Lucky Bastard by Charles McCarry Read Free Book Online

he was doing. I don’t come with tricks, you just don’t do that and usually it pisses me off if it happens by accident, but for once I wanted to.
    â€œI came like I was turning inside out, about three different ways. I was dripping all over the place, I bit the shit out of his shoulder to keep from screaming, I pulled his hair, I said things. It was so kinky—like being raped in a wet dream. It was, like, unreal. Not that he was rough or weird in any way—all he wanted was an absolutely straight fuck. He was way, way inside himself, like hypnotized. His body would not quit. He kept it up forever, it was amazing. I began to cry. I never cry. I didn’t even know I was crying at the time. But I heard myself sobbing, and with every sob, wham-wham , he was trying harder to tickle my backbone.
    â€œPretty soon he was getting off again, and I thought, this time it’s over. So I put my hands on his chest and pushed a little—not hard, a friendly hint. My ass was on the sink, it was uncomfortable. Right away he stepped back, a perfect gentleman. Now, this is funny. All this time, all this going on, and he never tried to kiss me, never touched my breasts. I take his hand to put it on a tit and he pulls my hand down and puts it in my hand and it’s still absolutely rigid, like nothing has happened.
    â€œHe smiles, asking permission, and puts the tips of his fingers, both hands, on my shoulders, and I think he wants a blowjob. But no. He says, ‘May I?’ He turns me around, and in the mirror I see my face, black with mascara, and he bends me over and slips it in again like it can see out of its eye. He’s watching my face in the mirror, which is as close as he gets to intimacy. Not a word, not a hand on my tits, just in and out, in and out, touching everything, which in that position is quite a trick. I could see his face was in the mirror, all squinched up. He was loving it. This position is what makes him happy. I expected it elsewhere, but it was vagina only. He just liked coming at me from the back. I like it myself as an encore—there’s less weight on you and if the guy is really hung you can tickle yourself at the same time, get a little bonus.
    â€œI gave the kid some moves he maybe hadn’t known before. He begins to breathe hard, finally, eyes squeezed shut. It was intense. I closed my eyes, too. Pretty soon I was coming like hiccups—I mean I couldn’t stop if I wanted to—and so was he. I thought it would never end. But then it did. He stepped away. I’m half blind, holding on to the sink, gasping, limp as a wet rag, I can hardly stand up.
    â€œAnd when I open my eyes again, he’s gone. Vanished. Out the door. I think: Oh shit! My purse, my dress! I have this picture of myself walking back into the restaurant in my birthday suit and I think, a tablecloth, I’ll grab a tablecloth! But everything was right where I left it. All he took was my panties. I looked at my watch, which was all I had on. Nine minutes by the clock, standing up and nonstop, and even then he probably had to throw cold water on it in order to get it back in his pants. I was staggering, trying to wash my face, wash the rest of me. I never saw anything like it.”
    I switched off the tape recorder and offered to hand it back to Peter. He waved it away. It was now part of my files.
    Peter said, “She may be embroidering slightly, to give the old masochist the good time I paid for. But mainly, I think, she told the truth. Opinion?”
    â€œThat we go slowly. Learn more. Assess carefully.”
    â€œThat’s not an opinion, it’s a recommendation.”
    â€œYou want an assessment?”
    â€œYes, I do.”
    At this stage, I knew from experience, he wanted a devil’s advocate. I said, “All right. Tonight I saw a boy of twenty-one who has charm, guile, and the gift of gab. Also a potentially disastrous case of Don Juan psychosis. And I think