Part 1

I met her about a month ago. We were both in Central Park, me sitting on a park bench reading the New Yorker, her taking a break from her bike ride and relaxing on the bench next to mine, and both of us evaluating the mid-afternoon scene. She struck up a conversation with me. I noticed a few different things about her appearance: That her black slick biking pants fit her legs and ass like a glove, that her expertly coiffed blonde hair spoke well of her sense of style, and the ring on ring finger of her left hand. None of which she sought to hide from my appreciative gaze.

I am not sure what about my appearance caught her eye. My hair pulled back in a tail, minimal make-up, and dressed in jeans and a comfy frumpy sweater. She sat; we talked, and enjoyed each other's company. I enjoyed her company enough to ask her to my place, to "see my apartment" as the saying goes, to proffer some tea to take away the late winter chill. She enjoyed my company enough to accept my invitation.

Still in her workout wear, and with her bike in tow, she and I used the back entrance and the service elevator up to my apartment. It would not do, after all, to have anyone at her place think she was anywhere other than still on her bike ride. Nor would it do for anyone at my place to notice a married woman into my apartment. In any event, not more 60 minutes after we met in the park, she walked into my apartment.

She sat, I made some tea, and we talked. I took her left hand into mine and took renewed interest of her wedding ring. I expressed surprise that she wore it while biking. She said she always does when biking in Central Park, as she often stops for a rest and does not want complication or misunderstandings. I see, I said, and thought to myself: This is not the first time she has picked up or been picked up while on one of her Central Park bike rides.

"What does he do?" I asked, less curious about how he paid for her stylist than I was curious about what she would tell me about him

"He's on Wall Street." The alpha and omega of her explanation about him, as it turns out, as she turned the conversation back to me: "You didn't seem to mind when you invited me here."

"I don't mind at all, " I told her, matching her even gaze with one of my own, "I'll guess I'm like you: I don't need unnecessary drama in my life."

She smiled at that. I liked her demeanor, and that she would have walked out of my apartment had I not met her... terms. Probably I would have done the same in her place. Certainly, I would have thrown her out had she started blathering on about how she needs a "special friend" in her life, how "only women understand our needs" or how she had been "so curious for so long." I smiled back at her and we silently watched the sun wane over the canyons of Midtown, enjoyed the brief moment before she turned to me and asked me to show her the rest of my apartment.

Considering I live in a one-bedroom apartment, the only place left to show my new friend was my bedroom. She noticed the prints on the wall, my own bike standing in the corner, and the queen-sized bed by the curtained window; I noticed how her black biking pants perfectly hugged her shapely ass. She walked over by my unmade bed and made a show of noticing the framed print above my bed. I walked over behind her, placed my hands on her hips, and held my body close to hers. She moved back against me, pressing her hips back against mine. I imagined her then, on my bed, on her hands and knees, my hands massaging and spreading her ass.

"Are you very tight from your bike ride?" I asked, letting my hands move up the side of her body. She stood perhaps an inch taller than my 5'7" height, and though less curvy than me, retained a lithe quality in her body and movement that I found quite alluring.

"I had not been biking long when I found you." She answered my questions, both those stated and unspoken, with an economy of words I thought... tactfully direct. She had seen through and removed my pretense for touching her; that her bike ride had left her tired and strained, and perhaps in need of a massage.

"I see" was all I could muster in response.

She turned to me, kept my hands on her hips, and placed hers on mine. She smiled at me, then said with a grin: "But I'd still like a massage. Why don't you go refresh our tea while I get comfortable on your bed?"

I nodded, turned, and left the room. Oh, she was smooth. She was smooth enough to take her pleasure sans accoutrement, and expected the same of her lovers. It is not that she dislikes drama per se, I thought, but that the drama she wanted in the dynamics she established with her different lovers was that which all wanted. Which begged the question: What drama would she and I selectively add to our dynamic?

I pushed these future thoughts from my mind and set myself back to the here and now. I gathered our cups, refilled them with tea, and walked them back into my bedroom. During my absence, she had made herself quite at home. She lay on my bed, facing away from me, stripped down to a cute pair of black hip-hugger briefs. She looked perfectly comfortable. Her smooth back and legs spoke to her commitment to fitness just as the way she lay with her legs slightly parted spoke to her ease and sensuality. I set her cup down on the bedside table, causing her to jerk her head back around to face me.

"Oh, No! You're already falling asleep on me!" I teased her while sipping a bit of my tea.

"I told you I would get comfortable!" She grinned back.

"Comfortable, not comatose" I thought, but held my tongue. She propped herself on her side and with her free hand took her tea to her mouth. She wore no lipstick, yet the fullness and sensuality of her mouth stood out. I suspected men thought hers the 'perfect cock-sucking mouth' and I wondered if she backed up their thoughts with her actions. Lying as she did afforded me a view of her small breasts and very flat tummy. She seemed to me one of those women I see at the gym, with their personal trainers, exorcising the twin demons of boredom and frustration through extended repetitions on the Cybex Machines. I would place her age at 10 years my senior, yet she looked better than did half the thirty-something women my own age.

She sipped her tea silently while watching me undress for her. I shed my clothes with a certain practiced ease, adding my clothes to the pile she had created on the floor. Once down to my thong, I took her cup from her hand and motioned her to lay flat on her tummy. I made a show of re-adjusting my thong, pulling it tighter over my hips and letting it cup my pussy, and then turned back to her. She nestled her head into her arms and waited for me to join her on my bed.

I moved around the bed, letting my fingers glance over her body, and pulling her legs out and open. Her smooth skin warmed to my touch and appreciative moans escaped her mouth. I climbed on the bed between her legs, letting my hands glide up her back and down her sides. I worked back up her spine, pulling her back flat, pushing her deeper into my bed. With every stroke up her body, she lifts her ass off the bed, seeming to want to meet a touch or a tongue she will not receive until later.

I pulled her legs together, straddling her thighs under mine. I am sure she could feel it when I rubbed the crotch of my panties against the back of her thighs. I am also sure she also noticed when, after stroke of smoothing my hands down the sides of her body, I pushed her panties a little lower over her hips. We maintained ourselves, keeping this contact both erotic and impersonal, neither of us saying a word to the other.

