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Ms. No Dr. Bobbie Johnson
Ms.--No, Dr. Bobbie Johnson
by BillyG
It was much like the tricycle in Laugh In, a decidedly
non-spectacular accident but enough to break my right leg below the
knee. Oh, the acute pain was long since over with, but then, weeks
later, I'd been reduced to the chronic malaise of boredom.
The doctors--the "orthopods"--had done a magnificent job of
patching me, but it required a couple of operations and a long-leg
cast only a little lighter than the Staten Island Ferry. I was
mostly confined to a lumpy day bed that'd been set up in my living
room and there I vegetated, sinking slowly into terminal ennui.
There was no one to blame but myself. Inattention and
distraction perhaps were the culpable causes. I'd just left the
hospital on my motorcycle and was going home to grab my bags and
take off for two weeks's vacation in the Caribbean. I loved to
SCUBA dive and hadn't had the chance to explore warm water reefs in
far too long. Too, I reflected ruefully, this surgical training was
a marked impediment to the most rudimentary social life, for it'd
been equally too long since I'd been laid. Two weeks in the
Caribbean would surely treat both those problems.
Anyway, driving in traffic, thinking of those long-standing
deficiencies, I was totally unprepared for a sudden stop by the gal
in the car just in front of me. A rabbit, I guess, had darted out
and she'd slammed on the brakes. I swerved and didn't make it. My
tibia and fibula were caught between my engine and her bumper.
Damn! Once again, steel wins out over bone.
In the first few weeks after the operations, I hadn't been much
concerned with horniness but later, five or six weeks out, that
biologic imperative kicked into in overdrive. And I was a beached
whale! For example, just the previous evening, I decided to take a
bath. Wrapping my cast in garbage bags for the shower worked well
enough, but didn't allow a relaxed soak much less the opportunity
for a casual wank. Then a solution came to me, the brilliance of
which was dazzling!
With the help of a woman friend--a friend in the strictest
sense of the term--I lay in the empty tub with my plaster-casted leg
held straight up. She measured the distance from the bottom of the
large tub to the top edge of my cast. We'd put in an inch or two
less water than that and I'd get my soak. Such hubris. Completely
ignoring Archimedes, I lowered myself into the warm water with a
self-satisfied grin. That is, until the water rose and inundated
the top portion of my cast! My friend, Joanne, thought it was
hilarious; I thought it was a conspiracy between fate and the
perversity of inanimate objects.
The next day the orthopods took some delight in explaining the
principle of displacement of water to me as they immobilized me in
yet another to-the-crotch cast. However, they didn't think the
coat-hanger excoriations they found on my leg were funny. They were
the result of of my home treatment for the excruciating itchiness
under the cast. I knew they were right, of course, but I suppose I
held that rules were for other people.
In the past few weeks I'd experienced several, mostly
unsatisfactory, self-induced orgasms. I suppose there was something
too clinical about the whole thing. I couldn't jack off left handed
and the cast on my right leg was in the way. My wrist kept banging
away at the casts's edge and I ended up with flecks of plaster all
over the place and worse, the tell-tale deterioration of the cast's
upper edge. I might as well have painted an arrow and wrote: "See,
Billy's been beating off again!"
Besides, I wanted to get laid, not jack off. But how in Hell
could I do that? I was getting around much better with crutches but
I could think of no way any woman would be attracted to me in that
getup. And even if she were, I couldn't flex at the hip worth a
darn. Perched firmly on my personal pity pot, I wasn't coming up
with much to alleviate my tubocharged libido.
At the time, I was living in an house on the corner in a
middle-class neighborhood south of the university and just a few
miles from the hospital. I was a house officer, a fancy name for a
post-doc fellow. The house was a mess when I "inherited" it,
looking like the Gestapo had just left. Lots of elbow grease and
several trips to Pier One and Cost Plus had transformed it into a
bright and friendly place. Not admitting it to anyone, I'd made
some burlap curtains and dyed them orange.
