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TALES FOR THE RABBIT &8211; VOLUME 2 (Couple)

She laughed. That rich, throaty peal he loved so much, a sound that countered so easily his tendency to frown, to see the negative. So often, she saw only the opposite, every unknown was to be explored, exploited, not feared and evaded. The lovers were sitting on low sofas in “Mainland”, a trendy Upper East Side cocktail lounge, using complimentary drink vouchers they had picked up at a fashion show a few week’s before – why not? She’d picked an exotic cocktail, naturally, he’d been “persuaded” to forego his usual glass of white wine to stab his finger into the list and come up with a concoction even more bizarre, just so she could taste it. Ironically, his selection was a lot nicer than hers, so they swapped – not that he had a lot of say in the matter. After a couple more of the nicer cocktails, she was feeling even less pain than normal, and he was relaxing, bathing in her vitality, soaking up her effervescence, imbibing her charisma along with the vodka (or was it rum?) that was hidden among the fronds sticking out of the cocktail glass. She flirted with the waitress, swapping stories about her experiences as a bargirl in her youth. He admired her ability to make new friends instantly.

She looked back at him, fixing his eyes with her strong, forthright gaze. They had been lovers for 2 years now, this cold, dry December evening. One glance was all it took for companionship to turn into raging lust. They had planned to have a couple of drinks before heading to her apartment to work off the passion that a week apart had built within them. Why bother waiting, flashed her eyes. He held her gaze, a few words were exchanged, he headed downstairs. Sitting next to her a few minutes later, he rubbed the outside of her thigh gently as he whispered into her ear. “This could work, but we would be completely insane to try. If we’re caught, the scandal would crucify us. Two married, respectable professionals caught in a bar’s bathroom would be all over the tabloids. There’s no way we can do this”.

She stood up, walking towards the stairs, looking back at him with an unspoken command. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do”, he thought, looking around the bar, checking whether anyone was watching, not thinking all that rationally. After all, who checks who else goes to the bathroom when they’re drinking with friends? He waited for her to disappear, then followed.

The bathroom was unisex, curiously appropriate he thought. And lockable, something he’d checked earlier. A waiter went past the end of the corridor, they waited in the shadows. She went into the room, he followed, locking the door behind him. In the inner stall, he grabbed her, kissing her furiously, slamming the door. This wasn’t going to be one of those times when he gently worked her to fever pitch, playing her body to bring out all its chords – this was a time for action. She pulled down her trousers as she leaned against the wall, grabbing for his belt, tugging on his fly. He was hard, she was wet and wide. He lifted one leg onto the toilet seat, holding her thigh as he leaned against her, up and in, a smooth jolt, her eyes widening with the thrust. Their heights were perfectly matched for vertical sex, they’d discovered years ago in more normal venues. He could rock his hips back and forth, powering his prick into and out of her slit, pushing her up against the stall wall, pulling her back towards him – one hand on her back, the other grasping her thigh. It only took a minute, she shuddered, her mouth found his, she gasped the religious words that so many agnostics resort to in the extremes of passion. He was always amazed by how quickly she orgasmed, and how often – he kept thrusting, knowing that once was not enough to unwind her sexual dynamo. She came again, gasping out her passion, and a third time, moments later. His thighs were starting to throb, this was not the most comfortable position to be in and the nagging demon at the back of his mind wouldn’t let go – the longer this went on, the more chance it would turn from a moment of wonder into a disaster that could ruin them both. Sometimes, discretion is the better part of lust. He pulled out, still erect, she leaned back against the wall, reaching for his penis with her hand. He pushed her away, stuffing his raging cock back into his pants, struggling with his fly, urging her to dress and get the fuck out of here. There was no way he could come, not so soon, not like this. But she had, and that’s what mattered to him.

They left the room, he hoping like hell that there wasn’t a line outside the bathroom, she not caring. They were in luck, and he scooted up the stairs, at least in so far as a man can scoot with an erection pointing up towards his belly, covered by his coat and his, hopefully, artfully placed hand. She settled the check, he not feeling able to talk to the bargirl with his cock in this condition – how could she miss the bulge?

They went into the streets, it was raining, there was no way they were going to find a taxi. Her apartment was a mile away. Standing next to her, smelling and seeing her, he was still erect, still his trousers bulged. Why hadn’t he brought an overcoat? Because he didn’t anticipate fucking his lover in a toilet and having to walk the streets with a raging stiffy, answered the rational part of his brain. He grabbed her bag, holding it in front of him like a schoolboy bringing an apple for teacher, as he waddled along beside her, wanting to move as quickly as he could while acknowledging the difficulties and discomfort involved in doing so – his cock was trapped, hard, the tip held under his belt, very uncomfortable. She, of course, was happy, she was feeling good, no semen to drip from her, no mess to be concerned about - post-orgasmic, yet anticipatory. Who says women have it hard, men easy? In this case, at least, he was having it hard, she was as soft and fluid as always.

They hurried through the streets, not caring about the rain, she grinning at his predicament, trading barbed comments, grabbing a quick feel when the street was clear, something that hardly helped his near-priapic condition. She opened the apartment door, they raced inside, clothes scattered onto the floor, chairs, anywhere – naked at last, he sank down on her, fucking her in a frenzy, balancing on toes and hands, touching her only with his cock, a position she loved and was amazed by – how could a middle-aged, regular guy have the strength to power his prick into her like this, over and over while his thighs and arms ached as he did press-ups on her. He knew the physical stress would make him come, and he HAD to come, sought the release, for once going for his own orgasm while knowing that she would get there anyway, while his own pressure mounted. She came, and came again, urging him on, reaching up and holding his back, moving her thighs to change the angle so that her pubic bone ground on his cock-ridge, He could feel the tension raise, knew he was going to come, told her so, she grabbed another shudder, her thighs rippled as he thrust one final time, pouring his sperm into her in rapid jets as he collapsed against her chest, exhausted, spent but utterly exhilarated. She stroked his forehead. “That was nice” she said. He was too shattered to think of a witty riposte to her erudition, knowing that for her, actions always counted, words never did.

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