I switched my body off hers, kneeling to her side, facing towards her feet. Almost as if sensing my next move, she lifted her ass off the bed, letting my hands pull her panties down her legs. Her well-toned ass revealed itself to me, with tan lines from a thong perfectly framing the supple curves of each cheek. The faintness of the lines told me she had perhaps vacationed somewhere warm sometime in her recent past.

"Where did you vacation?" I asked, conscious of using vacation as a verb, presuming she only took active holidays.

"St. Martin. Have you been?" She asked while I pulled her panties off her legs.

"Yes, but years back. I went to Club Orient. You?" I asked, dropping the name of a nudist/lifestyle resort while dropping her panties to the floor.

"Yes, that's where I went." She looked back at me and smiled.

"How'd you end up with tan lines at a that place?" I wondered aloud, remembering how I spent a week more or less nude during the day, with perhaps a fun party dress in the evening and never wearing panties save when I arrived and left.

"It's what was wanted of me." She explained.

"So, he was with you." I said, referring to the man behind her ring.

"Well, no. But I wasn't alone." She explained, and left it at that, as did I. Besides, I had a naked woman in my bed, and things were just starting...

I placed my right hand on the back of her neck then traced my fingers down her spine. As if by instinct, she parted her legs as my hand approached her ass. My left hand joined my right in cupping and gently opening her ass, then gliding my hands further down her legs. I leaned over, letting my nipples glace over her back, and then pulled my hands back up tracing my fingertips inside of her thighs. All of which made her open her legs just a little bit more. With every stroke of my hands, she parted her legs wider and wider.

I positioned myself back between her legs. I noticed how comfortable she seemed at that moment; her arms folded under her head, her back slightly arched, and how her curvy and slightly parted ass allowed me a peek between cheeks trailing down to the back of her bare and moistening pussy. Confident she would tell me if I touched her in a way she found displeasing, I continued my "massage."

I focused almost exclusively on her ass. My previous vision returned to my thoughts, of pulling her to her hands and knees, spreading her ass, and licking her from the base of her spine to the tip of her clit and back. Of letting my tongue part her lips, caress her clit, then slide into and taste her pussy. Of letting my tongue slide between her cheeks, feeling her relax, then pressing my tongue into her. Try as I might, I could not shake this image from my mind. Ambivalence abounded within me, for I would not want to move too fast too soon and have her flee my bed.

Perhaps it was that she sensed my mood, as all good lovers do. Perhaps she had the same vision running through her mind. Perhaps it was that I signaled my intentions by gently running my fingers between her cheeks, then smoothing her apart, spreading her ass before me. She flexed just then, winking at me. My hands moved down her thighs, breaking the moment, and continuing my sensual tease of her skin. Not content with this, she pulled her hands from under her head and brought them down to her hips. She covered her ass with her hands, and then in a move I could only describe as invitingly lewd, spread her ass for me.

She held herself like that, relaxed and poised, and so very exposed. My hands moved as if by her volition, sliding under hers, keeping her open. I leaned forward then, placing my mouth at the base of her spine, letting my tongue extend and make contact with her body. After scooting myself down on the bed, I let my mouth move lower on her with a series up upward cat-licks until I found myself tickling and touching her ass with the tip of my tongue. She relaxed, perceptibly so, and accompanied by a quite satisfied sigh.

I gave her a few flat-tongue wet licks then pulled my mouth back to examine my handiwork. It seemed as if the fading tan lines curving around the top of her ass formed an arrow pointing down to her slick, slightly dimpled anus. Her ass slick with my saliva and dimpled from what I would guess was her enjoyment of vigorous anal sex. I should know; I enjoy the same. I placed the tip of my tongue against her anus, felt her relax just as I would have, and then pressed my tongue into her ass. She responded immediately. She slid her hands, palms up, under her hips, and then lifted her ass to my gently probing tongue.

It was with a sigh that she pulled herself from me. I pulled myself back to my knees and waited on her next move. She turned over, scissoring her legs in the process, then rest on her back with her legs wide apart. It was not just her lips that were bare, but also her entire pussy. The same tan lines that encased her lovely ass served to frame her deliciously full and wet cunt. She placed her right hand behind her head, used her left to spread and open her lips, and invited me to continue. Silently, I did.

The diamond of her wedding ring glistened in the ambient light in my bedroom, as did the pearl of moisture gathered at the base of her cunt. I do not know why I did, but I first kissed her wedding ring before I kissed her married pussy. She was heavy, slick, and fragrant. I let myself inhale her scent before she used her hand to pull my mouth to her cunt. I kissed her full on the lips before letting my tongue slide between her lips while my hands reached under and cradled her ass, lifting her to me. She needed more, she wanted a more direct sensation, and directed my mouth with both hands to her engorged clit.

I wasted little time using my tongue and mouth to massage, lick, and suck her clit harder and harder. I wanted to feel her pulsing on my tongue, feel her ass clench in my hands and her thighs press against my face; I wanted her to forget all but the sensation of my mouth pleasuring her. The ease of her tensions higher matched my increased tempo of gently sucking her clit deeper into my mouth. Suspecting she wanted even more, I guided the middle finger from my left hand to her slick ass, and then let her own rocking motion slide my finger deep into her ass. I was correct; she does enjoy anal sex.

My right hand went to her cunt, using my ring and middle fingers to part and then penetrate her lips. She, by now, had fingers from both of hands just as deeply entwined in my hair as mine were in her body. She rocked herself deeper onto both sets of my fingers, each slick and sliding inside of her. I spread and curled my two fingers in her cunt, massaging her spot as my mouth moved back to her clit. I licked and sucked her, felt her clit tremble under my tongue, felt her ass clench my finger while she rocked her hips back and forth on my hands, easing my fingers deeper into her pussy. She moved her hands from my hair to her knees, pulling her legs back and up, spreading herself even wider for my mouth and fingers. I pulled the middle finger from my left hand back from her ass, sensed her missing this penetration, how she yearned for renewed stretching and probing of her ass, then easily slid both the middle and ring fingers from my left hand deep into her ass. Yes, her ass was well used to vigorous and deep penetration.

