textfiles/sex/EROTICA/C/city.txt

The City That Never Sleeps

Kat is beautiful, in a generic sort of way.  You look at her, and
you think, well, her eyes are like Cindy Crawford's, her hair
like Christie Brinkley, and her body something like a Lexus
SC300: lean, with curves in all the right places.  It all adds up
to something unique -- her -- but nonetheless, the comparisons to
some other beautiful woman always come.  I know.  I listen to them
constantly.  It's as if she's not allowed to possess her own
beauty, it has to be stolen from someone else, photocopied onto
her body by Calvin Klein in the pages of Vogue magazine.

Then the secondary comparisons come, always directed at me, the
boyfriend.  Men are predictable; their observations always end at
their penis.  Women treat me with more deference in her presence
than they do when I'm alone, as if my being with Kat is some sort
of mystically accomplished empowerment.  All told, it gets old.
I just love Kat.  It's that simple.  She's beautiful to me because
she is who *she* is, not because her face is as alluring as
anything as Madison Avenue or Hollywood has produced.  For the
last few years, we've both been proverbially fat, dumb and happy,
having fun, being a couple, thinking about thinking about the
future.

As extraordinary days usually do, Friday began in an ordinary
way.  We woke up, cursed the clock and let it let us sleep ten
minutes too late.  After a too-quick shower together, we each
grabbed a too-hot Pop-Tart on our way out the door and gave each
other a quick peck.  She went east, I west.  "Love you!" she
said over her shoulder as she ran to her car, her purse falling
off her shoulder.

"Love you, too," I replied, heading the other way.  The memory of
her legs in stylishly short skirt burned in my memory as I
climbed into my car for another day's battle on the freeway.

At work, I gritted my teeth through the never-ending pile of
files that my secretary always seemed to place into my in-box
while I was away from my desk.  Insurance is boring at best, but
on Friday it is a cross between watching snow on television and
going to a needlepoint store with your least-favorite third aunt.
The Simpson file was in front of me; the front office had a
technical question about the policy structure.  I was cursing the
ineptitude of the bureaucrat-hacks up there when the phone rang.

"Yeah?" I said shortly, having answered the phone at least twenty
times so far that morning.

"Hey, Chris... 's me," Kat said.  "What are we doing tonight?"

"I dunno.  What *are* we doing tonight?"

"I was thinking about us going dancing.  It's been so long!  Will
you?  Please?"  her voiced had assumed that irresistible
please-please-please sound.

"Kat, I'm really tired... work is killing me."  I stalled, hoping
she'd let me off the hook.  Sometimes she did, other times not.
Problem is, I hate to dance.  I hate the plastic crowd, the
too-loud music, the smoke, just the whole scene really.  Me, I'd
rather go to a blues or a jazz bar, or just a bar, a place where
you can hang out and not have to worry about the single's game,
just jam to some tunes and quaff a few cold ones.  Like the ones
in the lower village in the city.  But Kat, she loves to dance.
I guess it's a natural extension of her aerobics and blues an
extension of my weightlifting regimen.  And she wasn't letting me
off the hook, not this time.

"Come *on*, baby!  You promised I get to pick this weekend.  And
I want to go and dance with you." she said.  "I know you hate it,
but you dance really well!  It makes me so--well, anyway, we
won't stay too late, promise."

Sold! to the insurance hack talking on the phone.

I laughed.  She was right and I was too busy to argue.  Good
relationships are about knowing when to give, and when to take.
I gave in.  After all, there are worse fates than dancing with
Kat.  "Okay, okay.  We'll go dancing.  Do you want to go and see
a show at the Comedy Club before we go?  The New Bar won't even
get going until eleven."  I asked her, trying to get a sort-of
compromise.

"Nahhh, let's go to a new place.  It'll be a surprise for you."
she answered.

