BREAKING THE RULES

Olivia London

I met a man at a party. Not the kind of soirée you discuss with your co-workers. I only know the man’s first name and, given the way we met, who knows if it’s even real.

Since meeting my stranger in the enchanted forest of the uninhibited, I’ve carried the image of his cumbrous cock, worn it around my neck like a talisman. (I secretly refer to the man as Phil. Try as I might, I cannot resist nomenclature.) The basic rules of the Fun House are: no names and no talk outside the strictures of sex. It was billed as a sort of carnal carnival and, for the most part, people followed the agenda. He was the only man who caught my fancy at the Fun House. That’s what this palace of free love and even freer sex is called. It’s advertised in a certain tabloid, in print so small it’s almost subliminal. No money is exchanged; it’s simply a place away from the city where people can escape the imprimatur of their lives and fuck like wolves.

Clothes (and, in my case, a backpack) are checked at the door and guests quickly form small groups, looking not unlike short, medium and long flex straws; to pick a straw is to choose one’s sex partner for the evening.

I picked Phil by handing him my profile. The Fun House had a clever system for sparing the inevitable rejections attendant with random coupling. First you created a litany of desires to be recorded on a 5 x 7” notecard. For example, mine read: Oral (giving, not receiving), Submissive. Underneath were boxes to be checked or left blank by a potential bed mate:

I already have a partner.

Meet me in the first available room.

Phil checked the second box and I was instantly aroused. Here, in this garden of effortless contact, I knew I could get away with doing things I wouldn’t normally do for fear of being labeled bad. At the Fun House, no one’s consensual proclivities are judged and that in itself can be an aphrodisiac.

My partner in lust followed me to a sparsely decorated room on the second floor. There was a bay window overlooking a backyard with a diamond-shaped pool that must have been cleaned for the occasion of the party; the water was pellucid and inviting. Even more inviting was the couple fucking on the lip of the shallow end. I could see the man’s foot splayed and suctioned to the second step as he held tightly to the small of the woman’s back riding him like a hobby horse. She had curly red hair and her breasts bounced like buoys as she steadily and steadfastly pumped her partner’s cock.

I turned from the show and took in my own options. There was a mattress on the floor shrouded in what looked to be clean sheets. Nailed to the wall was a shelf of sex toys. I picked up the soft leather wrist restraints, so chocolate brown they looked edible, and handed them to Phil. Without a word, he breathed life into what had long been a fantasy and looked to me for further instruction.

I knelt before him like a supplicant and took his erect penis into my mouth, ignoring the loose cannons of moisture already coursing down my inner thighs. My scalp tingled as he worked his fingers through my long blonde hair, guiding my tongue from pillar to post.

I wanted so badly to touch my crotch but of course I couldn’t; my body was all sensation now, every particle of sentience drawing its momentum from the burgeoning cynosure between my lips.

And then suddenly he was gone, his cock hovering tantalizingly close but bobbing away from my hungry mouth, my tongue immediately craving the taut tent of his skin.

“Tell me what you want. Do you want to just suck me off?”

I leaned back and regarded the full-throttle masculine length before me. My vagina ached for the weight of this rock.

“I want you to fuck me,” I said, trying to make my voice sound normal but firm, as if I were requesting from a restaurant host a corner booth as I don’t like aisle seats, thank you.

Phil cupped my chin with his palm and forced my gaze upward. “You’re really beautiful,” he said.

I turned from the compliment. This wasn’t a date.

There was a tin on the shelf proffering protection. Phil picked his ornament and, once ensheathed, his cock resembled a glowing wand that could make dreams come true.

Phil gently pushed me down on the bed. He ran his fingers through my hair again and kissed me. After caressing my neck, shoulders, breasts and belly, he cupped my mound and teased some fluid away from my clit.

“Guess you don’t need lube.” He grinned.

“No, I need you on top of me.”

He moaned into my ear and I felt another surge of wetness as his bulk shifted and covered me like a cloud. He lifted my legs and maneuvered them like levers until his cock gained purchase and then he was inside me, filling a space in my life that was once hollow.

Wet as I was, each thrust was an ingress into an uncharted territory of pleasure, my pussy pulsing its silent screams for more. My throat filled with desire and I lifted my hips repeatedly to meet its source.

“Oh, God. Baby, I’m going to come. Oh, baby.” He kept calling me that over and over. I love it when a man calls me baby. Especially while in the throes of passion.