She began writhing, moaning, pushing herself back to meet the thrusts of my fingers deep into her cunt and ass. While my inner fingers curled and massaged her pussy, my outer fingers spread and held her outer lips, leaving her clit deliciously exposed for my tongue and mouth. I sucked her again, hard. I pursed and pulled her clit with my lips, sluiced my tongue over her clit, formed a groove with my tongue and sucked her deeper and deeper in time with my fingers in her cunt and ass. She rocked in time with me; she let herself feel her body respond to my passion, and pushed down until my fingers could go no further into her body. She held her legs open for me in a perfect V, then forcefully closed her thighs around my face, and pulled my hair, pulling my face deeper into her. She was so close and I would not relent; not for the entire world would I let up from her. Her tensing increased, her clenching my fingers in her body, her clit twitching and pulsing in my mouth, and then with a violent arch and an exasperated and quite vocal moan she released to me, cumming for me, let these sensations overtake her body, let her cunt and ass and clit and legs release against my body.

I moved my mouth from her clit to her flat tummy, kissing and nuzzling against her. I let slide from her cunt the two fingers from my right hand, which then smoothed over her hips to under her lower back. My fingers in her ass I in place, holding her close, which I knew to be the correct sensation; having my ass still penetrated after orgasm counts as one of my favorite sensations. I moved up on her body then, pressing the heel of my left hand against the base of her cunt, then kissing and nibbling each of her small erect nipples in turn. Her hands went to the back of my head as she emerged from her post-orgasmic haze, pulling my mouth from one nipple to the next as she wanted. Finally, with my fingers still in her ass, she brought my mouth to hers. There was no small kiss in either of our vocabularies, no shared peck on the lips or cheek; her open mouth invited mine to lock with hers. She began sucking my tongue, making me fuck her mouth with my tongue, and then I began fucking her ass again with my fingers.

My right hand supported her back, pulling her to me, holding her body against mine. Her hands pulled my face to her, trying to somehow make our kiss even deeper, longer, wetter. I pressed my bare breasts against her, felt the familiar sensation of our erect nipples rubbing against our bodies, our breasts; felt her heart beating against my chest. Scissoring her left leg between mine, I then used my fingers in her ass to pull her to her side against me. She threw her left leg far over my hips, up on my body, curled to press her body against mine, keeping her ass spread for me. I could tell that, from the sensations of my mouth on hers, my breasts on hers, and my fingers sliding in and out of her ass, She was going to cum again.

Her fingers curled and pulled my hair. Her mouth gaped open then closed repeatedly, closing around my tongue and mouth. Finally, dismissing the idea of concentrating on our kiss, she pulled my mouth to her neck. Her hands went to my back, her fingers digging into me, her nails raking my back as I pressed the heel of my palm against her cunt and my fingers fucked her ass. She was so close again so quickly! I would not relent, my fingers now almost slamming into her ass, her moaning with every movement of mine. I pulled my right hand to the back of her head, pulled her head back by her hair, and yanked her face into my vision. Her eyes locked onto mine, she bared her teeth as a cornered animal bares its fangs, and she almost hissed at me. I grasped her hair even tighter; pulling her head back holding her in place, watched her mouth remain open gasping for air. She pressed her nails into my back, pulled them long and deep against me, so much so that I knew I would have marks there the next day. This rich bitch wanted this rough, hard, vigorous, and violent. And nasty... With my fingers still slamming into her ass, I pulled her head back one final time, opening her mouth and exposing her tongue, then formed in my mouth an ample amount of saliva that I then spit into hers.

That sent her over the edge. That is it, I thought: This is the drama she wants, the sensations she needs; the meeting of her mind and body needed for complete and total surrender: She needs to be the rich bitch fucked like a nasty slut. Oh, and was I ever very happy to oblige. I slipped my thumb into her cunt and pressed it against my fingers in her ass. I rubbed them together, repeatedly making circled in her, connecting the sensations in her cunt and ass. That is all she needed... she pulled me to her, curled her fingers and scratched her nails down my back, and came for me again. Not a thing separated her body from mine, not a single notion separated her from what she wanted; this nasty slut fucked her ass and cunt against my hand and came and came and came.

She pushed herself from me soon after the last tremor left her body. More to say she laid herself flat under my body, her arms at her side, her body slick with perspiration, her breasts rising and falling with her quickly regulated breaths. I kept my hand very still in her then, careful not to move anything for fear of jarring her. With a final sigh, she moved her right hand to between her legs and gingerly pulled my fingers from her ass. I rested my hand on her hip and waited for her to regain the power of speech. Her eyes focused on mine first, then she closed her legs and moved to her side facing me.

"You never took them off." She said, noticing the band from my thong under her hand on my hip.

"It didn't seem necessary." I stated the obvious.

"No, I suppose not." She agreed with me, and then rolled me over to my tummy. She pulled herself up, resting on her left arm, and running her right hand down my back. Her fingers gently touched along the red lines I am sure crisscrossed my back. "I'm afraid I've left some marks on you."

"They'll heal," I said, "the may be noticed but nobody will question them." A quick translation formed in her mind, as I knew it would, that I knew I could not have marked her as she had me, and that I was fine with that. My lovers know I sometimes 'like it rough', and I know that they know. Besides, I do not have a significant other who would question how I got these marks, and who placed them there. I laid my head flat on the bed, picked up her scent and the scent of her perfume on my sheets, and deeply inhaled both. I liked that this woman wore perfume when biking in the park, looking for lovers, and we let the mood ease down from an erotic inferno to this nice sensual flicker.

She continued stroking her hand along my back, to my hips, feeling the curves of my ass, played with my thong. "Do you let many lovers in here?" She suddenly asked, cupping my ass with her hand as she did.

"In where?" I asked, her comment jarring me from my reverie.

"Into your apartment, your bed." She explained.

"Are you asking me how many lovers I have?" I pressed her, genuinely curious about what she wanted to know.

She cocked her head to the side, then continued: "I know you have lovers, Susan. With your looks and body, how could you not? What I am wondering is... how many do you let in here? How many do you let see the real you?"

I pulled my head up and faced her. "Tell me what you mean, June."

She smiled the kind of smile one often sees when predators have they prey cornered. "Do you spit in your other lovers' mouths and pull their hair? Do you let them dig their nails into your back?"

