After Midnight (19 page)

The pub was busy enough that there was a steady hum of conversation, which for me was a good thing. Suddenly I couldn't think of a thing to say.

Marie regarded me with an amused expression. “Oh, fuck this,” she said suddenly as the rings reached halfway down my pint. She moved around the snug to sit next to me. Her solid thighs pushed against mine. One of her hands grasped her pint; the other reached down and rested on my own thigh, where her fingers made circular forays around its inner surface. Lightly they tickled, moving slowly in ever-widening spirals, down to my knee and up along my inner thigh.

She started talking: a long rambling story about a friend of hers who was mugged on holiday in Dublin. The words floated over me as I concentrated on those fingers, long skillful fingers, tracing patterns on my jeans.

I stayed silent, willing her to continue, hoping her fingers would drift higher. When her thumb brushed the seam of my jeans, over my cunt, I let out an involuntary gasp. She didn't let up with her story, but I heard the smile in her voice as she continued her tale while her thumb moved slowly to and fro.

I widened my legs slightly and her gentle frottage continued. My jeans were loose enough that she was able to move the seam back and forth and make the thick material press the side of my clit. Each press left and the ripples grew, each press right and my orgasm swelled. My hand clenched on my drink, and I focused on breathing slowly and evenly. I was going to come, and I didn't want the whole pub to hear me screaming, see my head jerking from side to side as my face flushed as dark as the blackcurrant cordial in Marie's pint of lager.

Just as my breath was hitching and I was gulping air, just
before the final big swell when the world would turn crimson, Marie stopped. She withdrew her thumb, moved farther away on the bench, and took a deep draught of her pint. My heart thundered, and I wanted nothing more than for her to continue. I wanted to beg her to push me over the edge, and if I screamed, well, so what? I was beyond being careful. When she didn't move back to finish me off, I dropped my own hand between my thighs.

Her hand snaked out, and grasping my wrist she forced it back to the table. “No,” she said, in a voice of steel, one that had made many a junior houseman quail. “Not until I say you can.” Her hand moved and clasped mine. “Now it's your round, I believe.”

Her grin told me she knew exactly what she was doing. I took a few deep breaths, trying to slide back down from the edge of orgasm. I was afraid to move, afraid that if I walked to the bar, the friction of my jeans between my legs and vibration of my footfalls would be enough to set me off. When the urgency had eased, I stood up and headed for the bar. I thought about going into the ladies' room to bring myself off with my fingers, but the promise in Marie's eyes made me think again. I'd wait.

But I needed to pee, so I did go into the toilet. Dipping a finger into my cunt, I made sure it was fragrant and wet.

I collected the drinks from the bar. When I returned, I ran a casual finger around the rim of Marie's glass.

She noticed immediately, and her eyebrow lifted. “Trying to entice me, Maggie?”

“You don't slide off the hook that easily.”

“Oh, you don't need to worry about that.” Deliberately she set her lips to the rim and took a long sip. “Delicious!”

After that, our conversation flowed easier. By the time closing time rolled around, I was more than ready to leave. It was a
mild night, and we linked arms and started back to the nurses' home. London traffic rolled by, at one point coming perilously close to skimming my hip. As we neared the hospital, Marie pulled me off to one side, down one of the alleys that led into the back of the hospital. Away from the lights, and enclosed in the narrow lane, it was suddenly much darker, much quieter.

We didn't say a word, but our walk became an amble, and then our feet slowed and stopped. Her arm, which had been linked through mine, withdrew before wrapping around my waist. Our faces moved together, and then we were kissing. Long, slow kisses, wet and passionate, grew more intense as our passion rose. Her tongue slipped slowly in and out of my mouth, mine dueled with hers, and our hands made slow forays over each other.

My hands reached her buttocks, those same ripe buttocks that had tempted me all evening, and I cupped them, grinding her into my thigh. She seemed as eager as I, and our movements grew increasingly frantic. Marie's hands fumbled and grasped my wrists. She pulled my hands away from her body and pinned them over my head. She pushed me against the wall, her solid body trapping me. In the dim light her eyes glittered, and her voice held a stern air of command.