That afternoon the sun had turned the orange to a bright flame,
coloring the hardwood floor before me. The discordant ring of a
phone that'd been dropped too often cut through my rumination.
Probably the hospital, nagging me to catch up on my charts.
"Hello? Dr. Hayden?"
I didn't recognize the voice, but then I didn't know all the
clerks in Medical Records.
"My dictation's all done--just signatures--that's all that's
left."
"Uh, Dr. Hayden, this isn't . . . I mean this is Bobbie."
Bobbie? The only I knew who called herself Bobbie was, of
course, Bobbie Johnson! That Bobbie was an impossibly long-legged,
short-haired medical student who'd been with me on her
rotation through surgery, oh, about six months ago. I remembered
her well. Lean, yet with good breasts, boyish hips, and pale blue
eyes, she was somewhere between tomboy and feminine. She'd been
working across from me once in the ER, wearing a overly-large scrub
shirt, one that afforded me a long look at her braless breasts. I
guess I stopped working, for she looked up, caught the direction of
my gaze and then looked down into her own shirt. I looked away and
she murmured, "Shit."
"Johnson?" I asked.
"Yes. Bobbie Johnson. Do you remember me?"
I laughed and said, "Oh yes! I remember you, lady."
Mostly I remembered how incredibly smart and talented she was.
She had walked through the unreasonable grind of a surgery rotation
without complaint, often doing more than anyone might expect. I
recall writing her evaluation and adding that, 'Ms. Johnson assumes
responsibility well . . . often when it's not offered.' That
wouldn't be a good recommendation for an administrator, but in
surgery, it'd be regarded as praise.
"I heard about . . . uh . . . about your motorcycle accident."
"And you wanted to suggest that I should know better, right?"
"I suppose you hear that more than you like, but I can't say a
thing--I'm riding a Triumph Bonneville myself."
"Good bike. Bad brakes."
"I'm careful," she defended herself.
"Did you call to talk about motorcycles, Bobbie?"
"Not really, but that's the first non-medical thing we've ever
discussed."
She couldn't know about the conversations we'd had in my head,
about her curvy butt and the way she licked her lips before she
said something. She didn't know how sexy and attractive I'd found
her and that was simply because I'd tried not to be a predator with
female medical students.
"Well, Johnson, it's nice to hear your voice. Did you match
for Duke?"
I knew she wanted to intern at Duke and stay there to go into
surgery. In the bad days, she'd never have had a chance, but
the combination of a gradual shift in bias plus her outstanding
record could well gain her entry to a prestigious program.
"Can you believe it? Yes! I got the internship. That's my
foot in the door. They'll never be able to get rid of me now."
I smiled, thinking how dogged and persistent she was. The
chief of my service was a Harvard-trained, stuffed-shirt surgeon who
openly held that women should stay at home and have babies. Bobbie
had gone after him repeatedly, wearing him down until he consented
to have her take a rotation on his service. That's how I first met
her, wondering how she'd managed to move that stubborn man.
"Bobbie, I'm pleased you matched for Duke. I'm really pleased
for you, but is that why you called?"
I'd never known her to socialize; she lived in the hospital and
the library it seemed and she'd never chatted with me before. Jeez,
was she feeling sorry for me? I couldn't stand that!
"Uh . . . no, Dr. Hayden . . . "
"Christ, Bobbie, school's out. Call me Bill, won't you?"
There was a pause and I could see her thinking this one out.
"Sure, uh, Bill," and she laughed. "So . . . I wanted to thank
you for your help and to say good-bye before I leave."
"When's that? I asked.
"Tomorrow."
"You called me to say good-bye?" I asked.
"Well, I really called to see if I could stop by to see you and
say good-bye in person."
She'd graduated last week; she wasn't a medical student
anymore. I wondered, did my self-imposed deal end when they
graduated?