"Sure." I said, annoyed with her tone, and dropped my head to the bed.

"Do you do that because that is what they want, or because of what you want?" She continued, "Or do you first have to play coy and naive before you get what you want?"

I smiled when I finally understood her point. The number of times I had had a woman in my bed, or me in hers, where I tried to introduce things considered kinky only to be rebuffed with a protestation on her part indicating I had given offense. Then I saw the connection she drew between my apartment and my passion. I kept "friends" at arm's length, until I sensed in them the desire to share these more... explicit pleasures. Then, they became my lovers. Of course, it next occurred me that this is what she had just done with me. This realization I shared with her by lifting myself up again, smiling then kissing her. She smiled back then pulled my hair from the side of my face.

"It's late," she announced, "and I have to go."

Yes, I knew that was coming next. As they say... better to leave them wanting more than to overstay your welcome. Besides, I could tell from the dimming light coming through my bedroom window that twilight was descending upon the city.

"When can I see you again?" I hated this part of me, the needy part, and even though it so infrequently manifests itself in my actions, still I hated that I had asked her that. Yes, I wanted to see her again. Yes, I wanted to fuck her again. Maybe next time I might actually get my panties off. Yes, she was erotic, exciting, and all of that, but why had I shown her that needy side of me? Shit!

She rose off the bed and stretched. I took a pillow and slid it under me, hugging it to me as if she still lay under me. It was not enough that my words betrayed my mood but by actions did as well. I still watched her though. I watched her regain her footing, slip her panties up until they again hugged her hips, and place her breasts back into her bra. She found her pants and top where she had placed them and quickly finished getting dressed. She came over to me then. She leaned over the bed, stroked my head, bent over, and kissed my cheek. Peevishly, I had not bothered offering her more to kiss than my cheek.

"Don't worry, Susan. I will be in touch with you." She announced as if stating the obvious, smiled again, turned and left my bedroom. I heard the sounds of her in my foyer, slipping her biking shoes back on, grabbing her bike, opening the door, and then she left. I lay on my bed, alone, with her scent in the air, her taste in my mouth, and her promise on my mind. I closed my eyes and tried to push all this from me, found I could not, then got up, dressed for the gym, and then went over and joined all those other women exercising my body while exorcising demons from my mind.

I came home from work the next day, and found a package awaited me at the concierge's desk. A cream monogrammed vanilla envelope appeared, obviously from her, obviously delivered by courier service, and my spirits rose as the elevator lifted me to my apartment. The bills and Vanity Faire could wait.

"Susan,

You are a lovely and passionate woman. It's so rare for women like us to find each other; like orchids we are tender and strong, striving to bring our own special form of beauty to this city. Did you think I would not contact you? Of course you did. Do I fear you will not answer this invitation? Of course I do. But I hope you will.

A friend from the fashion world is throwing a party at the Cellar Bar two days from now. They are closing the place for this, and your name will be on a guest list. I do not know your real last name so I have given you one: Susan St. Martin.

Do come to this, Susan. Say 'YES!' to this! Do not let last night be our sweet sorrow! Let us meet again, and let us smile.

June"

I smiled and smiled. Her command of Shakespeare lifted my spirits, her invitation tickled me, and I thought 'Thursday could not come quick enough!' Yes, I was still miffed she left me wanting and in a needy mood. Now I knew she shared my same needs. I wondered who would be at this party. I was reasonably sure that she would be the only person there I would know, but I could not have cared less. I quickly brought my personal schedule to mind, remembered a fun and funky couple with whom I had a pre-existing commitment, evaluated my next move for perhaps 3/10 of a second, and fired off an email to them seeking a rain check.

I had no way of sending a message to June; the envelope had no return address, I knew the courier service would not tell me who had sent her message, and her note did not contain an email address, a phone number, or even who was throwing the party at the Cellar Bar. No matter, I thought: She knew I would appear, and so did I. I sent my RSVP via ESP.

A fashion event... I tore through my closet early on that Thursday evening wondering what I should wear. I knew that nothing in my closet would be hip and trendy as anything adorning the tall thin angular bodies of the fashionistas sure to attend at this soiree, so I went basic. Basic black fuck-me pumps with a 3" heel and basic black thigh-highs, both with a smooth satin finish, served as my basic black base. I thought about and then discarded the notion of wearing panties; with luck they would not be necessary, plus since I had not had a chance to remove my panties the first time we fucked, I thought it opportune to banish this decision from her mind. I shimmied into one of my more interesting little black dresses. It was long enough to hide the tops of my thigh-highs, short enough to show ample leg, tight enough to mold itself to my body, and with a halter-top generously displaying my cleavage. The low-slung back would display some of the marks left by June, some of them fading from view like the tan lines on her ass, and my longish blonde hair would hide the rest from the hoi polloi; but June would get the signal. I put on my coat, grabbed my purse, and left.

"Name?" The living breathing porcelain doll standing guard at the entrance of the cellar asked me. She was impossibly thin, impossibly delicate, and making in a month what I make in a week, hoping someone would 'discover' her this evening. She looked at me and, after taking in my full measure and comparing it against hers, saw an older successful woman with fading beauty and sagging body. I looked at her and saw Bambi growing stale, with fading dreams and sagging prospects, and a series of creepy middle-aged married men circling her, enticing her with offers of travel and dinner and clothes and all else that is part of having a 'mutually beneficial arrangement' with such men.

We exchanged looks of pity then I gave her my nom de la soiree, "Susan St. Martin." She barely glanced up to me; already looking over my shoulder to the next in line, while the tall beefy hunk manning the velvet rope did take notice of me, as I did of him, and then let me pass.

I did not spot her at first, and did not made a point of looking too hard for her. I was there at her invitation, and she could well find me when she wanted to. I moved to the bar as the background lighting effects changed from chartreuse to vermilion. The bar truly is a cellar, with vaulted ceilings, subdued lighting, low seating, and a wait staff seemingly lifted from the pages of Vogue.

