If you haven't read Part 1 of our ongoing story "New Openings," it's alive and well and living in our archives. You can check it out by following the link. But for now, here's where we left off last week:

"I want you to know..." I said. I realized I was holding my breath. One part of me didn't want what I was about to say, but the part that was talking was getting off on tormenting the first part. Maybe I'm a weirdo that way, but so I sort of swallowed and continued. "I just want you to know that if you ever get the chance to --"
"Forget about it," he said.
"I mean if you ever get the chance to be with one of those girls --"
"Look, I'm not going to fuck anybody else. So let's drop it."
"I want you to feel free. I want you to know I'm OK with it."

[And now for Part 2:]

"No you're not," he said.

I know he's thinking I'm like other women that way. That I'm just baiting him so he'll say he wants her, and then I'll pounce. And then the blame game will start, harsh and furious. Women can hit below the belt -- right in the psychology where men are loathe to go. But no. No. I won't do that.

Sure I don't want to lose him. But I really want to play it out -- this pain. Will it feel like little knives when he pulls down the straps of her tiny top and I see his hand tremble, brushing his long fingers over her pale, bare shoulders? When he cups gentle hands around her small, baby-soft breasts? When he pours a fluid cushion of kisses over her pearly nipples and I see how it makes her skin go gooseflesh.

When her tiny tremors let him know he can press his fingers below her navel into the moist heat of her pants. Will I be wet? Will I be trembly too? Will my stomach tighten to see how easily she lets him draw down her pants, her innocent cotton undies, exposing her small blond box? Perhaps I'll be a little angry because he has become her world and I am not there, even though I AM there, watching, watching: His long finger strokes the crack of her girl-pussy, down and down again, counting her every goose bump. He makes her feel the chill of inexperience. I look at how clean and fur-soft and unused is her little pussy. So unhandled, its lips cling closed; they don't fall open wantonly like my hungry cunt, now that I need him. How it aches to compare: My bush is dark, my mound fleshy and devouring; hers is moon-pure and prim and retiring... One shouldn't compare.

Max takes off his shirt so that the essential oils worked into his skin blanket her olfactory -- like a spider he's wrapping her in his threads. She goes weak at the knees, falling towards him so her little breasts pour onto his chest. Do I tremble then? Do I want to stab and destroy, or do I just want to crawl in between them, to be her, by proxy, to feel him through her?

Max says I'm too romantic and poetic. Maybe he's right. Maybe when it becomes real that he seduces and fucks a girl virgin, I won't be so understanding at all. I'll be the savage she-cat he thinks I've got hiding in me. I'll be every man's nightmare, spitting out vile curses to despoil what they feel is natural and pure.

"You're right, I'm not OK with it," I admitted, "but I want you to feel free to come on to one of these girls anyway."

"Can we talk about something else now?"

"Sure, Max."

No, of course I can't keep those jealous pangs from dribbling into my voice. I know he feels judged. Of course it comes out sounding like … a challenge … an indictment. But that doesn't mean my offer isn't sincere.

"OK." I said. "But for us to have anything real, you have to be who you are. And I have to deal with it. I really mean that." And then I dropped it.

He offered to give me a massage that night. I wanted to fuck, but I went along with the massage. He would know. He rubbed those oils into my back, he drummed the tension at my shoulders. I forgot about the young waitress he had charmed, her long, fine, strawberry blond hair, the macramé bracelets on her bony wrists, her elegant fragile fingers, her soft voice. The way he stared at her, suspending his sentence as his eyes peeled away her blouse and drank the pink from her nipples -- as I imagined it. I couldn't think about that any longer because his long thin thumb was in me pressing against my anal walls and two fingers slid up my wet inner labia and patted my clit. When I'm all entered like that, I can't think. With his free hand he was massaging lazy circles into the small of my back. I arched so my holes could take more of him. The feeling of openness made me nearly dizzy.

We made love then, and Max was all over me like a toddler surrounded in toys, wild and curious, and unconscious. No crevice could hide from his tongue. He pushed his fingers up my vagina and sucked my nipples. He rimmed my asshole and played with my clit. He moaned; he was lost in heat. He straddled me at the shoulders and went down on me. As he opened my cunt with his fingers, I buried my tongue into his soft butthole and rocked his balls gently. With my other hand I squeezed the precum from his penis, and pretty soon the small meatus gasped up a steady flow without coaxing. I smeared it along his shaft half-consciously, my clit being under assault by his wriggling tongue. Eventually, Max settled in and ate me raw. The crack of his ass had the scent of essential oils mixed faintly with musk. I filled his crack with tongue slime. I was amazed when I felt his hot cum ooze out between my breasts -- so fast and unannounced.

When he recovered, he assaulted my pussy parts with both finger and mouth, until they quivered a messy climax. My cunt spasmed; he kept time by tapping two fingers, one against my hole the other against my clit, as if he were conducting my orgasm. And as the spasms waned, he shoved three firm fingers up my vagina. He felt around for my g-spot and pressed. He forced my body to come deeper, making me grunt like an animal. Unghhhh.

I woke up thinking that I would never leave this man. That he could have a harem of nineteen year-olds kneeling nude at his dick... But who knows how reality might trash your fantasies? I was about to find out.


[To be continued...]