I said, "As it happens, I'm not doing anything right now. To
be honest, I haven't done anything in weeks. I'm about to go stir
crazy. I'd love to see you."
"I got your address; I know where you live . . . "
"I know how poor medical students are, but could you stop and
get some ice cream?
"I can afford that . . . just. Mocha chip okay?"
"To die for!"
She said she'd be here in under 30 minutes; my thoughts were
whirling. What was this about? Why me? And why now? Did she feel
the same chemistry? She never gave a hint. I'm probably thinking
with my dick.
I remembered seeing her in a short skirt the first time. I'd
been riding a bicycle around the campus near the hospital and I
stopped to watch some people play tennis. I'd once played a fair
bit, but the demands of training had pulled me out of that sport
years before. Still, I liked the game and enjoyed watching good
players. The mixed doubles game that had been playing on the end
court was just breaking up as I arrived, but the two women stayed to
play some more.
A lean facing away from me bent at the waist to
pick up a ball and her short skirt rose, exposing the under cheeks
of her buttocks. Her long tan legs contrasted with the whiteness of
her lower cheeks. I was mesmerized.
She turned and walked back to the service line. I watched her
body move until she walked right up to the fence and said, "Hello,
Dr. Hayden." It was Bobbie. We exchanged greetings and she promptly
returned to play. I was struck with two things--well, three: How
well she played, how sexy she looked and how tan she was. How'd she
get a tan? When she was on my service, I didn't think she ever saw
the sun.
Bobbie won handily. With the facility one tennis player has of
judging another, it was clear that she would have beaten me as
readily, even when I was in shape.
"Nice game," I congratulated her when they'd finished.
"Thanks. You play?"
"Used to. No time. Bad elbow . . . you know."
"I want to play as much as I can right now, before I sell my
soul to the devil. If you ever want to play . . . ."
She smiled and left with her friend without any introductions.
I contrasted the tomboy-like who'd followed me around for
six weeks with the very feminine, good-looking woman walking away
from me. Instant lust and I knew there was nothing I could do about
it.
Now she was coming over to visit me. What would she look like,
I wondered? Would she stop by for a few minutes, say something
polite and excuse herself? Probably.
A reflected light moved across the wall as a car pulled up in
front of my house. I could hear the crunch of tires come to a stop
in the tree rubble outside. I thought to get up and greet her, but
she was too fast, bounding through the open door with her accustomed
high energy. She was backlit for a moment, her short hair a
halo about her face. She was wearing tight shorts and the fine hair
on her thighs was similarly highlighted. Again, I was struck by how
attractive she looked. And I thought she looked like a tomboy?
Boy, was I wrong!
"Hey, kid!" I called out.
"Dr. kid to you, big boy."
"Oh yeah . . . forgot. Dr. Bobbie Johnson. Sounds good,
girl."
"But you can call me Bobbie," she added as she sat on the edge
of the day bed. "How're ya doin'?"
Raising the heavy cast a few inches off the bed, I let it fall
back with a thud and asked, "How do I look?"
"Pretty good . . . except for that anchor."
"Wanna sign it?" There was the usual collection of graffiti,
smiley faces and well wishes strewn up and down my new cast. I
couldn't get out of the Orthopedics Department without felt-pen
artists decorating me.
"You bet! Where?" she asked, looking up and down the cast.
"Oh, anywhere there's room," I suggested, waving vaguely at my
casted leg.
She picked up a felt pen from the collection on the table
and with one hand on her hip, surveyed the canvas.
I was wearing a T-shirt. Period. It was simply too great a
hassle trying to put on underwear or shorts over that bulky cast.
I'd thrown a light blanket over my midsection, my gesture to
modesty.
She said, "Let's see . . . " and threw off the blanket.
Staring at my naked groin, she murmured, "Oh my!"