Then I spotted her. Yes, she was there, wearing a very slimming black pantsuit, the top of her multi-fabric and multi-hued bustier peeking out from behind the deep V of her jacket, on the arm of a man more than 10 years her senior. She was there with her husband. Curious, I thought, until I remembered his job. She had probably sent her RSVP for both of them weeks before, then placed it on his schedule thinking his work or some dinner or something would interfere with his attendance. She caught my eye long enough to establish a look, and then turned back to her group.

I ordered an apple martini (best in New York) and waited.

I ordered a second apple martini and waited.

Yes I talked and flirted with the men and women there, but the men were all 'modelizers'; and had no interest in schmoozing and/or hitting on a thirty-something woman with her own consulting practice. The women were more interesting, which is to say interesting to look at, for since I am not in the fashion business I had little in common with those there. Certainly, I had little to offer in the way of professional contacts. Besides, I was there to meet someone... else. Therefore, I contented myself with surveying the canvas of wool crepe and bare skin and getting drunk.

I caught June's eye when I could and found her still occupied by her husband and their friends. He was holding forth, as Master's of the Universe will do, flapping his fish-like lips, pontificating on some subject, which apparently did not interest anyone else assembled before him, including June. She managed a smile when he looked away, and I smiled back.

I was about to order a third apple martini when I decided a trip to the Ladies would be in order. I flashed a look over my shoulder to June, noticed she had noticed my movements, and then disappeared stage right. June made her appearance after my third time washing my hands. Our eyes met in the mirror then she walked past me and into the far stall, and closed the door. The other woman primping herself in the mirror did notice this; and shot me a smile and a look on her way back out to the bar. I walked loudly to the far stall and pushed the door back. June was there, standing, waiting for me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think he would be here." She said as she pulled me into the fully enclosed stall, pulled my body to hers, and locked the door. It was as if we were in a closet, away from prying eyes.

"I know, don't worry, it's fine." I hugged her back assuaging her fears. She looked imposing and fabulous; her Gucci pumps added an additional 4" to her height, she now stood two inches above me. I leaned over to kiss her when she stopped me, holding my mouth back from hers.

"Don't. We can't kiss, "she exhaled quickly, and all too obviously worried I would leave her mouth a mess, and then screeched at me "We don't have long!" She reached behind my neck and unsnapped my halter-top, freeing my breasts.

It's fine!" I repeated for emphasis while managing to open her black coat and feeling the fabrics of the bustier that encased her body and breasts.

She pulled the hem of my dress over my hips, and then quickly moved her right hand between my thighs to my pussy. She either did not notice or had expected me to not be wearing panties. In any event, she continued, "Open your legs, please! We don't have much time. He'll notice!" She begged me, sincere concern edging into her lustful voice.

"June, calm down!" I eased her nerves with my voice as I pushed myself back against the wall, "We'll have enough time!" I lifted my left foot to the cover on the seat, opened my legs, guided her right hand back to my pussy, and pulled her in. Yes, I am well versed in the practice of fucking with high heels on.

"No! We don't!" She hissed at me, her fingers already rubbing me, parting me, spreading my cunt open. "You don't understand. I have a room here. It's in your name, your fake name. I wanted to meet you, fuck you, and come back to the party... You're not..."

"June, what... I'm not what, June?" I asked her, feeling her fingers slide inside my pussy. I had been moist from the moment I started getting dressed for this evening, and positively slick the moment I arrived. I pulled her hand closer to me, her fingers deeper into me with her palm flat against my clit.

"You're not my only lover here!" She spat out at me, seeing her well-laid plans falter before her eyes, and her anger and resentment at her husband bubbling out like her saliva did from the corners of her mouth. I swooned. I literally fucking swooned. She had set me up to whore me to one of her other lovers.

She pushed me back with her left hand, placing her hand at my sternum, moving it up to press against my collar bone, then placing her hand at the base of my neck, gently squeezing me. I placed my hands over hers, covered her hands at my neck and cunt with my own, signaling to her: 'Yes, It's OK... I understand... I want this, too...'. The look in my eyes and the contractions of my cunt told her all she needed to know about how, even though sight unseen and gender unknown, I would have answered such an outlandish proposition. I wanted so much to kiss her, to tell her how excited she made me, to tell her yes I would have; I just wanted to kiss her.

"I wanted to tell you in the hotel room. He's here at the party. You would have wouldn't you? You would have spread your legs for him." She both asked and accused, her fingers moving faster and faster in me. Indeed, we did not have much time, nor would I last very long until I came. She let go of her grip on my neck and moved her left hand down to my right breast, took my nipple between her fingers, and then rolled it and pulled it between her gracious long fingers. She formed her fingernails in a crowning pinch around my nipple, squeezed very hard, and asked again: "You would have, wouldn't you?"

"Yesssssss," I hissed through clenched teeth, feeling her spread me wide almost lifting my body up with her hand, "Yes I would have!" I amazed myself that I agreed so quickly, under such circumstances, and that I remained standing. She pressed her hand flat against my breast, pushing me back against the wall, inflaming the marks from two days before. "Who...?" I started to ask before she cut me off.

"He's here. He's seen you." She leered at me while answering my question without telling me a single damn thing. She pressed her hand hard against my breast, flattening my breast against my body and my body against the wall, pressing my nipple between her thumb and forefinger. My hands went to my sides, flat against the wall, gripping for and finding no perch or handhold against the smooth surfaces of this enclosed scene.

Why was she telling me this, I thought. As clouded as my thoughts may have been, I retained at least basic deductive reasoning abilities. She had managed to hatch another plan, I was sure. "Please, June!" I begged, "Tell me what you want." Further speech was not possible, as I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming, to keep from moaning, to not let everyone in the bar know this woman was finger-fucking me to an imminent orgasm.

"He's leaving tomorrow. He's gone this weekend." She explained the imminent absence of her husband and the beginnings of her fallback plan, "He's coming over Saturday night. He's going to fuck me hard. He's cut, thick, gorgeous." she panted, describing either his cock or his body, or both. "I want to watch him fuck you, I want to watch him fuck your cunt and ass," she hissed, selecting that moment to add a third finger to my cunt, spreading me open even more, now spreading my breast against my body, pulling my nipple in every direction she moved her hand about, pressing me even harder against the wall. I was holding on for dear life, not wanting to fall over, not wanting to break our silent embrace. My hands grasped and clawed; She became my Mistress, tormenting my body and mind, turning me into a caged bitch in heat, and I fucking loved it!

