Encore

I slowed down. It was a little like the old rubbing-your-tummy-and-patting-your-head thing, getting the combination of working that blue-steel cock in one fist and using the fingers of the other hand in his muscular, resistant ass. He’d said he “didn’t mind” taking it up the ass, but I had the sense of dicey, edgy power, here…there had been that time in New Orleans when he’d pinned me to the tub enclosure wall, with his mocking little “Oops,” knowing full well that he’d entered where he hadn’t been invited. I had given him a taste of his own medicine after that; evidently that had led to a taste for something else which he’d since gone on to explore. I had him like this because he was consenting to it, but was there anything preventing him from rising up and pushing me down, laying me open and sticking it to any or all of the openings I had?

Who knew?

He visibly willed himself to relax, and worked to regularize his breathing. I got into a steady rhythm with my two hands, but not too steady. He pushed against my invading fingers. He clicked the butterfly on and off, on and off; I did not think he was even conscious of what he was doing, but I sure was. His mouth defined a shape of pain/pleasure; an occasional grimace when my finger pushed a millimeter deeper in bared his teeth. They were fine and young and sharp, and they gleamed in the low light from the bedside lamp.

There was something he reminded me of, and I tried to think what it was. Then it hit me: a young warrior in some primitive tribe, submitting himself to a trial by pain in order to prove manhood. And this, I had in my hands. A fine tremor was running through his whole body. I needed to finish him soon.

“God, Es,” he half whispered, “Let me come or let me go…”

So what would I do? Would I lie back and let him enter me? Or would I keep on with what I was doing? I couldn’t stop, not just yet. The satiny, steely hardness of his cock, and the velvety smooth fever of his rectum gripping my fingers, with the swelling lump of his sweet spot beneath my fingertips, felt too utterly good to give up. I could feel the low buzz of the butterfly against my clit again. I rocked my hips and tensed my thighs, and this fed my excitement. I wished I had something more to thrust against, but I could feel another climax gathering itself like lightning.

I heard the sudden intake of his breath—“Oh, God, Es, I—Oh fuck Es I’m—“ and his body stiffened, and it was too late. He thrust wildly into my hand; the hand that was not holding the control to the butterfly covered mine in a crushing grip, reinforcing the pressure he needed on his cock. His heels dug into the mattress. He came with a great shuddering cry. A scatter of pearls and moonstones shot from the end of his cock and fanned out over his chest and convulsing abdominal muscles. His butt muscles closed on my fingers with incredible tightness. I struggled to keep them in. While involved in the firehosing intensity of his climax, I felt mine struggle to be born. There was something wrong with it. I trapped the butterfly between my desperate cunt and a wrist, thrust against it, and yelled out as it happened after all and I felt myself go over the edge.

As soon as I had relaxed the hand I’d had inside Drew, it popped out. The hand with which he’d been holding my butterfly control fell open, and I could see a crack in the battery cover. He’d squeezed the control so tightly he’d broken it. (Even after I superglued it, it never ran again.)

I sagged down and laid my face on his sticky chest. I dreamily extended my tongue and started licking at the drops of cum that I could reach, but he raised the hand which had crushed my butterfly control and caressed my cheek. “Just hold me,” he murmured. “After I come like that it’s all I can stand.”

We fell asleep like that; at some time we must have sorted ourselves out into more comfortable positions, at which point I realized that the little tea light had gone out and the lamp was still on. I turned it off. I dropped a kiss onto the bristly top of Drew’s head and curled myself around him, and he curled down into deeper slumber like a cat. After that I slept so hard that nothing could have awakened me. Later I had some dim idea of activity going on somewhere in the room, water running, something electrical going, and a door opening and closing, but I was so utterly exhausted I could not wake up to check it out.

When I awoke later due to an aching bladder, I lurched from a bed occupied only by me, into the bathroom. The butterfly hung askew on my hips. I stripped it off. The bathroom was empty. It was damp and smelled of soap, toothpaste and aftershave.

He’d told me he was leaving in the morning.

It was only after I’d peed and come back into the room that I noticed the Krispy Kreme sack and covered cup of coffee on the bedside table. Under them was a note on the single sheet of stationery the Texas Star saw fit to provide its guests with:

“Esmé, Going Home. Thanks for everything. D.”

I put on my good old white terry bathrobe and opened the sack. It contained an apple cream filled donut with caramel glaze and streusel topping. Comfort me with apples…

I opened the curtain a crack and looked out as I ate. The parking space next to my car was empty. The sun was just starting to filter through the cottonwood trees across the street from the Texas Star, but I wasn’t really looking at them; what I was seeing was an amber-fogged blacktop road leading south and east to the Interstate, and a black and silver truck approaching a rise and disappearing over it

I licked crumbs from my fingers and prayed traveling mercies for the man who’d left my room, and whatever lay at the end of his journey.