The yielding. It was what I waited for. It was the part of the whole seduction when I knew I had her. It was different for every woman, but it was unmistakable when it happened. No matter how long or short a pursuit, there came a perfect moment when she relaxed her vigilance and simply yielded. For some it happened with the first intense look, when they realized my attention wasn't simply casual. I could see it in their eyes, the way they gave permission to approach. It was in the way they smiled and let my words of enticement slide hypnotically into their ears.
With such quick wins, it was often difficult to continue the chase. Several times I'd found that I just wasn't interested in the very woman I'd cast my line to. It felt like going fishing and having the fish jump right into the boat. There wasn't any fight—no play, no challenge. It didn't even matter to me that with just a little effort I could be naked and sweaty, plunging deep inside a beautiful, lustful, willing woman. Sometimes the mere thought of how fast she'd peel out of her clothes had me turning the other way.
For years I'd honed the art, and learned to become the professional angler, so to speak. I'd seduced, bedded, screwed, banged, humped, and fucked more women than I could count, and that's without any bragging on my part. I'd had all types of women, from the virgin to semi-pro masters with a whole array of tricks up their sleeves. I never used to be particular, only insisting that she was indeed a woman—no drag queens and no minors—hard lessons both. My prowess cut across race, marital status, age, nationality, economics, size, endowments, profession and even normalcy—yes I'd done freaks aplenty.
But things had started to change. Little by little I'd grown weary of the sameness of my variety. It was like choosing dinner from a stack of take-out menus and never enjoying a true gourmet experience. Oh the routine was comfortable; I'd go someplace fun, pick her out, and woo her. Then depending on the type, we would either be spending time in fore-mentioned sweaty company, or she would put up a token resistance. Either way I would wind up with some form of satisfaction. These days, even a tease would give me something. Whether it was a handful of firm, naked breast, a deep erotic kiss, or even a frenzied hand job in the backseat of my car; I rarely went away completely unsatisfied.
But now, the tide was going out, and even though the fish were still biting as much as ever, I just wasn't as interested in rowing the boat. No, I didn't have that kind of problem; my pole was just as strong as ever, and I could fish all night if I chose. I just didn't care about halibut, grouper, or trout anymore, and not even a good swordfish kept my attention for long.
That is, until I saw Heaven. Yeah, that's her real name, and it fit her like a low-cut knit dress—definitely in red if we're talking about Heaven. Not that she'd wear that kind of thing, but she drew attention as if she had a choir of herald angels praising her arrival.
I knew the moment I saw her I had to have her—so did every other creature with a y chromosome within a fifty yard radius. It wasn't often I saw a woman like her in my world. I was all about clubs, bars, glitz, parties, penthouses, yachts, and fun times. Heaven was about poetry, grace, quiet, intimacy, introspection and peace. Not only were we opposites, but she was way out of my league. Still, for one night she was in my world, and playing by my rules—literally.
The club I was currently spending most of my time in had a dance contest. As one of the local players, I was one of those who was judging. This wasn't a couples dance contest, it was women only. It was a brilliant idea dreamed up by the owner, one that brought in the women who wanted to prove themselves on the dance floor. It also brought in the men to watch. The place was packed, and ninety-five percent of the "dancers" were strippers or wannabes who could bump, grind, and gyrate like professionals. Yes, several flashed ass and tits with the hopes that their display would win points where their dancing did not.
I'd already chosen my winner. She was a long-legged blond with a firm ass, bouncy tits, and some decent moves on the floor. Not the dance floor, the floor in the back room by the pool table, where she'd knelt in front of my chair and sucked my cock without even asking or introducing herself. Then she'd given me what might have looked like a lap dance to the most casual of observations, proving that the gyrations in her dance were good for more than just moving her mini skirt. I watched her as she smiled not so coyly at me, and I knew I could definitely tap that again if she won—and likely even if she lost.
But then the fabric of the universe tore open and Heaven took the dance floor. The place was packed, rowdy with horny drunks, and loud. But it got quiet as if everyone held their breath. It was like seeing a lily growing out of the sewer, or a Kinkade painting on a wall of graffiti. Like a white unicorn in a heard of wildebeests, or a hummingbird flitting through a landfill—she didn't belong. None of us could take our eyes off of her.