The blanket was gone. I couldn't move my leg and refused to
cross my hands over myself. I wanted to be cool; I wanted to
impress her. Somehow I feared the impression I was making wasn't
supportive of my masculine image.
"I thought you were going to autograph the CAST," I said.
"Me too," she said, tilting her head and looking at my
genitals. At least that's what I thought she was checking out.
Acting as if nothing had happened, she again sat beside me and
wrote "Bobbie was here," on the very top of the plaster cast, right
next to my penis.
"There! How's that look?" she asked as she finished.
"That's MY question; you think of your own."
Bobbie laughed. Her teeth were very even and very white. Her
tongue was pink.
"Oh, this is too much! Dr. Hayden, you look just delicious."
Glancing further down she added, "And the cast looks pretty good
too."
It was too late to be modest but still I felt very
self-conscious. Maybe it was because my dick looked so small
juxtaposed against the cast. Yeah, I know that's dumb, but whoever
said we are smart when it comes to stuff like that? With some
difficulty, I pulled the blanket over my midsection and said,
"Thanks for the autograph."
"Glad to, but that's not really why I came over, you know?"
"I wondered."
"No. I'll tell you . . . if I can get up the nerve, that is."
"What the hell . . . you're leaving tomorrow. You can tell me
off . . . say anything you like."
"I know. And that's why I could call you and come over--I
won't have to be embarrassed after."
"After what?" I asked.
"Can I sit next to you when I say this?"
"Sure. You'll be safe, that's for sure. You can run faster
than I . . . if you hadn't noted."
"Um . . . I don't know how to say this," she said, looking
away.
"Spit it out, girl. Even if I could run, I couldn't go far
with no pants!"
"God, I'm so embarrassed!"
"Bobbie, as colorful as your graffiti is, I know you didn't
come over just to sign my cast. So spill it. What's on your mind?"
"Okay, here goes." Taking a breath she looked at a spot on my
chest and said, "I wanna make love with you."
"WHAT?"
"Damn! Don't 'what' me. You heard what I said! I wanna make
love with you." She looked red-faced and determined.
I stared at her. I didn't speak, I couldn't speak. Things
like this might happen in someone's fiction, but not to me. So I
said something clever like, "Why me?"
"Why NOT you, Billy? I know you want to. I've caught you a
dozen times, looking down my shirt, checking me out. You DO want
to, don't you?
I sputtered, "Of course, but I didn't think . . . " and fell
silent, not remembering what I didn't think.
"I thought so, but you never said anything. I mean, you never
made a pass or anything."
"Bobbie, you were a medical student and I was your resident.
Besides, you aren't called the 'Ice Queen' for nothing, you know."
"I knew they called me that. I didn't care. Actually, it made
it easier."
"If thought you, uh . . . weren't interested in sex?"
"Yeah. I am, you know . . . interested in sex, that is, but it
was easier and less complicated if they thought I was sexless or
even a lez."
"So again--why me and why now?"
"I TOLD you! It's because we have chemistry--you and me. I
feel it and I know you do, too. And NOW because I'm leaving
tomorrow and that makes it easier. I thought if I waited long
enough, you might become interested in me, but now, with you in that
cast and less than 24 hours to go . . . the only way it's gonna
happen is if I make it happen."
"Sweetie, if anything happens, it'll ONLY be because you made
it happen. As you can see, I'm grounded."
"For a really bright guy, Billy, sometimes you're kinda dull,
huh?"
"Dull?"
"Yeah, dull. You think there's only one way to make love?
Sure, I wanna be taken by you . . . I mean, I love doggie style, but
let's face it, we gotta bring the mountain to Muhammad, or something
like that."
"Muhammad? How about we quit TALKIN' 'bout makin' love and you
just let me give you a hug?"
"Oh, I like you take-charge guys!" she whispered as she lay
beside me.
"Come here, woman. Cuddle up to twenty pounds of plaster."