"Okey-dokey.  Listen, babe, gotta run.  Old Man Crabby is going to
come and kick my ass if I don't get these files done before I
leave."  We said good-bye, and I went back to work.  It was hard
to concentrate, as I was wondering where she had in mind, there
are only two good dance bars in Raleigh, and Kat despised The
Longbranch, especially after some drunk redneck tried to pin her
in the corner and feel her up while I was in the bathroom.  That
was the first fight I'd gotten into in fifteen years and no
title-defenses in the two years since, thank you.  But that's
another story.  So I knew weren't going to go to Redneck City,
and if it wasn't The New Bar, where could it be?  It wasn't long
before the Simpson file and everything else had me wrapped up, so
it slipped my mind...

------------------------------

After work, I went out with my co-workers for a traditional
Friday quick beer before we headed off to our respective
weekends.  As usual, the conversation centered around office
politics and other people's sex lives.  I suppose the co-worker
conversations are the same for every corporation in North
America.  This one was no different.

I took my time getting home.  Kat usually liked to take an
hour-long candlelit soak in the tub after she got home from work
and the gym, so I didn't think there was any need to rush.  When
I walked in the door, she was all in a tizzy.

"Where've you been?  I've been waiting for almost an hour!  We've
got to hurry!"  she said breathlessly.  I was taken by surprise.
The clock said 6:41.  It wouldn't be time to go out for hours.

She was already half-dressed in her going-out clothes: a sequined
turquoise upper-mid-thigh mini-dress, black stockings and garter,
pumps (not spikes but the in-style ones).  She was also wearing a
dab of three different colognes that added up to a new one.  The
colognes are a Kat trademark, something she refers to as a paean
to her French ancestry.  Looking at her got me hard.  My pants
were like a tent.  Her smell got me throbbing.

"Here!  Here!  Go take a shower!  I'll put your clothes out for
you!"  She reached up and kissed me quickly. The back of her hand
brushed my prick as she did, and after the kiss she looked down
and smiled.

"He really *is* a devil!" she said.  "But no time!  Later!"  She
gave my manhood a quick squeeze.  Then she turned to the closet
and starting getting out some of my clothes.  "Hurry!  There
isn't much time!"

After I got out of the shower, I put on the clothes Kat had
selected: Emporio Armani slacks, a Liz Claiborne original shirt
and, of course, a neon yellow G-string to wear beneath my jeans.
"Let's go!  We have to hurry or we'll be late!" she exclaimed,
sounding a bit like a character from Alice In Wonderland.

We got into the car and headed west, towards the airport.  Now I
was puzzled.  This was on the way to nowhere-land, unless we were
going to Chapel Hill.  At the airport exit, Kat took a dive off
of the highway and we were at RDU International in a quick
minute.

We parked the car, and she grabbed my hand and started running.
"We'll just barely make it!"  And we did--by two minutes, we made
the last American Airlines flight of the evening to Laguardia.

On the plane, my rush had evaporated into shock.  "New York!" I
said.  "You want to dance in the *city*?"

"Yup, lover.  We're going to Webster Hall.  And tomorrow,
MacSorley's.  I know you love that place, and after I bamboozled
you into this, it's the least I can do!"

"But the money!  We're not exactly Donald Trump, you know!"

"Don't worry.  I've got an appointment tomorrow and it plays for
the whole trip.  I just wanted you to be surprised!  We're going
to have a blast!"

So there we were, over Virginia, drinking champagne and laughing
at our latest adventure.

------------------------------

The line to Webster Hall was long, and the first chill of autumn
was blowing through the Village.  Neither Kat nor I were wearing
a coat, mainly because it's a pain in the ass to keep up with one
once you're in a steamy club.  As a result, her braless nipples
were pressing against the thin fabric of the dress she was
wearing.  It was a black something-or-other, and I loved it
because up top it barely contained Kat's voluptuous breasts.  You
could see nearly everything on the sides as well as almost see
the areola from the front.  My pants were getting thick just
looking at her.