“Now, you do as you're told!” she said. “You junior nurses think you know it all. Time you took some lessons from your seniors.”

Exactly what “lessons” she intended teaching was very clear.

She captured my lips once more, kissing me deeply and forcing my head back sharply so that it hit the brick behind me. Her thigh forced my legs apart, and her hips ground rhythmically into mine. For a moment I struggled against her restraining hold. Not because I wanted to break free, but for the excitement of feeling her strong hands effortlessly holding me in place. I
thought of those same hands holding me down on a bed later.

“Now,” she said when she came up for air, “I'm going to let you go. But if you don't bring me off with your tongue in the next few minutes, you'll regret it.”

I mentally gulped.
Here?
I thought.
She really means here?

After freeing my hands, Marie moved to the waist of her jeans. She undid the snaps, then she pushed down her pants. I caught a glimpse of black cotton bikini panties barely visible against her bitter-chocolate skin, and then they were gone, pushed down with her jeans. I forgot about her panties as I saw her dark wiry bush, tight curls hiding the plump cunt mound. She pushed her jeans to her knees and spread her legs as best she could.

My fingers itched to slide into her wetness, but she'd said “tongue.” I dropped to my knees on the tarmac, and ignoring the hard surface, I slid my hands up her thighs. Her scent reached me: hot, female, and very, very aroused. My thumbs brushed her pussy lips and she jerked.

“I said tongue,” she growled, and she reached down and pulled my hands above my head again. Jerking hard, I toppled against her, my nose in that beautiful black bush. Nuzzling my way down, I parted her lips with my tongue, seeking out her clit. She was slippery-shiny and wet, and her moisture coated my cheeks and chin. I ate her as best I could in my position. My neck and shoulders ached, and her grasp on my wrists increased to near pain. But her taste was intoxicating, as were her own murmurs of satisfaction as her orgasm approached.

Just when I thought my neck would break from the strain, I heard footsteps down the laneway. I tried to rise, move away, but Marie held me effortlessly in place.

“Don't stop!” she whispered.

From the movements of her hips, I sensed she was close to
coming. The footsteps came closer. And then—thank God—Marie came, pushing her cunt into my face. Her orgasm rushed hot and salty over my tongue. As her shivers died away, she released my wrists and pulled me to my feet, wrapping her arms around my waist. We kissed hungrily again, my body shielding her disarrayed clothing from view as the unknown footsteps went past.

She put her clothing to rights, and we continued on, into the hospital grounds and up to the nurses' home. By unspoken agreement, we went to her room. It was the first time I'd been there, and I saw she had put the bed in the corner, underneath both sets of windows. Her room was on the fifth floor, so it was high enough to see out over the nearby lights.

Marie went to a cupboard in the corner and poured us each a glass of ruby port. Drawing me over to her bed, she sat against the wall, cradling me in her spread thighs, my back to her breasts. I sipped the sweet liquid and shivered as her hands came up to caress my breasts. In contrast to her earlier force-fulness, she was gentle, and she opened my jacket and rubbed light, teasing circles around my nipples. I arched into her caressing hands, enjoying the sensation and soft stimuli. When she unbuttoned my shirt and pushed up my bra, her hands on my bare breasts felt amazing. Nurses' hands are often rough from vigorous washing, but hers were supple. I looked down at the erotic contrast of her dark hands against my white skin. I have large breasts—too large, I often think—but in her hands I felt they were just right.

When Marie turned me in her arms and kissed me again, I was putty. She slipped off my clothing, unzipping my jeans and impatiently pushing them down. Swiftly she removed her clothing, throwing it haphazardly on the floor. Naked, she drew me down to lie on the bed. The city lights of London washed over
us through the uncurtained windows, painting our skin with a kaleidoscope of reds, golds, and yellows.

Time moved slowly. We'd had the teasing, had the power play. Now, strangely, our loving moved along the scale to tenderness. Marie kissed my breasts, her dark head moving from one to the other. I ran my hands along the curve of her waist, out to her flaring hips, before dipping between. She opened her legs, and my finger insinuated its way into her hot, clasping cunt. For a few minutes, we stayed like that—me with my fingers moving slowly in her cream, her with my nipple between her lips.