"Say you'll come to me. Say it, Susan! Tell me you're a nasty slut, that you'll come to me Saturday night!" Her fingers really in me, the heel of her hand pressing against my clit, that familiar reservoir deep within me welling, bursting, flowing, ready to let loose. I could not believe this woman had me like this so quickly, so effortlessly. I could not believe I would be so easy for her. I begged her with my eyes to not make me speak, that I could not contain myself if I so much as opened my mouth; I begged her to leave me some reserve of dignity; even though I knew she would not. I knew, at that moment, that I would not deny her, neither then nor on Saturday evening.

"Say it!" She seethed at me through gritted teeth, her blue eyes aflame, and her soft look never more hard and serious than that moment. She added with her command a final vicious thrust of her fingers in my cunt, gripping me and lifting me, violently grinding her hand against my clit.

"YES! Oh G..." I wailed and moaned, agreeing to her plans, to her terms, while she moved her left hand from my breast to my mouth muffling my cry to the Almighty. Oh, God... The look in her eyes, her pressing my head back and pressing her body against mine, pressing me back against the wall, and then I lost it. Deep with in me my last reserve broke and I clenched and let loose for her, my cunt contracted then flared and pulsed on her hand, my hips grinding back and forth, my arms wrapping around her and pulled her even closer to me, and I came for her. I came and came and came. Her left hand never left my mouth and her right hand never left my cunt. Indeed, she now repeatedly pressed her body against mine with every stroke, meeting my gyrations with her own, pressing me back against the wall, fucking me back against the wall, fucking my cunt harder every time, her fingers spreading and splaying me wide with every stroke. When finally my body began settling into something resembling a normal rhythm, she pulled her fingers from my cunt and ran them up, pinching my clit hard, made me scream into her mouth, and buckling my knees. She pulled me down off the wall and guided me down, sitting me on the toilet. My breasts still hung down, my dress bunched around my waist, and my bare ass against the toilet seat cover.

She stood back, took in this sight, and smiled. She made a lewd display of licking and sucking clean each finger that she had used to fuck my cunt then came over and towered above me. She bent over and took my left nipple into her right hand, gave to this nipple the mixture of pleasure and pain she had given to the other, pulling and pinching my nipple between her fingers. She placed her left hand on the back of my neck, took hold of my hair, and yanked my head back. She leaned closer to me, I opened my mouth waiting for her to do the same, waiting for the sensation of her lips on mine, her tongue on mine, for us to share a kiss. This was not to be, as I found out when she held her mouth above mine, pursed her lips, and then spat the mixture of my cum and her saliva into my waiting mouth. She released my hair and my nipple and I closed my mouth then hung my head down, the sensations both physical and psychological overcoming me. Involuntarily, I savored this new taste in my mouth as I squeezed my legs together and cupped my tortured breasts with my hands.

"Susan?" She asked, looking for my attention.

I still had not regained the power of conversation, so I looked her evenly in the eyes and nodded for her to continue.

"I'll send a car for you, on Saturday. I'll have them pick you up at your place at 9:00. I'll need to have your last name; you'll need to tell me so I can tell them. What is it?" She asked and waited, making sure I understood her.

I mumbled it to her, and then asked for hers.

She ignored my question with a smile, and continued: "You'll come to my place, he'll come over once you're there. He's tested and clean. I am too. Are you? Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

My cunt gave an involuntary twitch when I realized what she was saying: That her lover fucked her bareback, and would fuck me the same way. I nodded and mumbled my understanding, and my consent to this.

"I need to go. I will see you on Saturday." She turned, unlocked the door, and closed it behind her. I leaned over and locked the door after she left.

I heard the sounds of her washing her hands and then waited for her to leave the ladies room before I stood up, smoothed my dress down, and re-attached my halter-top. My nipples screamed in protest; thus eliciting from my body and mind price of my passions. She had left me marked yet again, and I wondered what other marks I would receive on Saturday night. I regained my balance as I stood up, left the stall, and approached the mirror. My mussed hair, smeared lipstick, and dazed expression looked back at me from the mirror. I composed myself, fixing my smile, and quickly fluffing my hair back into place. I washed my hands for the fourth time in 15 minutes then left the room.

June and her party had moved to one of the tables off to the side of the bar. She was sitting back, legs crossed, now with sunglasses hiding her eyes, looking Mod, stylish, and enthralling those around her. She gave no overt notice of me, yet I sensed her giving her hips an involuntary clench as she unbuttoned her coat and lay back on the couch. I quickly averted my gaze and found a spot at the now-crowded bar.

I was about to order my third apple martini when the bartender set down a shot glass containing some layered concoction in front of me. Equal parts Irish Cream, Kahlua, and Midori; I recognized the drink immediately. I also knew who had sent me this drink. I dismissed him and his unctuously discreet demeanor with a flash of my eyes. I held up the drink, turned in profile to June, and in one fell swoop swallowed the sweet mixture of this 'Quick Fuck' while still feeling the effects of the other quick fuck.

I left soon after that. I did not look for June's (and my soon to be) other lover. I knew the search would be fruitless, and I wanted to keep it as fantasy until Saturday evening. He did fuck me that evening, though; with June, my lover, the Moon holding me in her luminescent embrace. I let my favorite jelly vibe take his place; fucking my cunt hard and fast until I rolled to my side presented my ass to his surrogate cock. I fell asleep alone, sated for the moment, and yearning for more.

The intervening days passed in a blur of work and working out, then Saturday sprung heavy and turbulent, capable of change at a moment's notice. I took my coffee black, bitter, it's fragrant earthy aroma rolling my mind awake. Thoughts of June and her lover, never far from my mind, came back in full force for quite some time until I noticed the passage of time. I had spent the morning with my mind locked in a battle between the virtues of caution and reckless abandonment while my coffee had grown cold in my lap.

I showered and dressed. My thinking being that, like all ambivalent moods, a shopping trip often strikes the perfect balance between apprehension and inaction, I found my way down to Spring Street in the Village. My mind did find distractions as I acquired a few winter things on sale at one store, then switched seasons and stores and picked up a fun frilly gingham print summer dress, and then got some sassy cosmetics at a third store.

