Drinks with Tamora
I joined Tamora in a nearby hotel bar. We had two drinks – she, a full-bodied wine, me, my customary scotch. “Are you still not smoking?” she asked. Tamora was dressed casually. She stresses about my preferences, about pleasing me, about disappointing me. She’s not particularly submissive (to me), and finds the intensity of my desires in this vein somewhat vexing. She looked sexy, though, and felt sexy. I can’t say enough good things about how her ass feels, through denim, through cotton, through just about any fabric.
“Yes,” I answered, perhaps not entirely helpfully answering her not entirely clearly posed question.
“I’m not smoking,” I said, “but I’d like it if you had a cigarette,” I said. “I could kiss you, and inhale the smoke from you. And I’d like that.”
Tamora had raised the possibility of another woman’s joining us this evening, but there was no one handy. (I had tried, briefly, with a woman I don’t believe I’ve written about, but it wasn’t going to work.
We discussed Rachel – Rachel and I hadn’t yet been together intimately, for one, and she doesn’t have sex with women – and doesn’t seem particularly interested – for another. The night before, it turns out, Tamora had gotten her pussy fix, if not entirely satisfyingly, with a friend. “Why didn’t you bring her tonight?” I asked.
“She left town today,” Tamora said.
Tamora was curious to hear about Rachel. We talked. My hand grabbed her ass. Her hand grabbed mine. We rubbed each other’s thighs, in the bar. The heat was ratcheting up slowly. Tamora’s body is, as I’ve written, spectacular, even as it’s not my “type.” She’s my height. Maybe an inch shorter. She’s broad. She’s soft. Not at all fat, but soft, in the most delicious, fun, way – with firm strength in the softness, as well. Her flesh just feels spectacular to the touch. And the touching was just beginning, when I said, “Let’s go have that cigarette.”
Tamora headed outside while I stopped at the men’s room. She texted me, “I’m out and to the right.” Just a few moments later, I joined her. Her cigarette was halfway done. I grabbed it and took a grab – it’s been almost a year since I smoked, and I was feeling secure in my not smoking. “I like you a lot,” I said, “but I like cigarettes more.” (This is true, honestly, of all but two or three humans.) I do, however, like Tamora a lot. We have easy, fun conversation, and share much in common. We might well be friends in real life if we weren’t friends in this funny, odd way. Facebook has suggested her to me as a friend more than once.
So anyway – we were standing there on the street, she smoking her cigarette, when we became aware of a couple arguing, just a few feet away, on the sidewalk. The woman was crying, yelling, the man, pleading. “Leave me alone!” she yelled. “Don’t touch me!” They were doing a sort of back-and-forth dance. Tamora thought they were drunk – I didn’t see it that way. But back and forth they went, her, trying to get past him, him blocking her way, approaching her, as she backed away. I briefly told Tamora of a night a year or two ago – one I thought I’d written about here, but that I can’t find evidence of now – when I’d, on my way home from a date (with Isabel, if I recall correctly), chanced on a man beating his wife on the street. My cabbie and I had intervened, the police had come, and the wife thanked me profusely by e-mail weeks later, telling me she’d left the fucker. So I was about halfway through this story when it became apparent that the scene we were watching was crossing from a benign spousal argument to something darker. I don’t think I excused myself, don’t think I made a conscious decision, but in a flash, I was between the man and the woman.
“Back off, guy,” I said to him. I’m not a huge guy. I’m about 5’8″. My shoulders are broad, though, so I’m a big 5’8″. But I’m not huge. He wasn’t either. On some level, I’m sure I did some calculus that I could take him, even though I haven’t been in a fight since seventh grade, other than being sucker-punched once by an unstable coworker about twenty years ago. But I didn’t consciously think. I was just in there. Now the three of us – the husband, the wife, and I – were doing a sort of dance around the street. She was trying to get past him, he was blocking her, and I was blocking him from getting to her.
I tried to calm the guy down, but was getting nowhere. Another guy – a doorman for the hotel – joined the fray – and I pulled back to call 911. Even while trying to be helpful in the fracas, I was navigating a difficult 911 call (it seems 911 operators can’t dispatch the cops to a hotel without knowing the street address of said hotel – the name, at least for this operator, wasn’t enough). Soon enough, the cops arrived, and Tamora and I melted back into the hotel.
“Do you want to get another drink?” she asked.
“No,” I said. Unwisely. “I want my cock in your mouth.”
And we got in the elevator, and headed upstairs.
The rest of the evening is, as my sexual interactions often are, mostly a haze. It was all oral, and very linear. I went down on Tamora; she went down on me. I collected more orgasms than either of us could count. We managed to offend our neighbors, who, at one point, banged on the wall. High praise, I say, even as I feel just a little guilty. Tamora’s insanely fun to eat out, because her pussy, her body, is so tremendously responsive. As I told her, some women have a “trick,” one way they absolutely must be touched in order to come. Some women are highly sensitive – not too fast, or too slow, or too hard, or too soft, please. Tamora’s none of these things. She just fucking loves it all. My tongue on her clit, fingers in her cunt, thumb in her ass, palm on her abdomen, hand grabbing, twisting, kneading, squeezing her tits, all of it – it’s all good for her, and she came over and over and over. I would have liked to go until she begged me to stop, but I grew self-conscious following the neighbors’ complaints.
And then, my cock was in her mouth. Tamora’s mouth is expert, soft, warm, wet. Mouths vary widely in feel, independent of technique. Tamora’s mouth is a fine, fine place for my cock to spend an hour or two, and I couldn’t have enjoyed myself more, even as I wasn’t quite as hard as I often am, as I might have preferred to be – mostly for her, not for me. Was this because of the adrenaline from the events on the street? Maybe. Because Trump? Most likely. I haven’t, actually, been all that hard in a sexual encounter since the Tuesday after the first Monday in November.
I don’t know. My semi-tumescence didn’t detract from my enjoyment in the slightest, and as she sucked my cock, we talked about possible threesomes we might have soon.
At length, I came deep in her throat, and we lay back on the bed, talking Trump. We continued to connect as well as we always do, and, eventually, I was on my way.
That night, I only got about 3.5 hours of sleep. But it was well worth it.
Well worth it.