Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Sex Toys, Slow,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - An erotic author's brief confrontation with a mysterious stranger changes her life.
I sat alone at my usual table, completely absorbed in the flashing flex of my fingers across the keyboard of my laptop, oblivious to the surrounding din of casual chat and coffeehouse sounds; my thoughts were focussed entirely on the flow of words from my brain as I struggled to write the pictures in my mind.
Lena leaned in closer to Aidan, her slender fingers trailing up the length of his strongly muscled leg; his cock twitched as her touch approached, anticipating her caress...
"Hello," his voice was low-pitched and dripping with charm; I looked up from my screen, blinking furiously, trying to focus. "Hi, so sorry to interrupt but I just had to come over and talk to you. Mind if I sit down?"
I shook my head automatically, still slightly stunned at being torn cruelly from my work. Across the table the blond-haired stranger seated himself and smiled broadly at me. He was lucky he was cute, because I felt almost murderous. My smile was faked.
"I don't usually do things like this," he continued quickly, pulling my empty teacup towards himself and pouring from the fresh pot he'd brought to the table, his movements were smooth, studied, and precise. My anger was slowly being replaced by my insatiable writer's curiosity; just who the hell was he and what the hell did he want?
"It's Earl Grey," he explained, pushing my now full teacup back my direction. "The girl at the counter said that's what you drink."
I nodded, watching wordlessly as he poured himself a cup as well, fixing his tea with the same brisk efficiency with which he poured it.
"I'm Douglas Meredith," he said, flashing me a white-toothed smile. "It's nice to meet you. I really hope you don't mind me introducing myself."
I shook my head, again automatically. For years it had been my job to be nice to people, but since I'd quit the 9-to-5 rat race three months ago to write full-time, I'm afraid my social skills had become a little rusty.
"I'm in here every day before my shift and after," he explained, continuing smoothly on in the face of my stunned silence. "And I see you here all the time. So the last time that happened I decided that the next time I'd approach you, buy you a cup of tea, and ask you what you were writing, because you always seem so into it; I'm just dying of curiosity about you."
I sat open-mouthed as he talked on.
"My friends keep telling me I need to stop obsessing myself with the mysterious girls I meet and just settle down with someone nice and normal, but where's the fun in that, huh?" His laughter was husky, and this time I smiled almost genuinely, caught by the infectious sound. I ignored the fact he assumed I wasn't normal.
"But there's just something about you sitting here, working away on that damn thing," he gestured towards my laptop; the screensaver had come on and I closed the lid with a gentle click. "That piques my curiosity. So maybe some day I'll settle down with that nice, normal girl; but in the meantime I just have to know you who are."
Laugher bubbled up in my chest unbidden. I'd never had such a whirlwind conversation with anyone in my life. My head reeled as he leaned across the table and smiled broadly at me again; his eyes were a dark, cerulean blue with little crinkly lines around them. He looked tired, but happy. My own sense of curiosity was buzzing behind my annoyance.
"Well," I said slowly, watching warily as his smile never faltered, "it's nice to meet you Douglas, I'm Imogen Wallis."
"Imogen," he rolled my name around his tongue like he was tasting something foreign; his handsome face was unsure. "I like that."
"Thanks," I laughed. I'd heard every odd response to my even odder name over the years.
"So," he asked, looking suddenly like a very earnest boy, "what are you writing."
I took a long sip of my tea; it was excellent, as always. I couldn't help the sly smile that stole across my face. "I write fiction."
"Really? That's wonderful! What kind of fiction?" Douglas' handsome eyes were brightly blue.
"What do you do for a living?" I asked softly, watching as his face lit up with pride.
"I'm a doctor," Douglas smiled.
"Really? That's wonderful!" I echoed. "What kind of doctor?"
"Paediatrics," Douglas said; the look on his face was so happy I instantly knew he was very aware of how good at it he was. "I work down the street." He gestured in the general direction of the local children's hospital, which had a stellar reputation; I was mildly impressed and he knew it.