Leather, Lycra, sequins, and fringe made up most of the girl's outfits that night. But Heaven wore lace. It wasn't the kind of lace intended to give peeks at naked skin: she wore the kind designed to be pretty but still cover and hide. It was white. She looked like she was wearing a thin lace wedding dress that didn't quite reach her knees. The skirt floated around her, and the top fit her like a bathing suit, with thin straps holding it in place, like a tank top—no—more like lingerie. It was her shoes that really gave her away. She didn't wear the boots, sandals, or heels that everyone else wore; Heaven wore ballet slippers, laced up her legs.
Those legs – they were a work of art. Toned and beautifully shaped, they were her biggest expanse of bare skin, but for the ribbons of her shoes. I immediately imagined having them wrapped around my body as I violated her white dress. Once the thought got into my head it refused to leave. She was beautiful, she was feminine, and she was absolute perfection. I wanted her even before she started to dance.
When the music started it wasn't what was normally played at the club. It was a song I'd heard a time or two, but normally associated with freaks dressed in black, with dog collars, ankhs, and black rimmed eyes looking out from white faces. Evanescence sang "Bring Me to Life," as Heaven brought a hunk of me to life that I dreamed of burying deep inside her.
If she was beautiful just standing still, when she started to move she was indescribable. She didn't bump, grind, or gyrate; she floated, glided, and soared—she danced. Every woman in the place watched her own chances of winning go right into the toilet as Heaven was the personification of womanhood, right before our eyes. I could see the men were dazzled by her, and the women hated her guts, especially the blond who might squeak by with a distant second place even after screwing at least one of the judges.
If she had only danced ballet she wouldn't have won. It was a tough crowd, and the men didn't come to see pirouettes and plies. But she moved her body with the passion of the music. She exhibited artistry and demonstrated what a woman's body could do. Spins, leaps, back bends, and splits, along with a sensuous rocking of her body to the driving beat made it impossible to take our eyes off of her.
There were three of us judging, sitting front and center so we wouldn't miss a thing. She made eye contact with each of us, and I swear I had to talk myself out of jumping up and dragging her away by the hair to ravish her. Hell, I didn't want to ravish her, I wanted to fuck the shit out of her, and my cock was straining at my loose pants, just begging for the opportunity. It was painful to look into her enormous eyes, as I imagined they were full of need and desire. It was like she had read the lust in my mind and was thinking; "yeah baby, me too!" She had the kind of eyes that could drink your soul and come back for more.
When she finished there was applause. I mean thunderous applause, complete with wolf whistles and and rude propositions. Then Heaven curtsied, like she'd just performed for the queen. Her head came up and her eyes met mine, and my cock jerked in my pants as if she'd given it a tug—I'm not making this shit up!
I wish I could say it was a close contest. I wish I could say that the other two judges weren't just as blown away by her as I was, and I wish I could say that I worked my usually unfailing magic on her and got between those luscious legs. But it was 'hell no' on all three counts. First place prize wasn't some lame T-shirt or trophy; it was five hundred dollars cash. I almost had to fight the other judges for the right to award it to her, while they had to settle for giving the blond a hundred dollars for second place—fair compensation for the oral and the ride.
I tried to talk to her; to find out more about her and to work my charms on her. Usually my looks do a lot of the work for me since I stand out at six foot two. I wear my confidence like a cape, flaunting it and drawing appropriate attention to myself whenever possible. I don't waste my time on false modesty; I've been blessed with good looks. I work out, and I've had good orthodontics. Add to that a strong chin, blond hair and blue eyes – bedroom eyes – or so I've been told. I'd rather have a bedroom cock if I had a choice. And yeah, I've been told that too.
So with everything going for me, I couldn't for the life of me figure out why Heaven wasn't paying attention to me. Not only was she not giving me that sweet yielding that would let me know I'd be getting laid later; she didn't even seem to know I was talking to her. She'd attracted a small crowd, all surrounding her and congratulating her, and telling her how wonderful she was, and doing exactly what I was doing—getting shot down out of the 'hope I get laid,' sky.
The crowd seemed to scare her, and she frantically looked left and right before spying a gap in the mass of people. She made her escape before I could turn the power of my bedroom eyes (and cock) on her. Damn!
