Chapter 5

I woke with the naked girl still pressed against me. My cock was soft again. It was just delightful lying there and knowing what I was feeling was real.

But I needed to hit the latrine, and based on last night, there wasn't going to be any morning delight, so I just got up and went to the bathroom. When I finished, she was still lying there, pulled into a modified fetal position. I admired her naked hip and bottom, picked up a pair of gym shorts off the dresser, and went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. I put the shorts on while it perked, and went outside to see if the paper was there yet. It wasn't, but it was a nice morning. The sun wasn't up yet, but was close, which at this time of year meant it was about six.

My mind went back to the bedroom. She was a different kind of woman than I was used to. That much was a given. It wasn't odd that she acted differently than other kinds of women. That wasn't stereotyping. There are many different kinds of women.

Sex is a biological urge. Left alone, we'd all have sex as often as we could find acceptable partners. Over the millennia, however, most cultures have recognized that having sex as early as the body wants it is counterproductive. So the optimum situation is for children to wait until sex is no longer counterproductive. Unfortunately, children only have a limited capacity for reasoning. So many adults attempt to prevent counterproductive sex between children, by teaching the child that sex is bad, dirty, unwise, or undesirable. It is treated like that hot pan on the stove. "No! Don't touch!"

That's fine for hot pans. The prohibition on touching them lasts a lifetime. Not so with sex, though. The problem is that all those adults who were so intent on stopping kids from having sex, never explained that it was the only way to get through the non-reasoning childhood times, and that when the child is all grown up, sex is fine, great, wonderful, and should be a favorite pastime. And if they do try to explain it, they fuck it up by saying, "Only after marriage, and only in the missionary position."

Some kinds of women never come into the adult world of sex. They have sex, but only from necessity, and feel guilty about it. Some women believe the part about how, once you're married, sex is okay as long as you follow the rules. Some women break the rules and endure feeling guilty about liking something other than missionary sex. Then there are a few women who figure things out on their own. They flaunt convention and just enjoy sex. It doesn't mean they're stupid about it (though there is a kind of woman who is), or that they'll have sex with anything male (though there is a kind of woman who will).

I had a feeling that Anna had figured things out. That was fascinating, because I had only met two or three of those women in my entire life. Sad to say, they had all been in committed relationships with other men. But they were still special, because of their basic attitudes. The woman who is hung up about sex is like an animal. She goes into heat occasionally, and will accept the male under just the right circumstances. But the woman who is not hung up about sex is "available" most of the time, instead of just occasionally. True, she might not be available to you, but you know she's available, and that makes her sexy. It's the secret of making millions selling magazines like Playboy and Penthouse. To millions of men, the look in the eyes of those models is "I'm available." Of course the difference is that the model in the magazine is also saying, "Are you interested?" The kind of real woman I'm talking about doesn't necessarily do that. She might tease a close male friend, because it's fun, but she's not a slut. She's just available ... to her man.

Anna had exposed herself to be ... available.

The problem was that I didn't have enough experience with such women to know if she was available to me or not.

I hear men out there guffawing, and saying, "Are you fucking stupid? She crawled into bed with you, you idiot." These are men who are looking at the situation like they look at a magazine model. The fantasy is that she's available to you.

But she's not ... now is she, guys? Yeah. Turn the testosterone down a notch, fellas. We're talking reality here. Yes, the indication that she's available to me is there. The signals are good. The stars are lining up. But it's not a done deal. And this resource is precious and rare. The last thing I wanted to do was blow it by doing the wrong thing.

What was agonizing was that I didn't know what the wrong thing was.

I sat there until the sun was too bright to be comfortable to my eyes. I stood up just as the guy who delivers the paper came driving slowly up the street, slipping papers into the blue plastic boxes attached to the mailbox posts. I walked out and he handed mine to me with a nod as he drove slowly by.

I went back in the house and found Anna sitting at her laptop, her fingers flickering across the keys like tap dancers. She was wearing a tank top and panties.

When in doubt, go for acting normal.

"Hungry?" I asked.

"Not really," she said, and kept on typing.

I thought about asking how she slept. I thought about asking, "What now?" I thought about groveling at her feet and moaning, "Pleeeeeaaaaase."