"That's lovely, Douglas," I smiled politely. I was really very happy for him, but Lena and Aidan were floating about the periphery of my mind and in mid-coitus; I had to finish the chapter before I lost it. "Good luck with that. Thanks for the tea." I flipped my laptop open, scrolling down to where the half-filled page of writing mocked me.
"Can I read it?" Douglas asked brightly. "I'm sure it's very good. Are you published?"
I sighed, resisting the urge to growl with frustration. "Not yet," I said quietly. "I'm trying to make my first deadline, actually."
"Oh!" Douglas chirruped happily. "How's that going for you?"
I clenched my teeth and prayed for patience. "Not very well, I'm afraid."
"Ah well, it's not like its brain surgery!"
I plastered a simpering smile on my face as Douglas chuckled, overly pleased with his own joke.
"So, can I read it?"
I sighed resignedly. "Sure," I said and I spun my laptop around to face him.
Aidan watched silently as she rode him, her long blond hair lashing against his thighs as she threw her head back with abandon. The muscles of her pussy gripped him tightly, massaging his generous length with determined vigour.
"Ah, Lena," he gasped with pleasure, "you're so fucking tight." He reached forward and strummed her clit quickly, feeling each spasm of her enjoyment all the way down to his toes.
"And you're so big," she sighed in response, moving slower atop him, relishing in every stroke of cock within her, sensing her orgasm approaching. "You're going to make me come."
Douglas turned my laptop back towards me, his face pale; he stood up abruptly, unable to hide the growing bulge in his chinos or the look of revulsion on his face. "That's disgusting," he spat out, giving me a dirty look. I hitched my chin up another notch and smiled sweetly as he stormed away, brushing rudely past other patrons on his rush to the door.
"Actually," said a smooth, dark voice from over my shoulder. "I think it's great."
I spun about in my chair so fast I just about fell off of it; seated at the table behind me was a dark-haired man with a week's worth of scruffy beard and a sexy smirk. I glared at him.
"I mean, she's obviously enjoying Aidan very much, that's just the way it should be. Personally, I love it when the woman is on top."
My eyes just about popped out of my head; around me the noise in the room waxed and waned and I sat in shocked silence.
"I- I'm sorry," I stammered, blushing. "Were you reading over my shoulder?"
"Might have been," the dark-haired man shrugged, brushing a wayward lock of shaggy hair out of his eyes; I tried to ignore the fact they were very nice eyes, just the colour of melted milk chocolate.
"I- I... I can't believe you would do that!" I cried; my embarrassment morphed into anger. "What I'm writing is none of your business!"
"Even if I like it?" He smiled crookedly and I fought the urge to smile back. I had to remember that I was mad at his invasion of my privacy, even if he was complementing my writing. Every writer loves a complement and the look in his eyes told me he knew it.
"Y-you like it?" I asked, hating how unsure of myself I sounded.
"Yeah, it's hot. But you forgot a semi-colon about a half-dozen paragraphs back, just when Aidan is reaching for Lena's bountiful breasts for the first time. Plus I think you might have spelled fellatio wrong on page thirty-seven."
I slammed my laptop shut, ignoring the curious looks of people at the surrounding tables as I stood, throwing my laptop and notes into my bag. My violent movements spilled my tea and sent my teaspoon clattering across the floor with a musical tinkle.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" I muttered savagely, trying not to attract any more attention. I scooped up my jacket and bag with a flourish and turned sharply, desperate to put as much distance between me and the dark-haired stranger as possible.
"Imogen, wait!" he called as I threw open the door to the street. I apologized softly as I bumped into a lady on the sidewalk before concentrating all my energy into putting one foot in the front of the other as quickly as possible.
"Wait!" I could hear his approaching footsteps on the pavement behind me. Tears welled up as I frantically prayed for my short legs to move faster; I all but broke out into a run. "Wait, please." He grabbed my arm, and I yelled at the contact, jerking fiercely from his grasp.
