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Strangers of the Flesh | www.ed-rex.com


Strangers of the Flesh

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  • user warning: Table './edadmin_drpl1/captcha_sessions' is marked as crashed and should be repaired query: SELECT status FROM captcha_sessions WHERE csid = 0 in /home/edadmin/public_html/sites/all/modules/captcha/captcha.inc on line 155.
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  • user warning: Table './edadmin_drpl1/captcha_sessions' is marked as crashed and should be repaired query: UPDATE captcha_sessions SET timestamp=1508627138, solution='eU3F2T' WHERE csid=0 in /home/edadmin/public_html/sites/all/modules/captcha/captcha.inc on line 137.

More new/old fiction, more smut. "Strangers of the Flesh" is frankly pornographic and was written as an attempt at seduction. The target quite liked it but we lived in separate cities and nothing ever came of the flirtation. I originally posted it to a private journal back in May 2008. Click below to read it, but — again — it contains graphic sex and language. If such things offend you, avert your eyes (or don't click).

Strangers of the Flesh

(Originally posted to a private journal on May 25, 2008.)


You step down off the streetcar and wonder just what the hell it is you've gotten yourself into. Never trust strangers; always meet in a public place; always tell someone where you'll be. All the fears that come of being a woman, all the lectures, the well-intended advice, the rules - suddenly they all seem to make so much sense! You've travelled three hours by bus, to an unknown city, to meet a man more than twice your age and with the full intention of using him to shed your virginity.

He's told you that he's sane, he's told you that if you have second thoughts you can say "Stop!" and will will stop - but he would say that, whether he meant it or not, wouldn't he?

The streetcar rumbles away, and you double-check the street-sign against the crumpled note you've scribbled. You're at the right stop. Cross the street and then turn right, it's just a half-block away, he'd told you. You gnaw at your lip, hesitating. The neighbourhood looks rundown, not safe, though there are people on the sidewalk and nobody's getting mugged.

"Well. I've come this far. It's go on, young Yasmin, or run all the way back home to Kingston."

You wait for a break in traffic, take a breath, and cross.

The building is long and low. It looks old. You push open the heavy steel door in front, wishing it were glass, an entrance that suggested welcome rather than defence. The vestibule is small and dingy, but cleaner than you'd feared. There's a long mirror on your left and, neurotically, you check your hair, wonder whether to do undo one more button or to do one more button up. After a moment's hesitation, you choose the first option; We've been talking for months! And if he is a lunatic, one button isn't going to make much difference!

You turn to the buzzer panel on your right and locate number 105. "Hart, D," reads a tilted sign beside the number. You take another breath - This is your last chance to back out, Yas! - then press it. After a brief moment, through an ancient electronic crackle you hear a voice calling something like, "Come on in!" and the door buzzes. You pull it open and step through.

Again, what you see is better than you had feared, not as good as you had hoped. A staircase rises to your right. Straight ahead, a long, dimly-lit hallway beckons. The carpeting is worn, but clean and you will your feet to move, to carry you toward your destiny. The over-wrought term makes you giggle and so serves to ease your nerves, if only a little.

You are about halfway down the hall when a door opens ahead of you. A head peaks out, followed, with a strange delay, by a body. Dark suit, pin-stripes, you realize in the dim light. He waves, then simply stands and watches you as you approach.

He smiles softly. "Yasmin. Welcome." He reaches for your back with his right hand, lays his left upon your hip and guides you through the door, lightly brushing the back of your skirt as he releases you and turns to close - and lock - the door. The sound of the click is ominous, though you realize the mechanism does not require a key from the inside.

His apartment is dimly lit. Candles flicker on the counter which separates the kitchen from a large living room. Low music, not quite jazz, not quite funk, plays from somewhere beyond the light. A long couch lines the far wall, a love-seat sits below the small window. There are painting on the wall, but it is too dark to see much of them.

"Now" - you'd almost forgotten you weren't alone; the slow-moving bass, the flickering light; your own disbelief in what you've dared, have conspired to lull you into a momentary belief this is just a dream of daring, rather than the real thing. David's hands on your shoulders dissolve the illusion like a mirage. "Now, let me look at you."