Well, I'd wanted a chase, but this was ridiculous. She vanished. I almost gave up when I saw her with the bouncer. She had her arm around his massive bicep and they were headed toward the door. I laughed out loud at my luck. Phil was a big guy, and we worked out together a lot. He had gigantic muscles, six pack abs, and a face that inspired women to fall at his feet. But Phil was gay. Not even just a little gay that could be called bi. Phil was pounded in the ass, cum-swallowing, ten on the scale, gay—and proud of it. He was also one of the times I'd broken one of my own rules. I knew from experience, he could give head better than most women, though I still tell him I was too drunk to remember.
What the hell was Heaven doing with him, and why did he leave with her? Not that she didn't have the power to turn a gay man straight, but why not go for the sure thing? Of course when I saw Phil come back about fifteen minutes later I knew she didn't take him outside for a quickie. Phil came back alone. Against my better judgment I sought him out to question him about Heaven, a name I only knew from the entry form.
"She just wanted an escort to her car; all the attention had her a little bit rattled, and she wanted to make sure she made it out with her prize money." He looked at me suddenly sly, clearly onto my interest in the girl. "She was impressive, wasn't she? I mean her dancing that is."
I ignored his baiting. "So, is she gone? I mean she drove away and everything?"
"Well, I didn't watch her leave, but I saw her get into her car—man what a piece of shit that was."
"Helping her out, or her car?" I wasn't tracking very well.
"Her car, dickwad. A big old black Buick, about a thousand years old. The thing was a broken down rust bucket on bald tires. I hated to see her get into the damn thing; it's like the door opened up and it ate her."
"So you didn't see her drive away?" I wanted to get him to clarify.
"No. I mean it was tempting to stick around to see if she needed a crank to start the thing, but I saw how restless the natives were tonight and decided to do what they're paying me for." He had some other comment about my interest, but I was halfway toward the door when he made it.
Outside it was hot. I mean it was sultry hot where all the sounds and smells seem to stick close to the pavement as if they were weighted and dripping with sweat. It smelled bad, like gasoline, cigarettes, heavy perfume and disappointment, all mixed up and stirred with a generous portion of cheap sex.
As if to make my point, I heard the unmistakable sounds of sex, coming from around the building where the parking lot's lights didn't shine. I almost ignored it, but the squeal of the woman's voice sounded like it could be from pain. I may enjoy a bit of vigorous sex myself, but the idea of passing by as someone was raped hit the pause on my agenda for a minute.
I stepped around a broken beer bottle and a guy sitting on the sidewalk. He was leaning against the building, and clearly he was going to need more than a little fresh air to sober up. The sounds became clearer as I got closer, and I heard at least two male voices along with the shrill of the girl.
I was wrong about the light. It sliced a narrow beam into the alley, perfectly illuminating the activity in all its detail. He'd laid a cardboard box out flat for their bed, and the girl was naked. Not just a little unclothed, but stark naked, including her shoes. I couldn't tell if she was willing or unconscious, and she was far too young for me to walk away
I took in the whole scene. She was sprawled on the cardboard, and her clothes were strewn around them. Her partner was a big, mixed race guy, and she looked tiny next to him. Maybe she was a co-ed from one of the colleges, or maybe she was one of the dancer's I hadn't paid much attention to. Either way it was unlikely she'd agreed to what he was doing to her. He had his pants down just enough to expose himself, and he was kneeling over her chest, holding her hair to position her mouth on his cock. He had to keep moving so he didn't choke her, and he was getting so worked up, he didn't see me.
"Get off her buddy, and I might let you keep your teeth." All he did was turn around and give me one of the dumbest looks I'd ever seen. He reminded me of a kid caught playing with himself, and I thought he was about to give me some lame excuse, like he'd just found her like that.
"Get outta here, Man, this doesn't concern you. This bitch is my girlfriend, and she's into it. Ain't that right baby?" He stopped what he was doing so she could talk. She rolled her eyes my way, and I could see she was conscious, but barely.
"Maybe she was into it when you started, but she's about two seconds from being out cold, and I'm not going to stand by while you rape her!" He let go of her then, and she managed to keep her head from hitting the ground.
"Then get the hell outta here; no one asked you to watch!." Clearly the little head was doing the talking for the big one; he sounded like a full grown dick. I stepped further into the alley and he stood up. He hiked his pants up, but not before I'd seen more of him than I ever wanted to. He made a critical mistake, and decided to take me on, rather than just leaving.