After a few minutes, we were waved inside, and then in the
magnificent library that comprises Webster Hall.  We relaxed over
a few drinks, laughing at the outrageousness that can only be
found (in America) in New York City.  The beautiful people were
out in force, and we were two of them.  I took Kat's hand and
took her out to the dance floor.

Despite my taste for the more sanguine strains of jazz, blues or
rock, I was soon throbbing to the music.  Then, an old song,
"Connected" by xxx came on.  Kat started rubbing her body onto
mine, and in a moment, we were in the throbs of a reggae rhumba.
If you've never danced it, it's an extremely erotic dance -- my
knees were in front of my waist, my legs spread, and my torso
throbbing upwards and downwards to the beat.  The best part is
this: Kat was between my legs, in virtually the same position,
except we were joined at the crotch area.  She was rubbing her
sex on my right quadricep, her thigh rubbing itself at my crotch.
My man was awake in an instant.

The song was the re-mix, and lasted for at least ten minutes.  We
danced with abandon, and near the end, I felt wetness on my leg.
Kat knew it too, and started to laughing.  "Sorry, Chris!"  Not
that I minded.

The floor was crowded and dim, and no one was looking.  Sensing
this, I reached under Kat's dress, and found her thighs warm and
damp.  My hand tracked to her sex, where it was even hotter and
wetter.  She caught her breath at my touch and twitched her
muscles around my fingers.  She'd also shaved herself that day,
she was as smooth as silk.  I removed my hand and slowly licked
her from my fingers, tasting and smelling her excitement.
"Mmmmm" I whispered into her ear.

"Do you say that to all the girls?" she asked with her frolicking
tone.

"Ah, but of course.  Until I met you, that is..." I replied with
some seriousness.

"I bet they cannot resist you, Monsieur!" she said, still
smiling.

"Maybe, but I cannot resist *you*!" I said with equal levity.
Funny how truth comes sometimes comes out as a joke.

A song ended, and Kat took me by the hand.  "Come!  Come!  I've
got a great idea!"  With that, we left the dance floor and found
ourselves in a dimly lit corner, sitting together in a leather
chair like you'd find in some English mansion.

Kat looked around the club and the scene as it unfolded in front
of us.  Funny how bars are like a thousand little dramas.  Some
have tragedy, some continue another night, other have a happy
ending.  Ours was going to have a happy ending.  This was decided
when Kat started rubbing my cock.  It responded immediately.
"Bet you want me, lover." she said huskily.  "I know I want you."

"More than you know, mon cheri," I said.

"Bet you want me right now!" she said, tauntingly.

"Again, more than you know!" I laughed.

"Then take me!" she exclaimed.

"Here?" I said, in some shock.  There were hundreds of people in
the room!

Kat didn't reply.  Instead she stood, and then sat again on my
waist.  She reached down between her legs and found my zipper.
She quickly pulled it down, and reached inside my pants.  She
found the top of my underwear and pulled them aside, finding my
cock beneath.  She grabbed it and pulled it out of my pants.
Still holding it, she slid herself forward and straight into her
waiting sex.

"Now," she said.

She didn't move, only squeezed me with her pussy.  I didn't move
either, transfixed by her boldness and the pleasure that was
enveloping me with great rapidity.  I never lasted long inside
her, only exactly as long as she wanted.  Kat worked out every
day, and she once told me that she worked her pussy out too,
doing something she called Kegel exercises.  They worked.

"Don't wait!" she said through her own clenched teeth.  At that
moment, a waitress started approaching.  As she drew close, about
ten feet, Kat and I both erupted simultaneously.  It was terribly
hard not to scream, I'm sure for both of us.

The twitches from both Kat's pussy and my own cock were just
subsiding when the waitress stepped in front of us and asked,
"Can I bring you anything?"

Kat looked at her and smiled.  "No, I think we're doing fine for
the moment."