He holds you gently but firmly, turning you so that you shuffle clockwise until you are facing him. For a moment he simply looks at you, staring into your eyes.

He's not the man you'd fantasized about. Of course he's not. Not as tall, not as dashingly handsome, not an English nobleman. But there's a friendly knowingness in his smile when he finally offers you it, and his eyes betray - maybe - at least some of the tension you're feeling. He doesn't look forty-three, but you remember he told he people usually think he's 30 and you smile inside at the lies people will believe about themselves.

"Usually when I have guests, the first thing I do is offer them a drink."

"But now?"

He draws his right hand slowly the side of your throat, then along your cheek. His left hand too now leaves its perch on your shoulder, to glide down your arm, fingers spread wide, and comes to rest with his thumb just next to your nipple, not quite touching it.

"But now I think we need a different kind of ice-breaker, young Yasmin."

And he leans slowly toward you until his mouth is only an inch - a centimetre - from yours. "A better kind." He busses your lips, just a hint of contact at first. Then he kisses your upper lip, holds it; and your lower, holds it between his just a little longer. His thumb starts to draw small circles on your breast, brushing the base of your nipple, a teasing, intermittent movement. You begin to wonder if he too is afraid, if he does not after all know what to do, or when he wants.

As if hearing your doubt, he kisses you full on the lips. Not hard, but insistently. His tongue pushes between his parted lips and begins to stroke yours in delicate, horizontal dabs, as if begging admittance rather than demanding it. You open your mouth, but only a little. Doesn't he want me more than that?

As if in answer, his right hand takes hold of the back of your head. He presses his mouth against yours and his tongue, once a feather, is now a blunt spear. His teeth nip at your lips, and his free hand holds your breast fully in his palm. He squeezes it almost cruelly, sinking his fingers deep into your flesh.

He kisses you hungrily now, and drops his hand to your back then, without breaking contact with your mouth, forces your body round and backs you against the door. His right hand has found your ass, and he strokes and squeezes you in some complex rhythmic counterpoint to the motions of his mouth, his hand on your breast, fingers that have found your nipple and are, alternately, stroking and squeezing it. He presses himself against you. His penis is hard, straining against his pants, as if to escape - or as if it wants to be free to hunt for you.

He pulls from your mouth and kisses your bare throat, sometimes nipping, sometimes almost sucking, sometimes just drawing his tongue along your flesh as if each pore provides a new taste, a new and delightful texture.

You wrap your arms around him, you scrabbled beneath his jack and pull his shirt from the waist of his pants. "I can wait for a drink," you whisper.

"Good girl," he says and you find his skin at last. His back is smooth and warm, his skin is firm and at first you simply explore it with your palms, running circles up and down on either side of his spine, even as his hands are now both upon your hips and, in tandem, sliding down your legs, seeking the hem of your skirt, then slipping beneath it to rise again, his palms now touching your bare skin.

You gasp when you feel his fingers take hold of the waist-band of your panties. Is this it? Is he just going to fuck me standing against his front door? Yet you don't struggle as he crouches, face now pressing against your crotch, only your thin skirt between it and your pussy, which - despite your doubts - is already nearly overflowing with your anticipation. He pulls your undergarment down to your ankles, then takes your calf in his hands, lifts yours foot and gently sets in on the bare floor, the repeats the process with the other.

"You won't be needing these again until you leave." Grinning, the small garment dangles from his hand. He takes a single step back, leans in quickly, kisses your nose, then nearly pirouettes before he tosses it onto the counter. "Would you like something to drink? Something to eat?"

Even in the dim light you see that his penis is as hard as it was when he pressed it against you. And your body is just as aroused: your slit is moist, your nipples engorged, your heart beating as fast as if you'd run up a few flights of stairs.

"It's not going anywhere, is it?"

His smile widens and he shakes his head. "Come into my parlour then, young lady." He offers his hand, pulls you towards him then steps behind you when you acquiesce. He drops your hand and steers you by your hips toward the closed door that conceals his bedroom.