Then Marie took charge once more, settling me firmly on my back and coaxing my legs apart. She crouched between them, her face dropping between my thighs, and finally I felt her tongue slide between my pussy lips. I was so horny from before—from the pub, from the laneway, from her hands and mouth on my breasts—that it only took a few flicks of her tongue before I came explosively.

Then, as my cunt relaxed, I felt her fingers probing. Three, maybe four fingers slid inside me, stretching me open, filling me with that delicious weighty fullness, a beautiful ache. Her thumb rubbed slowly to and fro on my nub, and the rolling waves built again to a shivering crescendo.

I stayed with her that night, and for many nights thereafter. Marie was an adventurous lover, and the thrill of potential discovery was one she enjoyed. Often she'd make me eat her in front of her wide windows. It was unlikely that anyone could really see what we were doing up there on the fifth floor, but the potential that maybe, just maybe, someone was watching never failed to bring her to a loud climax. Sometimes she'd make me bend over in front of the window while she fucked me with a strap-on. But other times we'd just spend long hours on her bed, exploring each other with slow mouths and hands.

We dated for nearly six months—a record for Marie—and then I got a position in the local hospital in my hometown in Ireland. It was hard leaving Marie, but I was pleased to be going home. We made the usual promises to stay in touch, but inevitably after a few letters and phone calls, we lost touch.

I still hear about her occasionally, through a friend of a friend, and she's done well for herself. She now heads up the surgical unit in a prestigious teaching hospital in Scotland. Sometimes I daydream of going over and walking into her hospital, trapping her in her office, and eating her out in front of a bunch of wide-eyed junior doctors.

I think the exhibitionist in her would enjoy that!

 

 

 

 

 

S
he kisses my scars when we make love.

The smallest is a thin line just above my left eyebrow, from a high school basketball game. One of the opposing players swung an elbow into my face as I went up for a shot at the bottom of the key. The pain was sharp, but I didn't realize that the skin had split until I reached up to brush the sweat off my forehead and my hand came away red.

Head injuries bleed hard. Makes sense, I guess—there's a lot going on under there. Thousands of tiny pathways crisscrossing back and forth, over and under, like a cloverleaf on the interstate. All of them throbbing in time, in harmony…and in the next second, broken and gushing. But I don't even remember the pain as clearly as the surprise: the sudden knowledge that, really, anything can cut. At the right time, in the right place, even a misplaced elbow can take four stitches.

The swelling faded after a few weeks, but the scar is still there
if you know where to look. And she does. Her lips trace it a few times, drawing out the memory of rupture then soothing it back to sleep under my skin. I close my eyes and exhale slowly, feeling my body conform to the contours of the bed. Her mouth is soft and will not break me.

She kisses down the length of my nose and pauses at the left corner of my mouth. My fist clenches as her tongue flicks lightly across my lips. They part for her—but she is moving on, across my cheek to suckle on my earlobe before trailing her mouth down the side of my neck. I tilt my head to make it easier for her, and she hums against my collarbone.

Her teeth gently nip at the skin where my neck intersects my shoulder, and my body shifts restlessly against the soft blanket. The touch of her mouth is a thread of fire radiating out from the soft licks of her tongue. Sewing me together—across my shoulder, swirling over the light bulge of my biceps, tasting the indentation of my elbow.

When she pauses there, I can't help whimpering. It's so very sensitive. My toes flex—down and back—in time to the movements of her lips. I'm about to beg her to touch me, but she finally moves on, raising my arm so she can run her tongue along the strip of thick, pale skin just beyond the joint.

I fell off my bike, that day. I was eight years old and gangly, lacking the grace to save myself. Hit the asphalt hard with my hands, and they burned. I remember turning them over, seeing the tiny pieces of asphalt embedded in my palms like flecks in marble. Didn't even feel the gash on my arm, until my mother's shrill exclamation. Even then, it was only a dull, persistent throbbing, matching the low roar of the car's engine on the way to the ER.