Instead I heated up the skillet and put some strips of bacon in it. When it was done enough, I added two eggs.

She appeared at my elbow suddenly. "How can you eat that? It's dead pig, and aborted chickens that came out of a chicken's ass."

"I'm at the top of the food chain," I said, on familiar ground again. "I get to eat what I want."

"Yuck."

I stepped away from her. The tank top said IF I HAD BALLS, THEY'D BE BIGGER THAN YOURS.

"You can't possibly think you're going to get away with that," I said.

"Get away with what?"

I reached out and pinched the top of the shirt between her breasts.

"Wearing this," I said.

"I'm at the top of the food chain," she mimicked. "I get to wear what I want."

I snorted and stabbed a strip of bacon with my fork. I lifted it to see if it was done yet.

"Don't you dare eat that yet," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because then you'll taste like bacon, and I won't want to kiss you."

"You want to kiss me?"

"I didn't say that."

Instinct whispered in my ear, and I listened.

I turned the stove off and moved the pan to a cold burner. I turned to face her, invading her personal space. She didn't back up.

"You want to kiss me," I said. It was a statement this time.

"Who says?" she argued.

"You did," I said.

"What I said was that if you ate that bacon, you'd taste like bacon. Are your poor decrepit old ears failing?"

I suddenly had a glimmer of what might be going on. If I was wrong, I was screwed. Well not screwed. Un-screwed, in fact. But she was too tempting, and I'd waited too long and my patience was at an end.

"My decrepit old ears heard exactly what you wanted them to hear, little girl. And now you're going to put up or shut up."

Her face was right in front of mine. Those lush lips were only inches from my own.

"You need to shut up right now," she almost whispered.

"I'm not going to shut up," I whispered back. "You are."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you..."

I didn't get to finish, because she kissed me.

The brain produces a substance called dopamine to control various functions within it. Say, for instance, your body tells the brain you need water. The brain sends a signal to the area that controls thirst and a little squirt of dopamine is released. Presto, you feel thirsty. Then, when you drink, the dopamine stops being produced, and that feeling no longer takes precedence over everything else. But sometimes there's a glitch in the system. If the dopamine doesn't get shut off, you still feel thirsty. In that circumstance, you can drink until you hurt yourself.

That kiss resulted in a dopamine release in the area that controls the urge to engage in things sexual. In both of us. And it blasted right past the little-squirt-of-dopamine stage of things, and went directly to the open-the-floodgates-or-the-damn-will-burst phenomenon.

Within seconds our bodies were welded together, following the example of our lips. Tongues flicked and heartbeats soared. Her hands went to my hips and pulled my cock (when did it get that hard again?) into her pelvic triangle, where she ground her own pubis against it.

My hands pulled her shirt up and she slid her arms out, but wouldn't stop kissing me long enough for me to remove it completely. I didn't care. Her breasts were hot against my chest. I slid my hands into the back of her panties and helped her rub against my prick.

A sound came from her throat, into my mouth, that turned on a fire hydrant of dopamine in my brain. I pushed her panties down and then my shorts. Her hand came down to grip my cock and squeezed it. She stroked it slowly.

I broke the kiss.

"Bedroom!" I gasped.

"Here!" she panted back, sinking to the floor on her back.

She bent her knees and removed her panties fully. Her knees opened and, completely unashamed, she exhibited her sex to her chosen mate. She was shaved as close between her legs as she was on her head.

Thoughts of bed flew from my head and I sank to my knees.

It had been a long, long time for me. Even longer since I had done it hard and fast and violent. But I sensed that was what she wanted. She wanted to be taken ... handled ... dominated. At the same time my brain registered that she didn't want to be used or humiliated. She was much too proud for that. And I didn't know how to do that anyway. It had never appealed to me.

So I sank down onto her. Her hand reached for my prod again, and she guided it where she wanted it. She teased us both by stroking it up and down between slippery pussy lips. I waited until it was right in the middle and then gave it to her hard, because I knew she was well lubricated. She barely got her hand away before it was crushed. Her grunt of completion was music in my ears. I strained forward, and heard skin squeak on the tiled floor as she slid. She bit my shoulder, but gently.