Instead, she leaned on one elbow and looked into my eyes,
tracing a finger tip across my face. "So many times when you'd be
telling me something, I'd watch your lips and think how it'd feel -
your lips on my . . . on my . . . you know, down there."
"Can I . . . can I go down on you?"
She laughed. Do you mean, will I lower myself down to you?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean."
"Do you really want to? I mean, really want to have oral sex .
. . suck me?"
"Really!"
"Okay," she whispered and stood up, looking down at me, as she
hooked her fingers into her shorts. "I should tell you, Billy, I'm
not lookin' for a boyfriend and I'm not lookin' for romance. I
don't have the time for it."
"Then tell me, . . . what ARE you lookin' for anyway?"
"Okay muffin, I'm lookin' to get laid, and not by just
anybody. By YOU! I've never been so . . . so out there, so what,
brazen?"
As exciting as it was, thinking that she was just hot for my
body, I didn't want to intellectualize this erotic connection.
"I don't wanna be pushy or anything, but take your shorts off
will you?--let me look at you," I said.
"Yes! I will," she said as she tugged her shorts down over her
hips, dragging white with them.
This is crazy, I thought. Absolutely off the wall. I've been
dreaming about this woman for months, fantasizing actually, and here
she is, taking off her shorts for me, in broad daylight, right in
the middle of the afternoon. I've never even kissed her. Far out!
She ruffled her pubic hair and said, "This is crazy, isn't it?
I love it!"
Her furry place trimmed a little and, while very light in
color, was a couple of shades darker than her sun-bleached
hair. I could see her lips, they were slightly swollen and wet.
"God! You're looking at me and I'm so hot!" she said as she
ran a finger down into her slit. "I've been wanting this for so
long and now we're really gonna do it."
I pulled her hand down to me and said, "Let me smell you,
Bobbie."
She wiped her finger under my nose and her aroma was one of
pure sex. "You are SUCH a slut, Billy."
"If I have the blame, I might as well have the game," I said,
tugging her down to me. "Mustache rides, fifty cents."
"You KNOW I ain't got that kinda money!" she protested as she
lowered herself to my face.
Her lips opened a bit more and they glistened with her juices
as she leaned forward, grasping my hard cock in her hand. "God,
Billy, give me your mouth!"
She paused only to rip off her blouse. I caught a glimpse of
the underside of her hanging as she leaned over my crotch.
I saw her pebbled areolae and hardened nipples, erect and hungry.
I breathed on her labia, a long hot breath before inhaling her
essence. The tangy musk of her sang to me, roaring through my
olfactory senses and pumping me even harder.
"Lower, Bobbie, please. Give me your woman place. Please, I
need you."
"Take me, Billy. Take my . . . taste me, tongue me, touch me.
Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . this is so good . . . so incredibly
good!"
I ran my tongue from her anus to her slit, just short of her
clit, slowly, back and forth, edging closer and closer, pausing only
to dip into her vagina.
She began to push against my mouth, grinding herself on my chin
and nose, moaning, gasping, crying, "Yes, oh yes . . . do it . . .
suck me."
I traced a feather-light touch across her perineum and around
the wrinkled, tight skin of her anus. She lurched. I pushed
lightly at her anus, not trying to enter, just trying to tease. She
groaned and grasped the shaft of my cock tightly, slowly stroking me
as she took the head into her mouth.
I couldn't concentrate on her when she was masturbating me
into her mouth. Not even close. While I could manage several
thoughts and inputs in surgery, the sensations Bobbie was generating
in my cock were simply too intense for me to do anything but cry out
mindlessly, "Bobbie, I've got to have you. Now. Right now. This
minute. Please, oh please, babe, I wanna screw you . . . penetrate
you."
"Yes . . . yes . . . but just a minute. What you're doing . .
. it feels so good . . . just a minute . . . just a little more,
please!"