A wall of books faces the door. Candles, already lit, cast multiple shadows. David bids you stop in the centre of the room, he turns you around, then drop his hands from your hips. "Kneel."

You look at him, mouth open, hesitating. He takes a half-step toward you. "Kneel."

"Is this like that bad born you're always complaining about?"

He smiles; you think he suppresses a laugh. "You should know me better than that."

"I don't know you at all. It's all been words and mirrors thus far; they might all have been no more than internet lies so far as I know."

"And yet, here you are, about to be ravaged in a stranger's room."

Ravaged? "No, not really strangers," you whisper hastily, as if hoping that saying it will make it so. "We've shared our words and our thoughts for months; we're only strangers of the flesh."

"Maybe so." He takes off his glasses, folds the arms, turns to place them on a low shelf beside the door behind him, then returns his attentions to you.

"Now kneel, Yasmin. We'll not be strangers of the flesh much longer." He reaches down and undoes the clasp of this trousers. His cock bulges along his thigh, "It's for your own good." His voice is affectless; you could read in it threat or boredom, you cannot tell.

"And if I don't?"

"You don't want to find out."

Your heart beats harder; an acid fear washes through your belly. He said he would stop if I said "No"! Torn between your fears and your desire, you consider calling a halt to this ... experiment. And yet, you fear that he will stop almost as much as you fear that he won't.

You bow your head and kneel.

He steps forward. His crotch hovers less than an arms' length from your face. "Start with the shoes." You glance up. Shoes!? "Untie them. Then. Take them off. Simple, really."

You obey. You undo his laces, the pull the shoes from his feet.

"Now the socks. Just pull them down and toss them aside."

Okay. Socks. This isn't quite what I had in mind, but what the hell. He never told me he had a foot fetish ...

As you pull down the second sock, you hear the rip of a zipper descending. When you look up, his penis thrusts from the open fly. From so close and from such an angle, it looks even larger than its over seven inch length.

Though you've never before touched a cock, you've watched enough porn: you know what to do. You reach for it, now more curious than aroused. But he grabs your wrist. "Pants first." You look at him, to make sure you understand what he wants. He nods, and you pull his slacks to his ankles. He steps from them, then lifts your hand again.

"Just hold it a moment, get to know it a little." Gently, as if you might break it, you wrap your fingers around it. It's warm and dry, firm but giving on the inside, only skin on the outside. "I'm going to fuck you, Yasmin. I'm going to fuck you with this." He drops his hand to the top of your head, strokes your hair, then gently eases you towards his cock. "I want you to get to know it," he says softly, as the mushroom-cap head brushes your lips. You don't need to be told what to do. You open your mouth and jerk forward, but he pulls you back, tugging on the hair you now realize he has taken well in hand.

"Slowly, Yasmin. Just a taste, for now." He pulls your hand from his shaft, replaces it with his own. He lifts it toward you mouth and you take the head his penis between your lips. "Watch the teeth." He presses is deeper inside. You feel the head bump along the roof of your mouth, then tickle the back of it. You start to worry about your gag-reflex. Your hair is wrapped round his fingers like reins; it would hurt if you forced yourself free.

But he stops pushing. "Do you like that, Yasmin."

You nod, Yes! and his cock slips from your mouth. Such a strange pleasure, such an odd intimacy. You smile, eyes downcast and staring at the floor. "Yes, I liked that, David."

He lets go of your hair and bends to help you to your feet. He pulls you to him and kisses you, deeply but tenderly, his tongue stroking those places his penis had just been, as if exploring for damages.

When he pulls away he says, "Come on," and guides you to the futon. "That's it, just lie down, on your stomach." As stretch yourself out, you hear him remove the rest of his clothing, then feel him join you on the mattress. He kneels by your feet, his knees on either side of your bare calves.

