Friday Night, Saturday Morning

{Author's note: this story follows immediately on from An American Friday In London. It stands alone, but is enjoyed a lot better after the first one.)

Kathy and I have just enjoyed a moment of extreme intimacy. Not bad, given that five hours ago she was just a (pretty) face in a City bar. But I can see that already, as she comes down from such a powerful cum, the doubts are seeping in. Not surprising - she thought her Friday night would be spent drinking with her friends, not bent double in a luxury Docklands flat with a strange American woman lapping hungrily at her ass.

“You okay, hon?” I ask. The concern is meant to be fake, to keep things going, but I'd have to admit that, unexpectedly, I do care how she's feeling.

“Yes.” She doesn't look like she means it. But I've learnt in my six months here that you can ask the English almost anything (“how did it feel to lose both your legs?”) and they'll almost always reply “fine”, “okay”, “alright”. At first I found this stoicism a little irritating, but now I've come to appreciate it, as opposed to the life story, complete with gory details, I'd get back home.

Kathy is kneeling between my legs, topless, her creamy breasts reminding me how much more there is I want to do. I mustn't get this wrong. Her sense of discomfort may be increased by the rather inelegant way her skirt is bunched around her waist, and her knickers and pantyhose pulled down to her knees. It's how I want it, how I love it, but in the throes of what is, literally, an anticlimax, it may not be too comfortable for her.

“Why don't you freshen up, sweetie?” I ask. “There's fresh towels and a spare robe in the bathroom.” She nods, tugs her skirt down, hikes her underwear up, and heads off. It's a relief she's left her blouse behind. If she'd taken that there's every chance she'll come out fully dressed, all set for getting a cab straight home. As it is, unless she chooses to come out half naked, she'll have to use the robe. I've still got a chance.

A part of me is annoyed she's so upset. She hasn't actually done anything, for christ's sake, apart from remove (some of) her clothes. I've put all the hard work in, including providing my own orgasm. All she's had to do, quite nice you might think, is spread her cheeks for my pleasure. And hers, given the power of her orgasm.

But getting angry wouldn't work. (“How dare you not be happy! Stop being so silly and lick me out now!”) So I think about how delicious she is, how much she got out of the time we've had so far, and how we can both enjoy the rest of the night. She comes back in, wrapped in a white robe. Still no sign of a smile. I ask her to sit beside me on the sofa. She does, but a respectable distance away. Oh dear.

“Do you want to talk?” I ask kindly. I'm never normally this good at sympathy. I must really want some more action.

She mumbles a bit, then manages “I'm not like this, you know.”

“Sure you're not. None of us are.” She gives me a slightly contemptuous look, unimpressed by what she takes as my sophistry. I take it as a good sign she's showing some fight. “I mean,” I continue, “that I'm not a lesbian, just like you, and I'm not a pervert, just like you. But I think we're both people who like to feel good. What's wrong with that?”

She remains unconvinced. How can I recapture the mood we had before? “Tell me about your evening, Kathy. At least let me understand how you feel.” Hopefully by describing to me what's happened, she can get back into it. I look at her tanned ankle, a warm contrast to the white toweling of the robe. I want to stroke my hand over the curve of her ankle bone, up, up, under the robe, and feel her wet sex. Failure is not an option.

She searches for the right words to begin with. “I've had a pig of a week. Year, really. I was up for it tonight.” She pauses, confused. “Going out, that is. Getting drunk. I never in a million years thought this would happen.”

“Then some strange yank starts talking to you at the bar?”

“Yes. I did think for a second 'is she chatting me up?', but then I put it down to you being lonely.”

“And American.”

She laughs. Excellent. “Alright. And American. I'm from Liverpool, you know?” I know. “When Americans find out they always ask 'Do you know The Beatles?' Like one of them isn't dead and the other three aren't old enough to be my grandfather, living in mansions a very long way from the Mersey. You don't get that from any other country. At least you didn't ask that.” No, I got you to strip and licked your asshole instead. A lot less wearing.

“Then what?” I ask.

“Then, I enjoyed talking to you. I think we all did.”

“Did you think I was trying to pull you?”

“I wondered. Not most of the time, but sometimes. It did feel a bit odd the way you kept talking to me.”

“Nice?”

She pauses. “To be talked to, yes. To be chatted up? I was flattered, I suppose. God, I never imagined for a second we'd ever do anything.”

“What about coming here?”

I can see the recollection gives her a little pleasure. She gives a guilty little laugh. “I thought you were trying to pull me a bit more.”

“Was that good or bad?”

“I came here, didn't I?”

“So did it turn you on?”

She looks at her lap, but she's smiling. Things are going well. Where the robe joins at the top, I can see an inch or so of her cleavage. I've seen it all, of course, but it's nice to have it under wraps again. Like it's happening all over again. “I'll admit to a little buzz at the idea,” she says. “I never meant to do a thing, but it was nice to know it was happening.”