We came together in a ripsnorting heap and he held me in his arms for a long time afterward. He cradled my head against his chest and the sound of his heartbeat pulled me into a meditative lull of contentment. For a blissful amount of time, I let lust bounce off the walls and it boomeranged right back to me.

Finally, Phil got up and, struggling on my knees, I rose with him.

“Let’s take a shower,” I suggested.

“Shall I take those silly things off your wrists, now?”

“No. I want to go down on you in the bath with nothing but your magnificent penis to anchor me.”

Phil roared with laughter at this, shaking his head. “Girl, if you aren’t a gift from my imagination, I may have to break the rules and take you home with me.”

I said nothing to this, not wanting to think about rules or mendacities or anything outside the realm of our bodies melding together.

We found a free restroom and locked the door behind us. It’s not that I was feeling shy; I just couldn’t bear to share. Phil’s body and mine were now locked together it seemed, like a mortise and its tenon.

After adjusting the showerhead and water temperature, I genuflected again, ever ready to propitiate the priapic gods. Closing my eyes and using my mouth as trusted guide, I made love to my partner’s cock.

“Come on,” he said, ripping the restraints off my wrists. He grabbed me by the hand and we raced back to our room where he donned another shield and this time he took me against the wall. With one hand clinging to the edge of the bay window and another gripping the muscles of his broad back, I had my fill of another glorious round of fucking.

This time we collapsed into a heap on the floor and laughed from the sheer joy and exertion of our efforts. I felt more at ease with this handsome stranger than I had felt with anyone in a long time. We melted into each other’s embrace until the alarm rang at 2 a.m. signaling the end of party time. Everyone had to be out of the house within fifteen minutes of curfew or risk being barred for ever.

We dressed quickly and passed the couple that had been fucking in the pool. The girl had enormous boobs and tan lines framing her areolae. I felt small and ornate in comparison.

Phil walked me to my car and said, “You know, I could follow you home if you want. We can keep it going all night. There’s obviously some chemistry between us.”

“Where are you parked?”

“That’s me over there. The blue pickup truck.” He shrugged an apology. “It’s not a babe magnet, but I need it for my dogs. I have two retrievers.”

Oh, stop! I wanted to yell. I love dogs. This was supposed to be an unequivocally anonymous experience. No names, no adorable pets or pickup trucks. I felt a panicky sensation rise in my chest.

“OK, well. I have to go. Maybe I’ll see you next week?”

Phil gave me a quizzical look then laughed. He pulled me in for a hug and a peck on the cheek, and then he let me go.

“Sure thing, Blondie. But if you’re not here, I’ll jump back in my rig and drive home. I’ve never met anyone like you. I really want to see you again. What’s your name?”

I sighed, crossing my arms over my chest.

“C’mon.”

“My name’s Elizabeth. Friends call me Beth.”

“Nice to meet you, Beth. I’m Patrick. I don’t want to freak you out or anything, but I think you’re incredibly beautiful.”

“OK, you are freaking me out. People don’t answer ads in tabloids if they’re looking for anything beyond fun. Did you really come here expecting to find true love?”

Patrick kissed my hand like a gallant. “People meet in the strangest places.”

“I have to go,” was all I said before getting in my car and driving back to safer territory. It’s so much easier not to open up to anyone, I thought, once I reached my apartment and poured myself a strong nightcap. I gave my cat a pat on the head and idly wondered how she’d get along with two boisterous canines.

On Monday morning, several co-workers asked me who I was daydreaming about. It was infuriating. I didn’t go to the Fun House looking for anything but a moment’s satisfaction. Now, here I was, reliving every moment of my not so casual encounter with Patrick – I couldn’t even call him Phil anymore. This man was becoming all too real along with my desire to see and feel him again. I tried to imagine his home environment, hoping he didn’t live in a trailer.

What did I care? No way was I ever going back to the Fun House. It was pure folly. This was the time to focus on career and never mind any of that get-you-nowhere mushy business. I would just stay home and masturbate. I had my own shelf of sex toys to choose from, though I had to admit, it’s more fun playing with someone than playing alone. I’d feel pretty silly tying myself up and staring at the ceiling, that’s for sure.

Big problem: I couldn’t masturbate without seeing Patrick’s face. Hearing his voice, even, with its hint of a brogue. I saw again the tawny hairs of his chest covering a smattering of freckles so fine they might have been put through a sifter.

At work, I would squirm in my seat as the crotch of my panties became wet and heavy with the want of Patrick. Oh, God. I wanted him so bad. How could I deny I was falling for a stranger?