In case her meaning wasn't totally clear, she lowered her
bottom to my face again, hunching on me as I placed both hands on
her buttocks, thumbs in, pulling her labia open. At the top of this
blooming flower, I could see her clit, partially unhooded, pink and
urgent. I touched the tip of my tongue to one side and then the
other, close, but not quite touching that nerve-packed button.
"Uh, uh, uh, uh . . . " she grunted, almost a chant, as she was
reaching, hunching at something. This was the woman who never made
an off-color comment, nor responded to one. This was the Ice Queen
who was normally aloof and above carnal desires. Or so I thought.
I dipped my index finger into the swollen sheath of her. It
was hot and soaked. Again, I pushed the wet tip of my finger into
the nerve-laden tissues of her anus. She tightened and then
loosened; my finger slipped in to the first joint and she hissed,
"Yes-s-s-s."
I ran my tongue through her slit to her clit and then began to
tickle her, probing, prodding, humming and as she grasped me
even tighter.
I was still dazed at this--at the rapidity we had experienced,
moving from social pleasantries to grinding, imperative rutting.
Bobbie was hunching on my face, rubbing her sex across my mouth
and tongue, all the while babbling incoherently. I could sense it
coming. She became quiet save for an occasional grunt, stiffened,
then shuddered and with a wail, orgasmed. Her juices drenched me.
For a short moment I wondered if she'd lost control of her bladder,
but this wasn't urine. It was tasteless. Later she said that once
in a rare while, attendant with an especially overwhelming orgasm,
she'd find that she'd wet herself. I guess that's what happened
then.
Bobbie had simply collapsed on top of me. Neither of us spoke
for minutes until I said, "Sweet woman, lay beside me. If I never
walk again, I want to treasure this moment."
She didn't answer, but after another minute or two, she slowly
reversed herself and with one leg thrown across me, she snuggled
into my left side, the one without the cast.
I think we drifted off for ten or fifteen minutes. I awoke to
the light touch of her lips on mine.
"You're alive," she announced.
"Then I MUST be; you're a doctor and all, huh?"
"Except this," she said, nudging my half-hard cock. "It was
really hard a little while ago. What happened?"
"Jeez, I don'no. Do you suppose it's disappointed that we
didn't, uh . . . fuck?"
She gave me a salacious grin and said, "If that's the case,
we're in luck for I know the treatment."
"God, I hope so; I'm so hungry for you."
"I hoped so, but I never knew . . . except you kept looking
down my shirt," she teased.
Still flat on my back, I reached across and ran a fingertip
lightly across her face and down to her neck. I could see her heart
beat in the jugular vein that swelled and emptied with her
breathing. We were still damp, both of us and I picked up a trickle
of her sweat and tasted it.
"That's hot," she said.
I smiled, as if saying I know, and ran a feather touch across
her to the areola. It was still crinkled, the nipple hard.
"I can feel that . . . down there."
"I'd like to . . . feel that . . . down there," I said,
reaching between us, trying to touch her belly, her pubic hair, but
couldn't. "Damn," I cursed, frustrated in my supine prison.
Without prompting, Bobbie sat up and turning around, threw a
long leg over my abdomen and kneeled astride me. "This what you're
reaching for?"
Nodding with a grin I replied, "You always were a quick study."
I traced another line up the inside of one thigh, across her
pubic fur and down the other side. Slowly, back and forth.
She twisted and reached behind her, grabbing my now totally
hard cock. "Hmmmm . . . it's working."
I came closer and closer to her pussy, lingering and teasing
each pass. I admired the long tan thighs contrasted against the
white strip across her pelvis, crowned with dark curly hair.
Her labia stood out, swollen and slightly everted, as a blossom
opens.
"God, look at us! Did you ever think of us this way, Billy?
Ever fantasize?"
"More like images. Short tapes. I tried not to let my
fantasies surface too much. Except late at night, just before
falling asleep, my defenses down . . . then you'd often come to
mind."