He takes one foot in hand, digs his thumbs into your sole, rubs and tugs your toes, then moves on to pleasure your other foot. And then moves past your feet, stoking your ankles, kneading the muscles and caressing the flesh of your calves. He slides his hands beneath your skirt and works on your thighs, outside and in, forcing you to part your legs a little. He takes your buttocks in hand, he twists and mashes your flesh, gradually working lower so that his thumbs push once more between your legs to briefly brush your labia, a tantalizing promise of pleasures to come, before he reverses course and once more works on your ass.

After a time, he takes hold of your skirt and quickly slides it down your legs and past your feet. He returns to straddle your waist. His cock now rests between the cheeks of your ass, a warm and heavy weight against your skin.

"You'll have to lose that shirt," he says, and he drapes himself upon you. He reaches around and beneath you, his cock now pressing between your legs, and struggles to undo those buttons that haven't already been dislodged.

Once free, he pushes the hem of your shirt up to your shoulders and massages your your back slowly circling up to your shoulders, then your and neck. He stretches across you like a blanket, his cock now a hot muscle high between your thighs. His palms gently stroke your temples and cheeks.

And then his movements stop. He kisses your throat and whispers, "Turn over," raises himself just enough to give you room to move. You roll onto your back beneath him. He straddles your waist again and his his cock lies on your belly like an offering.

He cups your cheeks and gently strokes your face and circles your temples. He brushes his thumbs over your eyelids. He bends to kiss you briefly on the mouth, then rubs your neck. You can feel his hands start to tremble, you can sense his growing excitement, his impatience, his desire. His rhythm speeds up as his hands approach your breasts.

He spreads his fingers wide and takes one in each hand, stroking them, squeezing them, testing your limits, seeking to understand your body's pleasure. He leans in and takes one nipple, then the other, in his mouth, sucking you, nibbling you, biting you.

When he rises from your mounds, he rakes his nails along your belly, his mouth following along behind, tasting your flesh between the twin tracks his nails so harshly laid.

And soon he mouth has descended past your navel, and his hands grip your hips firmly. He buries his face between your legs.

Hi tonger slides along your slit, up and down and with ever increasing pressure. He pushes deeper and your cunt's juice spill out. You entire body quivers, and quivers again when he closes his lips around your clit, tugs and releases it, then descends upon it again, this time testing you with his teeth.

You reach for him, take his head in your palms and push him against you. He responds by once more pushing into you with his tongue, now plunging it deep between lips. You begin to shudder and he digs his hands into your buttocks in time with your body's own motions, until your body spams and you clench your legs, forcing him to pull his head away from you.

He sits up, lays a hand upon your breast and gently squeezes it. You open your eyes and he flashes you a smile. Then, without a word, but reaches for a condom, unwraps it and tosses the packaging to the side.

Slowly, as if it were a ritual, he unrolls the condom over his cock. He grins at you in the candle-light. "Now it's my turn."

And he spreads your legs and brushes your mons with his, then your very cunt, rubbing it up and down along the gates of your wet pussy. Slowly, he presses himself against your portal and begins to ease himself inside you, his cock so much larger than his tongue.

Bit by bit, your walls resist, then yield, and he begins to push harder. His slow but steady advance, becomes an ever-faster series of thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat. His find your breasts again, and now work on them in time to that of his cock as thrusts deep inside you. Your nerves fire from a thousand stimuli, and when he takes your left nipple in his mouth, freeing his hand to find your clit, your entire body spasms, in such a way as to make your first orgasm seem like only a pale dream of the real thing. You howl in joyful triumph, even as you shudder again, and again, and again.

Now his hand falls from your clit. He takes you hard by the waist and fucks you like an animal, all thought for your pleasure forgotten. His cock hammers like piston inside you, pounding in and out, in and out, until, suddenly, he shudders and you know that he too has come.

For a moment, but for two pounding hearts and four gasping lungs, there is stillness. Spent, his cock is still hard, still inside you. You are sweating, as he is, two exhausted animals in the night.

At last, as if through an effort of will, he reaches down and, carefully, pulls himself from you, slips the cum-laden condom from himself, then rolls off you and collapses at your side.

He lays a hand on your breast and kisses your cheek. "If it's all the same to you, I can wait on the blow-job until after we eat."

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