"Leave me the fuck alone!" I shouted, all too aware as passers-by starting giving us a wide berth; just what did is say about society when they all ignored as I was accosted in the street?
"Please Imogen," he pleaded, releasing my arm. He looked sad and slightly guilty. I fumed. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help it."
"You know my name?" I spat out, shaking with anger.
"Well, I overheard you talking to that jerk," he said weakly by way of an explanation.
"So you were reading over my shoulder and eavesdropping, that's really nice. What are you, some sort of fucking Neanderthal? Haven't you heard of common courtesy?" I cried. I wanted to slap the little smirk off his cute face.
He grabbed my arm again more gently than the first time, although no less firmly. "Whoa, wait a minute. I'm not the one writing dirty stories in crowded cafés in the middle of the afternoon. And it's not my fault I heard that pompous ass talking to you! I'm pretty sure the entire café could here what he had to say."
"Let go," I growled, trying to wiggle out of his tenacious grasp without dropping my bag containing my precious laptop.
"I'm not letting go until you let me apologize," the stranger said firmly. "And you're making a scene."
I stopped moving and watched self-consciously as people eyed the two of us warily. Clearly they thought we were having a domestic spat; I blushed. "Fine, apologize and let me go."
He nodded. "I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have eavesdropped and I shouldn't have read your story," he said straightforwardly. "I did really like it though." He released my arm gently and I immediately felt the absence of his warm fingers; the ghost of his touch stung my arm.
"Yeah," he ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair and managed to look sheepish. "I really didn't mean to read it, but a few choice words caught my eye." He smiled crookedly and I smiled back without thinking. "Can you blame me? I'm a guy, I don't always think with my head. What would you have done if a cute girl was sitting beside you writing things like that?"
I opened my mouth to retort but nothing came to mind. Truthfully, I wasn't really shocked he'd peeked or that he'd said something to me because of what he'd read. I'd been writing erotica online for months and had had responses from every sort of weirdo; what was one more? Mind you, he was the first weirdo I'd encountered in person and he was a terribly cute one to boot. I tried not to look as flustered as I felt; the key to these people was to remain aloof.
"Okay, fine. Thank you," I said as dismissively as possible. I turned to leave.
"Wait, Imogen." He touched my arm again; the feeling was becoming familiar and I didn't like how much I enjoyed that. "Can I at least buy you a drink, you know, as an apology."
"No thank you," I said stiffly. I started walking towards the park; he followed.
"So who's your publisher?" he asked. "They're very lucky to have scooped you up."
I tried walking faster, but he just lengthened his stride to easily keep pace.
"Honestly, I do a lot of reading, so I know good stuff when I see it. Apart from a few problems with grammar and punctuation I think it's great and I can't wait to read the whole thing."
I came to a dead stop, whirling about to face him as he drew to a halt centimetres from me. I had to tilt my head up to look him in the eye, and once more found myself cursing my petite stature. "Look buddy," I jabbed his broad chest with my finger. "I'm not some random, slutty chick to be picked up off the street. Just because I write what I write doesn't make me that sort of girl, and if you hadn't been so rude as to invade my privacy you probably wouldn't have given me a second thought. So I'd really appreciate if you'd fuck off now and leave me alone."
His handsome features were composed beneath the dark starting of a beard. "Trust me, I'd have given you a second thought, even if I hadn't read what you were writing," he said lowly; there was an edge in his voice which almost made me feel bad for being so rude to him.
I snorted. "Yeah, right."
There was a quick flash of fire in his chocolate brown eyes before he leaned down and kissed me hard; my toes curled in my sandals and my knees quaked as his hot tongue thrashed against my own, but before I could think to put up a fight he turned and strode rapidly away, leaving me panting and bewildered on the sidewalk.
"What is it? National Asshole Day?" I yelled after him, stunned by the turn of events and mad at myself for the little thrill which had gone through me when our lips met. He didn't acknowledge that he'd heard me and I realized as I watched him round the corner the next block up and disappear that I didn't even know his name.
