper line. His powerful thighs tapered into beautifully shaped legs. He wore open sandals, and I was able to see his elegant toes. I felt a thin layer of sweat form along my upper lip. I could only stare.
"Are you alone?"
I remained afraid to speak. Afraid to move. Were my hands trembling? Were my legs pressed too tightly together, holding in the sweet juices already stimulated by my reading? Who did he see? What did he see? I fought for control, any control, even a little might be enough to slow my racing heart.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you." He turned to walk away.
"No," came out of me, then, "Yes, I am." He turned back toward my table, quizzically.
I cleared my throat. "I am alone."
"Good," he said. He sat down without being asked. Not across from me. Next to me. To me! "Would you like something to drink?"
"Yes," I said, trying to catch my breath, not quite able to believe I had been able to bring him back.
"Something cool?"
"Yes, something cool." A slight breeze passed over us, rustling the leaves on the trees. I let my legs move slightly apart under my long, thin skirt. When the warm air caressed against me, against me there, I almost fainted. I closed my eyes.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
I kept my eyes closed. "It's so hot." I said.
"Yes," he said, "Yes it is."
He wanted to talk. I didn't. I listened for awhile, but I don't remember a word he said. I do remember his fingers, his long, expressive fingers which moved through the air as he spoke, his fingers which lightly touched my arm as he looked into my eyes.
"You're a very beautiful woman," he said.
I heard the lie, but I looked into those deep blue pools, and they didn't blink. The sun glistened on his hair, on the curled blond hairs on his chest around his nipples. I smiled at the oh-so-serious Indian chief with feathers in his hair whose eyes squinted when my young man flexed his muscles. I saw the bulge grow in his shorts. He wiggled his toes. It was only a little lie, and we all lie, a little bit, sometimes, to get what we want, and I knew he wanted me.
He lived above a restaurant near that small green island where the river splits into two directions, one branch flowing to the north, the other slightly south. The smells of exotic cheeses, grilled vegetables, and broiled new potatoes wafted through his open window as I watched a barge loaded with the course yellow seeds of newly harvested grain choose the southern branch and maneuver toward the loading docks. He stood behind me. He put his fingers on my shoulders, releasing the tension, pressing into my flesh. His moist, flat tongue licked the tendons along my neck. He nibbled my earlobes, and he whispered into my ear. I sighed and arched my back so that my ass was up against his wide, hard cock. I spread my legs and let the wet fluids from my soaking cunt drizzle down my thighs. I felt his fingers slowly move across my back to the waistband of my skirt. He grabbed the elastic in both of his hands and ripped the fabric apart. As the light material drifted to the floor, he knelt down, forced my panties up into my crack, cupped my cheeks in his powerful grip and bit each of them before he kissed and licked the tiny red impressions his teeth had marked upon my butt. Then he held my panties tight between my legs and carefully, deliberately, slid them back and forth against my clit and my asshole, gently back and forth. The feeling erupted within me before I could stop it. I grabbed the windowsill. I shuddered, moaned. My legs collapsed under me and I sank onto his floor twitching furiously while he kneaded my buns and rained kisses against the small of my back.
I smelled rosemary and thyme, sweet onions and curry. He turned me over and pulled off my shirt. My broken buttons rattled across the floor. He unhooked my bra and tossed it over his shoulder. I held my arms across my chest, anticipating his disappointment. A tugboat signaled from the harbor. Two customers-a man's voice and a woman's voice-left the restaurant and walked down the sidewalk. He crawled toward my feet, took my toes in his mouth and sucked on each of them. He licked the webbing between my toes. He held one ankle in the crook of his arm and licked along my calves. His tongue swirled in wet circles around my kneecaps. I felt his hair against my inner thighs, then against my pussy as he licked away the juices which flowed down my legs. He raised my calves into the air, spread them apart, then bent them back against my thighs, then he pressed my thighs against my abdomen and my chest and he held them there with his forearm while his other hand spread the lips of my cunt and he flicked his tongue across my still quivering clit. Once. Then he looked up to smile at me. Twice. Then nothing. Three times. Four times. I wiggled, I squirmed. He took my swollen clit between his lips and sucked while he pressed one, then two fingers inside of me. In and out. In and out. Oh, good Lord in Heaven, that time I came in waves, the third one a giant breaker that sent me crashing beyond the limits of my known desire.
