Theodore Stickles: Prisoner Of Lust

Paula had stopped swimming years ago, only too aware of the effect of her body on others. Once a man had caught an eyeful of her in a bikini she knew he would never listen to her again without a mental image of that superb body superimposed on anything she might say, like a double-exposure blotting out any argument, any common sense, fogging his mind with a pink-tinged hint of patronizing prurience. Aw, you're too purty to bother your little head about things like that.

What in hell would the world be like if supreme court justices were interrupted in mid-argument- "But your honor, all that groovy white hair and all those deep thoughts inside such a handsome old head!"

And still that goddam little sneak of a man was slipping his great big sneak of a cock, his big fish, into her, out of her, moving so unobtrusively he probably thought he was stealing a cheap thrill from her sleeping body.

Even though it had been half an eternity since last she had sensed a man's magic working inside her, Paula could tell it was a very respectable-sized fish for so small a man. And it was coursing so steadily in and out of her cunt, poking her titillated pussy with the regularity of a metronome, of a heartbeat.

Whenever she stopped raging long enough to breathe she knew that no matter how she might hate it, her long-deprived body was loving it. Her cunt might be liberated but she could feel a faint flutter as of untried wings, like some bird too long in a cage and confused, frightened at the prospect of a liberty too free, a world too wide for weakened wings.

God damn it all, if she gave in to this fantasy she was going to be sopping in another minute. Already she could feel her prurient pussy pulsating in time to that steady thrust, could feel tiny drops of love's lubrication preparing her for something that was not happening, was not going to happen as long as she had anything to say about it!

But it was happening. Against her will she felt her rage soften until she could sympathize with him, whoever the poor bastard was, sympathize with his need, with the wild, throbbing rage of his long-deprived body. It seemed as if his honker had been sliding slowly and steadily in and out of her for at least an hour, moving with the calm regularity of a pendulum, uncaring whether that slow steady eroticism were to melt her will, melt her mind, turn her liberation into bondage and wipe its ass on her diploma.

Then he changed his rhythm slightly, stopping at the bottom of each deep stroke to grind his pelvis against the lush fur of her pubic bush, sending his rigid rammer around inside her, stirring her in deep circles, mixing her brains and her cunt into a passionate pudding of instinct that gave not a shit for all her preparation, her education, her liberation.

Oh god damn it! Was she ever going to get back to sleep? If only she could go one way or the other: either wake up all the way and go have a shower, douche the stickiness out of her crotch and go back to bed or, for Christ's sake, forget all this prurient foolishness and go back to sleep. Did she have to spend the whole goddam night mooning here half-asleep, half-awake?

She had a responsible position. She made decisions involving the lives of other people. She needed a clear head for her job. If this went on all night she would be so sleepy that tomorrow she would look up unexpectedly, would catch a pair of eyes devouring her, unable to conceal their naked hunger and if she were to look long enough into those eyes, Paula knew she was in danger of falling in.

Christ! It was easy enough to understand their need. They might be imperfect, incomplete, not especially likeable, but that naked need was not, at least not directly, their fault. But Paula… whose fault was it that she had gotten herself locked into this crazy situation?

Nobody's but her own, she knew. There was no real reason why she couldn't have a discreet little affair, providing she didn't flaunt it about or rub somebody's nose in it. But the trouble with having an affair was that somebody she really worried about might find out. Paula might find out.

And all her colleagues, all her friends, they wouldn't be shocked or mind-blown. Nobody would ostracize her any more than they did now. She would not be asked to resign from any professional societies. No; the penalty would be more subtle, more lasting, more totally and completely unbearable. They would all smile and be tolerantly amused. Amused, god damn them!

And god damn this sneaky son-of-a-bitch who was fucking her! God damn this indestructible dream! Sneaking in through the foot of her bed, up between her legs, and slipping it to her ever so slowly as if he thought he could get away with fucking a full-grown woman in her right mind, in full possession of her faculties, as if somebody could fuck the daylights out of Paula and not even wake her up. Still she struggled with that dismal half-awake, half-asleep sensation.

There was only one way to come up out of it, she guessed. She would let herself slip deeper into the fantasy, imagine him banging deeper, harder, faster until finally he provoked a trembling spasm and then she would be awake, humiliated and cheapened but awake and away from this denigrating fantasy. She kicked at the covers and threw her legs in the air, she closed them in a loving erotic scissors over a dream man and oooohhh wow!

It wasn't a dream, Paula abruptly realized. There really was a man between her legs. He had his cock in her and he really had been fucking her!

Still partly asleep, Paula was forced to amend her last observation. Not only had the faceless little sneak been fucking her-now that she had thrown her long straight legs in the air, kicked away covers and wrapped around a fantasy that was suddenly real-now that she abruptly knew it was a real flesh and blood man in there, a real flesh and blood cock sliding in and out of her-now she knew that despite her sudden explosion of movement he hadn't even hesitated in his steady stroking. He was still fucking her.

He must be in some kind of a trance. High on something, perhaps? She opened her eyes and the room was dimly lit. She could barely make out the outline of his head. His face was in shadow. She was still being fucked by a ghost but as she clawed her way back into full awareness she began to see a connection. It wasn't just some sneak who'd found an open window and forced his way into the next open window between her sleeping legs. In a way she guessed she must have invited him in. Not deliberately, nor even knowingly. As if they didn't always know…

This morning early. That had been when it started. No. It had started last night with a phone call from that fine-feathered son-of-a-bitch who'd gone out into a world that welcomed men, gone from his bar exam straight into private practice, moving every six months into a fancier apartment and working his way from a battered VW to a Mark IV. God damned smart-ass!

They had gone through law school together. Paula had graduated and gotten a job. In the time it had taken him to move from a VW to a Mark IV she had gone from nine to twelve thousand per annum.

And last night he had called.

Not that land of call, she had remembered. She guessed it had been years since he had wasted his time trying or even bothering to batter at a wall which- Anyhow, it had been strictly business. "That banquet thing, Paula." Before she could give him a proper blast he had hastened with, "I know you're not going. Neither am I or anybody in his or her right mind but there's a bit of PR to be done for the bar association."

Paula had still been ready to tell him to stuff it when she remembered that she was a lawyer after all, that it wouldn't hurt her career to be seen once in a while. "I'm tied up all afternoon and evening," she warned.