“And when we were here?”

“When we were on the balcony, I knew you were going to kiss me. I mean, the whole set up here, it's pretty overwhelming.”

“Did you want me to kiss you?” Both of us are whispering now, the tone of our voices a little lower. It's as if the same chemical that is causing my pussy to flood is affecting our voice boxes too. I can only pray it's having the same effect on Kathy's sex.

“I didn't mind,” she replies. “It felt like it would be the right thing.”

“And after?” Now we're getting to the heart of it. I'm very excited to hear how she felt during our rather unusual encounter.

“I hadn't expected much to happen, if I expected anything. Maybe just a lot of kissing, and a bit of groping. I don't know.”

“When I asked you to strip?”

“That was…strange. I got so turned on. But I was terrified. I think I thought you knew what you were doing, you knew it would be good.”

Somehow, without either of us apparently moving, we are both a lot closer on the sofa. I feel sure Kathy isn't getting her cab home just yet.

“What about…after that?” I ask, almost breathless. I've never heard the other side before.

“When you asked me to show you my bum, you know, really show you it, I was so embarrassed. I mean, it's not what I'd have expected, even if I'd been pulled, er, normally.”

“It's been a long day?” I am desperate for as much detail as possible.

“Right. I really did think my bum might have been…dirty.”

“It wasn't honey, it was beautiful. Perfect. Did you only feel embarrassed?”

Again, she pauses. “No. That was extraordinary. As I pulled my cheeks apart for you, I got so wet. I was really starting to burn. I could feel my heart racing. And I was thinking - sorry about this - 'yeah, look at it, bitch, look at it, smell it, smell my dirty bum.' I'm not into that sort of stuff at all. You know, shit and stuff.”

“Nor am I,” I reply. Her openness has really affected me. “What I am into, is a beautiful young woman,” right now everything tells me Kathy is the most beautiful woman I've known, “literally opening herself up for me, inviting me into her most private, secret realm, knowing how sordid it might be. I don't know why, but for me it's the most beautiful loving.”

We look at each other. Those beautiful green eyes. And then we are kissing. No hesitation, no tension, just a deep passionate contact.

Kathy pulls back. At first I am worried she has changed her mind, yet again, but the look on her face tells me she has other ideas.

“Would you like me to do you?” she asks. “You know, properly.” There it is again, that impish smile.

This isn't part of the plan. Suggestions from the other person never are. I don't care. “How old are you Kathy?”

She isn't fazed by my question. “Twenty-two.”

“I'd love you to.”

She kneels in front of me, and slips the robe onto the floor. A moment ago I thought she was the most beautiful woman I've known, but that image pales into the vision before me. Long straight blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, a warm coffee tan, creamy breasts and the same contrasting paleness where she'd wear bikini bottoms. I haven't seen her crotch before, and my eyes are drawn to the fuzzy mid-brown triangle nestling where her legs meet. She sees the direction my eyes have taken, and opens her legs wider, inviting me to stare as much as I want. I can see the moisture on her lips.

“Strip for me, Sam,” she says, parroting my own words from earlier. “Show me your beautiful body.”

I fumble with the buttons of my blouse, so desperate to get it off. (So that's why they fumble!) Then my bra, the straps slipping off my shoulder and my nipples suddenly pointing at Kathy's face. She leans forward and takes one in her mouth, lightly sucking and almost chewing it. This wouldn't be part of my routine, but it's driving me crazy. What an aperitif for the main act. I draw her face to my other breast, to cool and moisten the need I feel there. She is loving and attentive, but then draws back.

“Take the skirt off.” Another departure from my routine, but what catches me is the confidence in her voice. It's as if she's waited all her life to issue these orders.

The fastenings at the side of my skirt are quickly undone, I lift my butt, and slip $500 worth of Armani skirt into a heap on the floor.

On Fridays I like to wear a garter belt. It's uncomfortable yes, and sometimes it's visible, but it's part of the uniform and it usually feels right. Right now, in only my lower underwear and heels, I feel like a queen.

“Take your knickers off Sam.” Kathy's Liverpool accent sounds stronger. Rougher. I sense I'm enjoying being dominated by this young northerner. “Show me your cunt.”

My panties are pale gray Calvin Klein. (I have no problem mixing designer labels). Although the crotch is stuck to my quim with moisture, they quickly join the skirt on the floor. I open my legs at about 60 degrees to show Kathy my sex.

She is interested, her eyes unashamedly taking in the sight. It thrills me, knowing that a few hours ago she hadn't even thought of such a thing, and now she's enjoying it like an old pro.