I was a white tiger, a lioness, a panther. Somewhere down below us the cook was preparing raw, red meat. I was on all fours, over him, on top of him. He was my prey. With one quick swipe of my paw, I removed my lover's vest. I unhooked his shorts with my sharp feline teeth, and pulled his zipper down. He was naked beneath his shorts. His stiff cock sprang free, uncut, angled upwards toward his chest, bent slightly to the left side. I pulled back his skin, uncovered his dripping, pink head, and teased him as he had teased me-fluttering my tongue across the tip, pulling back, licking his shaft, then easing away, brushing my lips against him, lightly scratching with my fingertips across his stomach, his lower abdomen. I could feel his hips rotating in rhythm to my movements, his stomach muscles tightened, his ass tightened, but I was not ready. I grabbed his prick and squeezed tightly, licked my way up to his chest, and dribbled saliva onto his nipples, sucking and biting him, making him hard there as well as below where his cock remained trapped in my taut fist. He whimpered; he whimpered! He begged me to release him. His blue eyes beseeched me, but still I was not ready.
I turned him over onto his stomach. The sun was setting across the river; the light, softer, more delicate. I straddled him, my knees on his shoulders, his head between my legs, my hands on his back, my eyes on his near perfect ass. I heard the dinner crowd arrive. Their idle laughter made me smile. The rich flowery scents of expensive perfumes and musky colognes drifted through the evening air. I raised my right hand and smacked him full force against his bottom. He tensed and tried to raise his head which only pressed his soft golden curls ever more tightly against my inner thighs. I bright red welt appeared on his right cheek, a perfect replica of my palm. Again I brought my hand down upon him, and again he raised his head. I looked down between my legs and saw his blond hair caressing me, rubbing against my pussy. I saw my newly placed brands rising in sharp relief against his rump. I trembled, struck one more blow, pressed my thighs against his ears and felt the searing pain as his earring pierced my flesh. I pressed even harder, taking the pain inside, feeling the power of it course through my nerves, and proceeded to jerk my cunt in quick sharp spasms against his beautiful flaxen hair. Then I collapsed against his back, the cheeks of my face flush against the inflamed cheeks of his ass.
It was dark outside when I rolled away from him and stretched my body out on the cool, wooden floor. Purple, yellow and green reflections from the neon lights downstairs glittered in the window panes. He was standing over me, the multicolored lights refracted through the individual strands of his wild, tousled, cum-matted hair. I heard the pops of Champagne bottles being uncorked. He was breathing heavily, stroking himself, being aroused by me lying naked in front of him, paying homage to me, homage to me! His legs were spread, his knees bent, but try as he might, after waiting so long, he was not able to let go. I felt sorry for him. I locked my eyes onto his. I willed him to look into mine, to see the fires within me. I dropped both my hands to my mound and pressed my shoulders upward toward my face. I arched my back and saw his neck muscles tense, his jaw was clenched, the veins along his temples bulged. I placed one, two, then three fingers inside myself, and gyrated furiously, pushing my cunt up in the air toward him, watching him watch me, watching his hand slide, faster and faster across his slippery organ, faster, faster, yes, even faster, and then, just as he came I knelt before him, letting his white, hot rain splash against my tits, and as he fell to his knees in front of me I brought his head to my chest, his lips to my swollen nipples, and watched in ecstasy as he drank from my tiny tits the milk of his own cum.
As I gathered my things he lit a cigarette and said, "Where are you going?"
"Home," I said, "And you shouldn't smoke."
He stubbed out his butt in a brass jar lid. "I want you to stay with me," he said. He was so cute, so vulnerable, so hurt that I would leave so quickly. I walked over to him and kissed him on the forehead. "Take care of yourself," I said. And then I was gone.
It felt good to return to my own place, to unlock my door, to stroke my gray cat, to close the curtains, to undress, to draw a hot bath and soak in soothing desert salts, in the oils of Lavender, Geranium, Ho Wood and Rosewood. I left the bath, and scrubbed my skin until it tingled. Then I stepped into the shower and washed my hair with Black Malva shampoo. I chose a Rosemary/Mint conditioner. I went over to my grandmother's pine chest of drawers and pulled out my old, soft, blue t-shirt. I fluffed my pillows, and layed down on top of my eiderdown comforter. My gray cat curled herself up next to my hip and went to sleep. I turned on the night light, opened my book and began to read about Loretta and Juan Carlos. I only finished a few paragraphs before I fell asleep.
I know you understand it was I who chose him, but I need to be subtle. After all, I am not beautiful. Attractive, yes, but not beautiful. My tits are too small. Nice nipples, yes, that's true, and they did grow long and hard when he nibbled on them with his hard white teeth, when he sucked on me with his wide full lips, like a baby, yes, my baby. But my nose is still too long, my mouth remains too narrow, my green eyes will always be set too far apart. Men still notice me; of course they do. They look, consider, sometimes they even stare, contemplating a move, but they usually turn away. I believe they think I will require too much work, too much work for too little reward. They are mistaken.
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