"Someone needs to teach you not to butt in where you're not want..." He and his mouth got within striking distance, and I hit him in the teeth, hard and fast. He stumbled backward and went down on one knee. Guys like that always expected me to follow some kind of rules of engagement. I never saw a reason to give them a fair warning. Once they started a fight, my goal wasn't to play fair, but to make them wish they'd left me alone.
My knuckles were bleeding, and I hoped he didn't have rabies; it's what I might expect from a dog like that. He got up shaking his head, and when he turned around I saw his lips were bleeding. Usually this was the point where a guy decided he had better things to do than fight with me. But this guy had obviously had too much to drink, and he wasn't feeling enough pain. He was pissed off, and he probably thought he had some kind of alpha male thing to prove.
He snarled when he charged me, and I grabbed him. Using his momentum against him, I threw him to the ground. He was up in a hurry and came for me again, but more cautiously. He threw a punch I easily dodged, then I hit him in the ribs. He threw another wild punch which missed. I stepped back, pivoting around to land a kick in his stomach. He doubled over and I kicked again, catching him in the jaw.
He went down hard, and she screamed. The naked girl stumbled over to him, and crawled over his prone frame.
"What'd you do? Is he gonna be 'kay? You didn't hafta hurt im!" She was kissing his head and patting his face, trying to wake him up. "You should be 'shamed of yourself. He wasn't hurtin' nobody!" The naked, drunk chick I'd just rescued from being fucked in an alley thought I needed to be ashamed? What the hell is this world coming to?
"Put some clothes on, before someone decides they want a piece of you." I thought for a second about helping her make herself decent, but when she spit at me, I'd had enough of her crazy. I had better things to worry about.
I was chasing a woman in a Buick; a woman in a Buick who was dressed in lace, and hotter than Habanero peppers on the sun. I took out my handkerchief and wrapped my hand. I left the mess in the alley, and went in search of the mystery woman—Heaven.
I wasn't sure if God loved me or hated me, but there was the car Phil had described. The Buick was huge, with the front bumper tilted at a crazy angle, and a ragged vinyl top almost completely deteriorated down to the rusted metal. As I watched it from the shadows of the building, I saw it rocking. It was the familiar rocking of someone getting busy in the backseat. I was painfully disappointed at the thought of someone else getting to Heaven before I did.
Maybe it was the show I'd just witnessed, but shamefully I crept toward the car, thinking maybe I'd catch them in the act, and maybe get a glimpse of the perfect woman doing sinful things with some lucky bastard. Yeah I admit it, even if she was banging some other man, I still wanted to see her.
A flash of bare white leg, and what I would swear was a perfect ass cheek flashed in the glass before it was covered. There was another movement and I glimpsed what might have been two perfect globes quickly fastened into a purple bra, and covered with a purple shirt. I'd missed the show. I wondered who had been so lucky, and I was trying to glimpse them when the door opened.
I jumped back into the shadow, and watched her. She was alone, though the backseat was covered with sheets and pillows, like it was a bed. She removed a gym bag and used a key to unlock the trunk, then had to wrestle it open. The trunk was stuffed with boxes and bags, and the gym bag barely fit. She retrieved her purse, and split the wad of cash she'd won between the pocket of her faded jeans, and a place in the depths of the trunk. She was smart that she didn't carry the money in her purse.
When she closed the trunk, she gave it all she had with a grunt, and a bounce of her breasts under the purple shirt she wore. If I hadn't been watching her in profile, I might not have noticed her tits. Not because they weren't show stoppers, but because they were natural and real, and rested against her chest like two little sleeping puppies in their innocence. They weren't too big or too small; they were perfect and blended so well with the rest of her they almost went unnoticed. Almost.
From my observation point, I noticed the way they jiggled. They didn't wobble, bounce, or sway, they were just perfect tits—firm and covered in warm, soft, skin. At least I imagined her skin would be warm and soft.
I got a more detailed look at her than I'd had when she danced. Now she was relaxed, with her defenses down, wearing her "real" clothes. My opinion of her didn't change, in fact it improved as I saw her natural grace and girl next door beauty. She was the kind of woman who woke up looking fresh, and rarely wore much make-up. She had long, dark hair, loosely curling and caressing the middle of her back, right at that sensuous curve some women have that made the waist of their jeans gap open when they moved. Before she pulled her top down after slamming the trunk, I noticed a thin strip of bare skin above her jeans. Nothing notable about it, but it was pale and perfect—no tramp stamp tattooed on the virgin skin. Lovely.