She fisted my cock and held it tightly. "While you were mastur
. . . uh, jacking off?"
I cupped her with one palm and reflected a moment. "No,
more like falling asleep and unconsciously fondling my self--then
images of you would parade through . . . you, bending over, your
shirt falling away . . . trying to see your tits. Or another time,
you bending over, your firm buttocks, rounded, outlining your
line. Once or twice, no line. Did you sometimes not wear
panties?"
"Oh . . . that's a deliciously naughty thought. But no, musta
been when I wore thong panties. That was racy enough!"
"I heard they were uncomfortable," I said, softly touch her
labia.
"Not really. At least not so much physical, but I was aware of
the pressure in the crack of my butt. I was thrilled and frightened
a little that someone--you--might find out."
She continued a slow caress of the skin of my cock, holding it
in the "O" of her thumb and forefinger.
She continued, "You ever imagine we might do this?"
"There's a world of difference between an erotic image and a
sexual fantasy. In a vague way . . . sure, I'd hoped. But nothing
this explicit. Actually, this is far better than my fantasy."
I slipped a finger into her slit and collected her juices to
rub over her slit, ever closer to her clit.
"Yes . . . that feels so good," she said. "Don't stop."
It would have been easier to stop breathing. I slipped in
another finger. It was tight. I hooked up behind her symphysis
pubis, where the G-spot lives, and tried to massage Doc
Grafenberg's tissue.
"A little higher . . . there! That's it."
Surprisingly, she pulled back and squatted over my groin.
Reaching between her thighs she grabbed my urgent hardness again and
using it like a paint brush, ran the head through her slit.
"I've got an agenda, and it's not hidden," she laughed.
I stared between her spread thighs, admiring her tennis muscles
and the taut abductor tendons of her inner legs. Somehow, it made
her look even more exposed. I pushed up a little, just touching
her.
"Close, huh?"
I looked up and she was looking into my eyes, hers half-hooded.
"Look at me, Billy. No, not there. Here. Into my eyes."
She wore an expression of concentration, of intense focus. Her
pale blue eyes bored into mine, daring me to look away as she slowly
hunched her hips, rubbing her lips against my cock.
"What now, Dr. Hayden?"
"Lower yourself, Dr. Johnson . . . take my cock . . . it's hard
for you. Take it into you," I grunted, trying to lift myself to
reach her.
"Yes! Yes, I want you."
"Where?" I wanted to make her say the words, to say them out
loud, looking into my eyes, admitting her horniness and yes, her
trust.
She evaded. "You know. Down there."
"Yes, down there, but what's it called, Bobbie? Not the
anatomic name, the lusty, down-and-dirty name?"
She glanced away and then looked back, determined. "My pussy?"
"Yes, that, but more. What's the name that nice little
don't use?"
Her mouth was slack, her eye lids drooping. She licked her
lips and ran my cock through her slit again. "My cunt?"
"Yes! Louder. Say it out loud. Tell your lover, girl."
Softly, "My cunt. Then louder, "In my CUNT!"
I moaned again, fruitlessly trying to reach her. In mock fury,
I hoarsely grunted, "Fuck me you bitch, fuck me!"
She pushed my cock back to her introitus and squatted a small
bit more. The head slipped inside and she groaned a sound,
unintelligible but full of meaning.
"God, don't tease me anymore, Bobbie. I need it! I need YOU!
Come on, fuck me!"
She pitched forward, catching herself with her hands on my
shoulders and at the same time, she sat down. Momentarily, my cock
caught, bent and then sprang into her with explosive force.
Her buttock came down on the cast, breaking the top lip against my
thigh, the plaster pieces crumbling and falling between by scrotum
and my leg.
Fuck it, I thought. The orthopods will give me hell, but I'll
deal with that tomorrow. Today--right now--I'm getting laid! And
by Bobbie Johnson, the Ice Queen.