“Lift your knees up, Sam,” she says. “Right up, to your tits. Show me your bum.” I pull my knees up to my chest until they are brushing against my hard nipples. In doing so, of course, my ass cheeks are pulled wide and flattened, leaving my asshole naked and exposed.

Kathy moves in, a little bit. A little blink suggests to me that, while she is showing confidence, inside she is crossing some difficult bridges.

Her face is now two or three inches from my asshole. I feel extraordinarily open, yet also supremely, almost totally, erotic.

“Tell me about your day,” Kathy says. For half a second I think about mentioning how the Dornus deal went down, but think better of it. She's a lovely brave girl, and I want to help her all the way.

“Got up at six-thirty,” I say. “Shower, that sort of thing. DLR to Bank. At my desk by seven-forty-five.” I'm finding this difficult. As for Kathy, it's been a long day, and I'm beginning to feel very self-conscious about my personal hygiene. Part of me wants to rush off to the shower, but the other part is relishing Kathy's closeness to my tired body.

“You've been to the loo?” So much for English beating around the bush. The loo, which I think comes from Waterloo. (A famous English victory against the French, if you don't know. Of course they had to have help from someone, on that occasion, ironically, the Germans). Water-loo. The WC, lavatory, but not the bathroom.

Yes, I've been to the loo. Always before I leave for work, but that doesn't count because I shower after. Then? Definitely, but I can't think when. It isn't the kind of incident that sticks in your mind. Not until now, anyway.

“A couple of times,” I croak. The tension is getting to me a bit. “I'm sure. You know, that kind of going to the loo.” It's funny how with my knees against my tits and a face inches from my asshole my confident conversational ability has dried up and I have turned into one of what I previously thought of as my victims.

“I know,” Kathy says. Her eyes are fixed on my stretched little hole. I am dying to ask “what can you see? what can you smell?” but I can't. I just can't.

Kathy is rocking a little, and I see she has slipped her left hand between her legs. Her frigging is gentle, controlled. It is a slightly bizarre thought, but I am struck by how confident my twenty-two year old lover seems to be now.

I am dying for some contact with my ass, my pussy, anything. Kathy licks her lips, a swift trace of her tongue. “Your bum is beautiful, Sam,” she says, and pokes her tongue out, straining, oh so slowly, towards my ass. Either she is drawing it out for erotic reasons or she is summoning up the courage.

Then, bliss, contact. A soft wet brush against the tightness of my crater. I am normally quiet during sex but I let out a deep groan. She continues to tease my asshole and it almost tickles. The sensation is of the exquisite kind that I want to last forever, but also want to build into a climax as quickly as possible.

Then I see that sweet tanned face move closer still, and Kathy's lips provide a fuller, more definite contact with my ass. She is quite urgent now, her tongue pressing against the firm muscle of my anus, seeking the area of least resistance. It feels as if she is licking me clean, and my mind encounters the dilemma Kathy mentioned to me. At least part of me is mortified at what I'm letting her do (or what she's letting me do?) but the other, overwhelming, part revels in the depravity. What was it?

I repeat Kathy's words back to her. “Smell it,” I say. I can't bear to call her 'bitch'. “Smell it. Taste it. Taste my dirty bum.”

Her free thumb moves up to my clit. I jump at the contact. Not surprisingly she is pretty awkward, a thumb and fingers rubbing across my button. But it multiplies the shock waves running through me.

I look in the mirror. I look truly obscene. My heels pointing to the ceiling, my body almost folded double, this is not a Sam I've ever seen before. I like her. She's exciting. More beautiful is Kathy, her head pressed tight between my open cheeks, her honey body rocking as her hand works her cunt.

And then she starts to climax, her breath heaving and her hand making slow tortured movements across her sex. I am thrilled that the experience of my ass has brought her to this.

I am normally slow to climax when touched by another (which is why I like to do myself first), but the sight of Kathy's orgasm, and the sensation of her tongue moving frantically in my asshole, begins my own eruption. It is an electric feeling, and as every inch of my body strains it feels as if Kathy and I are united, through the tender delicate link of her mouth and my asshole.

Kathy lifts her head. She is grinning furiously, the last thing I expected. I let my legs drop, aching from their confinement. She leans across my body. I know what she wants. The dirty kiss, something which I have possibly enjoyed in the past as the final humiliation. But the tables are reversed, and I don't feel humiliated, I feel hungry. Our lips meet, and my tongue is straight inside, searching every corner of her mouth, letting her know how passionately we share our dark taste.

Eventually we part. She is still smiling. I look at the cream of her breasts, breasts I haven't even held, let alone loved.

I look at the clock. Two a.m. We have only been lovers a couple of hours, and at one time I would have thought that Kathy and I had fully explored the depths of our intimacy. Something tells me that times have changed, and that this young, apparently innocent, woman, may take me to new levels.

The End (for now)