The door was rattling. We could hear (we couldn’t not hear) loud laughter and conversation just feet away. The rattles were followed by knocks. I slid my cock out of her, holding on to the base of the condom, leaned back a bit on my knees, and opened the door.
“Do you guys want to play?”
It was the second-hottest woman at Le Trapeze – a tiny African American woman with a big, wide smile, and the cutest little breasts.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re closed for business.” She looked disappointed. But not as disappointed as her big, muscular, boyfriend.
I closed the door and slid my cock back into Luna’s wet cunt.
The laughter and conversation outside the door continued. It was loud. I hate this aspect of Le Trapeze – the proximity of sexual interactions to non-sexual interactions often is toxic for my erections. And in this instance, we also had my wounded ego, desperately craving its first orgasm from Luna.
The door rattled again. There was another knock. My cock had begun to soften anyway. I was no longer fucking Luna, but was encouraging her to lower her mouth on me. This time, it was an attractive white woman at the door, the companion of the Venezuelan guy close readers of my history at Le Trapeze will remember as the (now, evidently, ex-) boyfriend of the bespectacled hottie I fucked in September of 2012. (A correspondent had actually e-mailed me that the Venezuelan guy was no longer bringing “Glasses” – I hadn’t been to Le Trapeze in six or seven months, but there’s at least one regular reader among the regular attendees of the place, and he keeps me posted on big developments.) “Wanna play?” she asked.
I shook my head apologetically. “Sorry,” I said.
When we had arrived, we had taken a walking tour of the place. Luna was daunted – “that guy’s getting a blowjob!!!” she had said in the front room. Moments later, when I snaked my hand up her short, white skirt, and pressed it into her dripping pussy, she said, “He’s watching!” I’d promised her limited exposure to the public areas.
But as we’d walked through, she had captured the, um, attention, of just about everyone there.
Now, every time I opened the door to our private room, whether it was to answer a knock, or to go get a glass of water, I had the sense that the hordes were licking their lips, hoping for a turn with her. She locked the door while I was gone. I imagined the lock not holding.
In general, the folks at Le Trapeze are respectful. They ask, and they accept “no.” There is one notable exception: an Indian guy in his late 50s, whom I mentioned once before. We never got close enough to him for him to do anything than leer. But his leers have an intrusive, almost violent and threatening, aspect to them. (Last week, I mentioned being tempted to leer at Steve. Let me just say here, in anticipation of a longer post on the subject, that my “leers” are really “brief glances,” and that they have none of the menace that permeated this guy’s gaze.)
I would come back to Luna, after venturing out, and we’d pick up where we left off. As I wrote before, Luna’s orgasms have been elusive to me thus far. This night, there were (I think) a couple. Well, one, (mostly?) for sure. I directed Luna to get herself off for me. I noticed that even as my cock would soften regularly in the face of the noise, in the face of Luna’s hunger for me to fuck her, watching her touch herself made me even harder than holding her mouth down on me (which, to be clear, felt really fucking good). So I watched Luna make herself come, watched her close her thighs tightly together. I was trying to pay attention to what she was doing, to how she was touching herself. But honestly, in the dark light of the room, her pale round breasts and her face, her lips in a permanent pout, held my eyes away from her pussy. It was the top half of her body that had my attention.
But there she was, her legs pulsing shut, squeezing around her hands, her face contorted. Had she come? She was quiet. She convulsed like she was coming. She made a little noise. I wasn’t sure. She took a break, though, and her pussy was very sensitive.
I don’t remember the order of things. I know Luna spent a lot of time sucking my cock. I know I spent a lot of time licking her pussy. I know that I learned a lot about her pussy – that her clit’s very sensitive, that licking it really isn’t what it craves. What her clit wants is gentle, constant pressure, while her pussy has two or even three fingers filling it. Her cunt responds best to slow, gentle movement, not to flicking, or pulsing. But I have the sense that her brain responds more to violent, rough fucking. (We didn’t do much of this – I wasn’t the rough fucker I occasionally can be.) I really was focused on learning my way around her cunt, gently, slowly.
Many women have pussies that are, for lack of a better word, “easy.” It’s generally easy for me to discern, almost instantly, what feels good, what’ll get a woman off. Luna isn’t this way. I don’t know if it’s because of her WASP-y reserve, or what, but I have a hard time discerning just what feels good, what feels better, what feels best with her. I feel like the lesson I learned this evening – that she needs to be filled, and that her clit needs not so much to be vibrated as to be pressed – was hard-won.
At a certain point, she asked me to put my mouth back on her pussy. This was a surprise: she had said she’s not really into receiving oral sex. Was this a gift to me? Did she genuinely enjoy the demands my mouth had been putting on her cunt? I don’t know. And then, did she come? Her thighs squeezed hard, her pussy definitely clenched around the two or three fingers that were in her as I pressed my tongue against her clit, as I pressed my other hand hard against her pubis.
I don’t know if she came then. I also don’t know if she came while she was riding me, my thumb on her clit, while she was begging me to get up and fuck her, missionary, which I was refusing to do. It just felt too fucking good to have her riding me. I wasn’t prepared to give that up. I had fucked her missionary earlier, choking her, but not choking her hard enough, or long enough, in retrospect. She had asked me not to leave marks on this evening, and this requirement was prominent in my brain throughout.
I know that, after a while, we adjourned to the little public sitting room outside the locker room, where we took in the passing attendees, in the glare of the lurid porn on the TV.
Finally, we made our way to the locker room. “I don’t work out in gyms that have locker rooms like this,” she said, as if I were subjecting her to an indignity beneath her station in life. She clearly believed I was. But she also fucking loved it.
We went for a slow walk on Madison Avenue, just a few blocks, before heading our separate ways.