She lifted herself a few inches and then let herself fall on my
cock. Then again, repeatedly. Up and down, up and down . . . the
old up and down game.
When I looked up this time, her eyes were screwed shut and she
was biting her lip, between times crying, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
I ran my hands up and down her thighs, cupping her buttocks on
the up stroke, still trying to launch up against her. The pleasure
was exquisite, indescribable. A gazillion years of mindless
instinct driving my hips.
"Fucking you . . . fucking you . . . " she muttered, mostly
incoherently, but that's what it sounded like.
I pulled her up toward me a little, just enough to get my
fingers into her ass crack, to feel the tight pucker of her ass
hole, to finger it as we continued bashing into each other.
"Yes, yes . . . touch me there. It's so dirty and it's so
erotic. Oh yes . . . I love it!"
Her were hanging, swinging with our passion, drops of
perspiration falling off her nipples. Her forehead was beaded and a
stream of sweat ran down her neck. We were both soaking, rutting in
a pool of sweat. The music I'd been playing was long since ended
and the only sounds were those of our harsh, labored breathing
punctuated with moans of passion, all driven by the increasingly
wet, smacking sound of our copulating.
Our fucking went on, it seemed, for a long time. My perception
of time was completely distorted. I remember thinking that I didn't
want to come too soon, that'd I'd likely never see this again,
but at some point, quite beyond my control, I lost it. The wheels
began to come off. Deep inside, somewhere back of my cock, it began
to rise up and I knew I'd not be able to hold it off.
"Bobbie, I'm gonna come. You protected?"
"No, but it's safe. My period's tomorrow or the day after. Do
it. I want your cum."
Hearing her say that just blew away any last vestige of control
and the boil swelled up from within, running down my urethra, hot,
almost painful, spurting out--once, twice, and in smaller volume, a
third and fourth time.
I think she came at the same time. I don't know. I remember
faintly we were both yelling and thrashing about. The cast cracked
some more. I remember thinking that if we used the damage to the
plaster as a barometer of intensity, this was clearly a world-class
fuck.
After that I don't remember a thing for a long time. I guess
we both fell asleep. I slowly awoke to the feeling of being kissed.
Bobbie was nibbling at my lower lip, still astride me. Where I'd
been hot with sweat shortly before, now I was cool, almost chilly.
"Billy?"
"That's me," I said, struggling to focus on a blue eye that was
only inches from mine.
She drew back marginally. "I've got to go to the bathroom."
I was nonplused. Did she want permission, direction or a
comment?"
"I'd show you the way," I began, gesturing to a doorway.
"Be right back," she said and I watched her white buttocks out
of sight.
I was still punchy in the afterglow of my orgasm. The whole
thing was so surreal. Where could it go? Of course, nowhere.
I heard water running in the sink and she called out, "Nice
tub!"
It was one of those old-fashion ones, six feet long with clawed
feet. "Thanks," I yelled back, thinking how nice it'd be to take a
bath with her. Hell, how nice it'd be to take a bath period.
She walked back into the room looking fresh and bright, wiping
her face.
"I'd really love to crawl back in with you . . . hell, stay the
night, but I won't. This is the best time to end this, don't you
think?"
"No," I replied, without hesitation.
"Yes, you do, my dear friend. That was incredible . . . words
can't say . . . but you know what I mean. I'd like to try it again
sometime when you're not in a cast."
"You'll be on the east coast and I'm here. You're going to be
a surgeon--we both know what that's like. Worse, I'm going into
academics and that's as crazy. I probably won't see you again. At
best, it might be at a meeting. You'll be or engaged or
something."
"Or you will," she observed.
"Yeah, that too."
"I don't want to talk about that. What I want to remember--
always--is this afternoon. It was more than special. It was damn
near magical. I don't know when I've felt so feminine, so met.
That's what I'll take with me, Billy. I do hope we'll meet again."
She bent, kissed me on the mouth and left.
I never saw her again.
END