When I walked back into the café the next day I could have kicked myself for being disappointed that he wasn't there. I approached the service counter with a guilty smile; behind the gleaming marble counter was my friend Becky, who'd starting slinging coffees there a little more than a year ago, she was wearing a teasingly vexed expression.
"What was that about yesterday?" she asked with a chuckle as she made my tea. "Who were those guys?"
"Well the blond one was some doctor from down the street," I waved my hand dismissively. "But I was hoping you could tell me who the dark-haired one was."
"Cute, kinda shaggy?" Becks laughed. "No clue, he comes in here a few times a week and orders a double espresso. Actually, I think he might be a writer, he's usually armed with a few manuscripts and a notebook."
I tried not to look surprised. "Well, he might be cute, but he's an ass."
Becks giggled. "Why do you say that?"
I recounted the previous afternoon's events, from his reading my story to his eavesdropping to the startling sidewalk kiss; the look on Becky's face was precious.
"He kissed you? Right there on the street? And walked away? What the hell?"
I couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, and to top it all off, I was up half the night thinking about it. I couldn't even write." I didn't tell her that all my fumbling attempts at resurrecting the love scene between my heavily muscled Aidan and busty Lena were wiped out by the mental image of the dark-haired stranger between my own legs. It had been a little disturbing to say the least.
I settled myself at my usual table, pulled out my laptop, and flicked it on. The half-empty screen of my story wavered blankly in front of me, mocking my every attempt at finishing what had begun so promisingly the day before. But nothing worked, and Aidan, Lena, and I remained unfulfilled. Finally, after two hours of staring at the screen, typing six words, erasing them, and then retyping some other crap over and over again, I gave up and went home for the day.
Day after day continued in much the same manner and my deadline loomed large. I screwed my courage to the proverbial sticking-place and called my editor Linda, who grudgingly granted me a few days reprieve when I lied and told her I'd been sick. The only sickness affecting me had been a gloomy, uncharacteristic malaise brought on by thinking too much of the dark-haired man and drinking too much tea while I waited for the writer's block to pass.
"Can you come by the office today though?" Linda asked her voice cheerful. "There's a letter here for you."
"A what?" I croaked in disbelief.
"A letter Imogen, it's what people used to send each other before email. It's here on my desk." Linda sounded amused. "Someone slipped it through the mail slot last night."
"Sure," I agreed. "And maybe we can talk about those revisions to the initial chapters that you suggested."
"I'll pencil you in," Linda promised brightly.
The subway ride to Linda's office was long and tedious, but it wasn't like I was getting anything accomplished sitting at home suffering from writer's block. So Linda and I had our little chat, she gave me a few pointers on my struggles with punctuation, and I left feeling better about my book and in possession of a small white envelope with my name scribbled across the front in a bold, dark hand.
I took my new-found enthusiasm for the publishing world and my letter to the park down the street from Linda's office; sitting on a bench in the shade I ripped open the envelope hastily.
Use a semicolon between closely related independent clauses not joined by a coordinating conjunction. When related independent clauses appear in one sentence, they are ordinarily connected with a comma and a coordinating conjunction (and, but, or, nor, for, so, yet). The conjunction expresses the relation between the clauses. If the relation is clear without the conjunction, a writer may choose to connect the clauses with a semicolon instead. A semicolon must be used whenever a coordinating conjunction has been omitted between independent clauses. To use merely a comma creates an error known as a comma splice.
And it's fellatio — two l's.
Linda tells me the book is scheduled to be released next July; I look forward to finally reading it.
I dropped the letter like it burned me and sat in stunned silence, my brain whirling furiously. I picked it up and reread it twice. There was no signature, no return address, nothing to indicate who'd written it, but I knew and I wanted to kick him in his smug shins.
I reread it again, hating every black stroke of ink which snaked confidently across the page. And then I wanted to kick myself for not realizing it sooner; he knew Linda.