I began tapping my foot impatiently, waiting and waiting for Friday to come. On Wednesday, I tried to read a book by one of my favorite authors. No dice. I couldn’t turn a page without having to reread a paragraph for the umpteenth time. My mind kept wandering back to that naked room with its shelf of naughty knick-knacks and the window edge I clung to as Patrick fucked me against the wall. I gave up reading and tossed my frustrated torso on the nearest surface where I came again and again to images of that night. Kneeling in the bath, with water like a gentle rain shower anointing us both, ignoring the liquefaction of my loins as Patrick’s cock supported my swaying movements like a spar.

When Friday finally arrived, there was no denying where I’d be. I couldn’t resist such an accommodating source of passion; maybe we could be friendly strangers.

Yeah, right. The first thing Patrick wanted to know was what was up with the backpack.

“I was watching from the window,” he admitted. “I wanted to see what you looked like in clothes.”

“Look, Patrick. You’re violating the rules! We can’t have uninhibited sex if you insist on getting overly familiar. I carry books around in my backpack – in case I get stuck in traffic. Are you happy now?”

“Call me Pat. Or Sweetheart. Or Lover Man. And what’s so uninhibited about a woman who writes: Oral (Giving, not Receiving) on a notecard? Why won’t you let me go down on you? I bet you taste like ambrosia.”

“Well, that’s something I’m very self-conscious about. It’s too intimate for me. This is supposed to be all about some secret part of ourselves unleashed in the dark. Why can’t you just follow along? Stop breaking the rules!”

“To hell with the rules, Beth. I’m falling for you. Thanks to you, I have to get a new timepiece. I was winding my watch when an image of a certain lovely blonde lass popped in my head and the watch fell in the dogs’ water bowl. You owe me for that. I’d say at least a dinner and fifty consecutive nights spent tethered in my condo.”

“Thanks to you, I bought carrots instead of cat food and had to go back to the grocery store. Twice. I suppose I could warm to the idea of being tethered, though.”

Pat chuckled. “Think you could warm to the idea of me giving you oral if I tied you up again?”

“Mmm. I see the handcuffs are right where we left them.” I curled my toes and arched my brows in anticipation.

“You’re in for a treat, my masochistic little minx. I happen to be quite good at this.”

“Handcuffs first. Then action.”

Pat bound my wrists and held me against his chest, letting his hands roam where they wanted to. Then he turned me around and we kissed for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes. He gently pushed me down on the mattress just like last time but instead of fucking me, he let his languet do its gentle handiwork as if trying to lick dew from the first petals of morning. Gradually though, the pressure increased and my clit was carried away by seiches of throbbing joy. My cunt welcomed Pat’s glossa with increasing abandon as that determined tongue made Byzantine progress from clit to crissum. I came harder than I ever thought possible, my vulva awash with affection for this man who seemed determined to please me as much as I wanted to cater to him.

My sweet lover reached into the ornament tin, sheathed his cock and asked, “Do you want this now?”

“Oh, yes!” I wanted to go down on him too, feel his rich cock grow and swell against my palette, but no good oral can be pressed into service in a rush. I was too hungry and wet with my own need at the moment.

His cock plunged past and into my wet and wanting folds. Trussed as I was, I felt open and free, as if everything I needed was being pumped into me like ichor, each thrust gathering momentum, leaving no room for quibbles or doubts; I was breathless long before we came together in a paroxysm of joy.

“Tell me the truth,” I ventured. “Did I taste OK?”

“You taste like pear. My favorite fruit.” When I eyed Pat dubiously, he added, “Pears dipped in honey.”

“I guess I got over my fear of intimacy.”

“We’re just getting started. Right now though, I want you to get up and get dressed. I’m taking you away from here and we’re never coming back.”

“OK,” I sighed. I put the cuffs back on the shelf and took one last look around. I looked out the window and saw wading in the pool a different couple from last time. The big-breasted woman I liked was replaced by a too-skinny model type and her much shorter mate was fastidiously touching her nipples. Funny how no matter how strange a situation I get myself into, as I’m about to leave it, a certain nostalgia sets in.

I had entered this house looking for something uncomplicated and now I was leaving it with a man who said I taste like pears dipped in honey. I don’t know what he does for a living or if he even has a job. He may be allergic to cats. All I know for certain is, if he leaves me tomorrow and never contacts me again, I’ll start feeling nostalgic for him too.