Feeling better about myself, or at least feeling better about placing my mind elsewhere, I made my way to Washington Square Park, content to get some coffee and watch the day pass. Time would move without any thought by me, but my decision would not. Or could it? Could I just not be home at 9:00, not be there when the driver came to deliver me to June, pass up this her latest invitation? No. Abdicating on a decision still selects a course of action, and I have not desire to move through my life choosing my destiny through avoidance. Besides, by dismissing this invitation, I knew there would be no others, and I wanted there to be others. I would go to June this evening, to see if her scene matched my mood. If it did not, I would leave. If it did, then I would let our combined mood carry the evening. Above all else, I would be the mistress of my own destiny.

With a renewed sense of balance and purpose, I walked along the streets lining the north side of the park, looking for a particular boutique mentioned in passing by a 'friend' some weeks ago. Finding the place proved elusive, but rewarding. Their shoe collection displayed along one wall, with everything from ankle-strap pumps to thigh-high leather boots. Mannequins displayed a few of their dresses: A liquid metal strapless mini-dress in ruby red with keyhole cutouts on both sides; a slinky long velvet evening gown in royal blue with a slit high up one side and a scoop-front plunging neckline exposing both cleavage and belly button; and on and on. My 'friend' was right: This store had a very fun, daring, exciting collection of club-wear and party dresses.

Reasoning they would be on my body longer than the dress, I started with the shoes. I spied a pump, a simple sleek black satin D'Orsay pump, with a 4" heel and an ankle strap. The salesgirl mysteriously and majestically appeared at my side as soon as I held this shoe in my hand. Yes, they had my size. They looked incongruous when I tried them on, matched as they were with my casual wear, yet I could feel my calves and ass flex under my jeans, and reasoned with one of the dresses lining the racks behind me, I would look delicious.

With the shoes in hand, I next went looking for a dress. One caught my eye, a rose-pattern lace dress with four ties on each sides and even the spaghetti straps tied behind the shoulders to the back of the dress. It did not have a lining, my fingers almost visible under the nearly opaque and very delicate fabric. The dress I pulled out was two sizes too large for me. The salesgirl nodded approvingly, dug into another rack, and emerged with the same dress in my size. Both dress and shoes went with me back to find a dressing room.

I stripped down nude before slipping my new shoes on. I was right, the lines of the shoes worked well with my toned legs and ass. Putting the dress on worked best if I untied one set of the side ties, slipped the top over my head, pulled the rest of the fabric around my body, and then reattached the open side of the dress. The ties on each side allowed me to cinch and pull the fabric, to adjust and move my breasts, until the dress became a second skin. The back hem of the dress was just long enough to cup and hug around my ass, the bodice curved around my body, and the cinched side and shoulder straps lifted my breasts. Sitting down on the chair in the dressing room and facing the mirror, my cunt peeked out from between my uncrossed legs. Standing and approaching to the mirror, I could just barely discern the outline of my nipples through the lace. This dress was decadent to the point of indecency, was truly lingerie masquerading as eveningwear, and I loved it.

The salesgirl waited behind the counter, waiting patiently for me to emerge from the dressing room. She made mention of and motioned to a selection of chokers and necklaces displayed behind the counter. Initially dismissive, I noticed a set of satin chokers embossed with roses in a selection of colors. Accessories should always unite the shoes and clothes, as did one black satin choker embossed with black roses. Lightning struck thrice as they had my size, the salesgirl helping attach the choker snugly around neck. I faced the mirror behind the counter, pulled my hair back, moved my head side to side, and loved the look. The signal conveyed by such a thing would be as unmistakable as those sent by my ankle-strap pumps and peek-a-boo dress. The choker tightened around my neck as I threw my head back. I remembered June, how she had placed her hand there, on my neck, how I had placed my hand on hers, how she had gently squeezed, just as I had wanted her to.

Five hundred dollars later I had my outfit for the evening. Sometimes your body pays the price of passion; sometimes you get to use American Express. No matter: The bill always comes due.

I got home with 4 hours to prepare. I first set about preparing my body, cleansing myself inside and out, then removing any unwanted body hair, and then resting in a tub full of scalding hot water and rose-scented bath oil. I emerged from my bath, scented, slick, pink, and smooth. Body oil came next; in the same scent as the bath oil, to my neck and shoulders, to my arms and chest, to my breasts and tummy, to the full length of my legs and between my thighs, and in the furrow of the cheeks of my ass.

I let my body absorb the oil and exude the scent as I did my make-up, black matte kohl lining my eyes mixed black matte eye shadow a coal black eye lashes, clear gel shaping and defining my brows, and a luscious wet red lipstick applied to my mouth. My eyes would smolder beneath the mask, emphasizing my mouth. This is what I wanted. I remembered thinking that men probably thought June had the 'perfect cock-sucking mouth' and I wanted June and her lover to think the same of mine. I wanted him to notice when I talked and smiled, notice of my lips, to imagine them wrapped around his cock; when he looked at my mouth, I wanted him to see a cunt.

After using some gel to tame and style my hair into a loose French braid and quickly doing my nails in a red shade reminiscent of my lips, I noticed the time would not allow anything more than slipping my dress into place, locking my feet into my heels, and embracing my neck with my choker. My coat and purse stood ready by the front door, waiting for the call summoning me into the disturbingly dark night. I caught my reflection while walking around my apartment, walking off my nervous energy, and feeling the shoes the dress the choker constricting and exposing my body. My appearance was overt, conspicuous, and sexual. I looked like a whore. My body tensed at this revelation. My left hand moved from my side to between my legs, my dress came up as my middle finger found then rubbed my clit, my cunt clenching then flowering, opening itself to my finger. I had moved beyond being moist or damp to being slick and wet. I brought my finger to my mouth and tasted my arousal, realizing as well that I felt exactly as I looked, when the concierge called, announcing the driver had arrived.

It was a quick 15-minute ride up Eighth Avenue to June's Central Park West apartment, and then another couple of minutes in the elevator up to her floor, door-to-door in 20 minutes. Her apartment took up the entire floor, and I stepped from the well-lit elevator into the dimly lit foyer. The elevator doors closed behind me, delivering me into this dark recess, seemingly closing off my last means of escape. Just as I was about to call out her name, June appeared in the doorway, silently sweeping her right hand back, inviting me into her lair.