She opened the drivers door and sat down, swinging her perfect, slender legs inside. With the door open, she tried to start the car. From where I stood I could hear the engine barely trying to turn over, but it gave up trying even before it could get anyone's hopes up. This wasn't the little engine that could, this was 'there ain't no damn way' engine. She got that message loud and clear, and she banged her hands against the steering wheel before she buried her head in her arms and leaned against it. I thought I heard her crying.
I wasn't mechanical in any way, but I gave her a few minutes to herself and then approached, trying to behave as if I wasn't stalking her.
"Are you okay, Miss?" I leaned against the door, trying to look casual, and trying to make sure she couldn't miss my tall, muscular self, all dressed in expensive clothes and Italian shoes. It was shameless I know, but if a woman could get past my height, my muscles, my great smile, handsome face, blond hair, blue eyes, and sexy confidence, then she was almost always lured by the smell of money and success. It was like a shiny spinner to a fish—they couldn't resist it.
But they weren't Heaven. She looked at me this time. I saw it register in her eyes; she'd gotten the full effect. Then she turned away, almost angrily. "Please, just go away, I'm fine."
"Are you having some kind of car trouble? I could call a mechanic or a tow truck, if you like?" I could hold you and comfort you while you wait, I silently offered. I could lean you across that big backseat and nail you until you forgot you even had a car, I thought. A tiny (I hoped) smile sneaked onto my face as the thought wedged it's way into my head again. The girl just had that kind of impact on me. In my mind, we were kissing, mouths open, my hands moving deftly over her curves as I ground my hard cock against her soft pelvis. Right hand slipped under the purple shirt to unfasten the matching bra beneath, while the left squeezed her tit. She groaned.
No really, she groaned. "No thank you." She got up out of the seat and faced me. "Listen, I get that you're trying to be helpful and all, but unless you've got a spare engine for a 1975 Buick Electra hidden somewhere in the pocket of your Armani's, then you're wasting your time. I just want to be left alone!" My imaginary self's left hand squeezed her supple breast one more time, but the right was caught up, unable to work the clasp of the bra. Never happens to me in reality, but there I was, wanting to shuck her out of her top and bra in one swoop, just to see that marvelous dark hair cascade down her back when she freed it. But the stupid catch wouldn't budge.
"Are you sure? A woman shouldn't be out here alone on a night like this." I played the big, tough, defender, card, and she really did get pissed. As fast as I could smirk, she had her keyring with a can of pepper spray cocked and pointed at my face.
"Now you're just being rude! I neither asked for, want, nor need your help. If you don't take your candy ass away from me and my car, I'm going to douse you in pepper spray and kick your balls so far up between your shoulders you'll look like a hunchback!" My fantasy self not only couldn't get her bra off, but she smacked the left hand away from the promised land and pushed him away.
Just when I was thinking I'd struck out worse than I could remember since I'd bought my first box of condoms, she sighed. Well, not a sigh exactly but she exhaled loudly and ran her hands through her hair.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so defensive." She looked at me, then turned those big, honest brown eyes on me and didn't flinch. "Okay, I get that it may have looked like I flirted with you when I was dancing—but it was part of the show. I didn't mean to lead you on or anything, I was just trying to win the contest."
I think I would have preferred the pepper spray to the let the schmuck down easy, speech. Mostly because I've used a version of the speech countless times myself. "It's not you, it's me sweetheart..." or the one I relied on quite a bit, "I'm sorry if I lead you to believe I was interested in a relationship..." She was waiting for my reaction. This was where I would either get a sad case of boo hoo's, or get angry. At least that's what happened when it was a woman on this end. Sometimes it was best just to take it like a man.
I held my hands up defensively. "Fine, no problem. This is me leaving now. You have a good night Miss." I spun on my heel and walked away with my head held high, without looking back. I wanted to imagine her watching me leave, maybe checking out my ass. But that was a feeble attempt to rescue my ego, which was spiraling down in flames and trying to hit the eject button. She'd actually called me candy ass!
I had a strong urge to tuck my tail and just go home. But it was a Saturday night, and I never slept alone on a Saturday night. Besides, wasn't it always better just to get back up on the horse? I went back inside.
A/N: I've done a bit of editing on this chapter, thanks to a great reviewer who mentioned some things I could improve.