The gallery held scarcely more light than in the foyer, yet the ambient light gathered around her body, giving her an appearance best described as luminescent. Her frosted hair slicked black from her sharply angular face, her shaped and plucked eyebrows framing her sparkling blue eyes, the long string of pearls wrapped around her neck and dangling down between her breasts all served to draw attention to her mouth. With her full sensual lips coated in a gloss a few shades lighter and brighter than my own, she had done as I had done by presenting hers as the 'perfect cock-sucking mouth'.

I shook off my coat, handing this and my purse to her, which she placed in the closet to the right, thus giving me a full view of the beautiful gown she wore. The ivory silk of her dress flowed simply over her body, presenting new lines and surprises as she moved back and forth before my eyes. Dual triangles, little more than strips of cloth, hung down from the halter-top just barely covering her nipples and areola. The plunge of her gown exposed much of her flat, toned abdomen, the twin V's of her dress and the pearl necklace serving to accentuate the length of her body. Turning her back to me, I noticed the tie of her halter-top, long silk strings dangling between her shoulder blades, leaving her back fully exposed down to the supple curves of her ass. The open slit on the right side of her gown extended past her hip, completely revealing her leg as she moved back into the gallery.

She walked past me into the living room, setting herself down on the left side of the couch facing the gas lit fireplace. Bejeweled open-toed sandals covered in a silk matching her gown adorned her feet, ankle straps holding them firmly in place. The length of her heels matched mine, meaning she still had an inch on my enhanced height. I followed her into the living room, moving around the coffee table to take my seat on the other side of the couch, setting myself down like her on the edge of the couch with knees pressed together. On the coffee table stood a bottle of very expensive vodka, three tumblers, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and an ashtray. She pulled two cigarettes from the pack as I busied myself pouring us a couple of liberal drinks, she lit both cigarettes at the same time, handing me one as I passed her drink to her. We clinked our glasses together in a silent toast, both of us taking long drags on our cigarettes after, letting the exhaled smoke add to the room's atmosphere. We were alone, for the time being.

"I love your dress," she started our conversation, "something new?"

"Yes," I answered, "I got it just this afternoon at a boutique I found in the Village."

"Is that also where you got that?" She asked, nodding to my satin choker.

"Yes and the shoes." I said, nodding down to my feet.

She took another drag from her cigarette, perched it on the lip of her ashtray, and then leaned back into the deep plush couch. She crossed her left leg over her right, letting the silk of her gown slide over her legs. Her legs shined, her pearls lustrous between her breasts, and her eyes sparkled, all from the light of the fire. I smiled as I set my cigarette next to hers after matching her drink for drink.

"And your dress?" I asked, turning my body to face her.

"A shop in Madison" was all the answer I got from her. She switched subjects, "I'm pleased you're here."

Shooting her a look, I asked her "Pleased I am here or pleased with yourself that you got me here?"

She threw her head back and laughed at that one. "Both, of course! You want to be here as much as I want you here." She pulled her right to behind her head, resting back against her hand. With her gown cut from a single piece of silk, meeting at a point just above her left hip, her right side almost completely exposed to me. Her gown was as long and flowing as mine was short and form fitting, hers displaying her lithe and supple body while mine served to accentuate my curves, even the fabrics and colors we chose contrasted and complimented each other. That and we have very similar taste in shoes.

She was right, in a way, with her comment about me wanting to be there. I could not deny that once I decided to accept her invitation, I jumped in with both feet. "And who else is coming over tonight?"

"He'll be here later. Right now is just about us." She extended her right hand to me, holding my hand as we talked. I envied her ease in this, how she created this scene, how it matched her mood; and how she made things open and inviting, letting me evaluate things before I committed further than I already had.

"I almost didn't make it" I admitted, "I sat and thought I could just not be home when the car came for me."

If this surprised her, her expression betrayed no outward sign of this. "What made you want to come here?" She asked while looking away and taking another sip of her drink.

"Just that I wanted to make a choice," I said, "to decide for myself what would happen; I don't like avoiding things. I've never regretted what I've done, but I have regretted what I've passed up. Does that make sense? Besides, we're just holding hands and having a drink. We haven't done anything besides that."

"Yet" she finished my sentence for me.

"Yet" I agreed and laughed.

"And yes, I know what you mean. For years, the houses, the vacations, the clothes were enough. Then suddenly they weren't and I wanted out." She explained, surveying her surroundings. "I wanted to be single again, and I told him I was leaving. He threw a fit." She grimaced, remembering the fights while drowning the bad memories with another drink of vodka.

"Obviously you resolved your differences." I led her on with my statement.

"In a way, yes. He reminded me that our pre-nup would leave me single, and broke. I didn't want to be another middle-aged woman selling perfume or shoes at Bergdorf's that I couldn't afford," she sniffed at the thought, "so I stayed. He told me he didn't care if I had another life, so long as I was discreet and was there when he needed me. Having a social wife for charity balls and the like helps his career."

"What do you get out of this?" I asked, knowing she is smart enough to take care of herself.

"Isn't that obvious?" She laughed at my question, yet again answering my question with one of her own. "I get the houses, the vacations, the clothes, and I have my other life. He doesn't know, doesn't want to know, and I make sure nobody ever finds out. That was over 10 years ago, Susan, and I haven't regretted anything since."

I lifted my glass to my lips; it was my turn for a drink. While not the first married lover in my life, I marveled at how she came into this arrangement before creating her other life. I imagined her first tentative steps, placing discretion over enjoyment, until she established her own rhythm and discovered her own tastes. I smiled at her, bowing my head to her signaling both my understanding and admiration.

"What about you?" She asked, my turn to share.

"Nothing so dramatic as that," I said, "I didn't marry well and I married too young. We divorced when I was 25 after three years waiting for each other to change. I had 'bought' into what everyone else said I should do, and avoided making my own choices, until like you I wanted out. There wasn't a gilded cage keeping me there," I said with a sweep of my eyes, inferring that I recognized hers for what it is, " and I did become single, broke, and alone. But, it was my life to lead."

Part 2