Alarmingly Strange Stories

Strings Attached
Cyndi Kirkpatrick

He was smug, licking his lips, positive he had found a sure thing. His foot stroked her calf under the table. "That's OK, sugar. Dangerous is just how I like it."

She looked at his face, trying to see something that would tell her if it was right to choose this man or not. Nothing gave her a clue. She came to a decision. "Then we were made for each other," she answered as she stood to leave.

Waiting by the door as he paid the tab, she looked him over, trying to imagine what he might have been like as a little boy. She couldn't picture it, which was a relief. He rejoined her, giving one cheek of her ass a firm squeeze. She gave him a quick kiss to show she wasn't offended, then took his hand away. Keeping it in hers, she led him through the cold night, down the road to her home.

He kissed her when they stopped in front of her place. When he was done, she unlocked the door, pushed it open and jokingly made a courtly bow with a flourish, inviting him to enter before her. "Won't you step in?" Her tone was wry. After another quick, sloppy kiss, which she returned gladly enough, he picked her up with mocking romance and carried her with him, setting her down inside when the door was closed.

He cracked his knuckles and looked around as she put their coats away. He was surprised to see crates and boxes piled everywhere, then remembered she had said she was moving. He hoped there was somewhere comfortable to do it. He still had plenty of the right stuff but hard floors were cruel to his knees which were getting, the doctor said, arthritic. "Sorry about the mess," she said. "We can talk in here. I haven't packed all the bedroom yet." Taking off her blouse, she disappeared into the next room.

"I'll bet you haven't." He focused on the pleasant anticipation of having her. He thought she was going to be good. Quiet but hot and sure about what she wanted. That type woman usually had secrets. He liked secrets. He followed her.

The room he entered was stark and colorless after the scattered, bright mess of the living room. The only illumination was from the open, curtain less window, moonlight and city glow which fell in a cold rectangle on the dark hardwood floor and reflected from the plaster walls. When his eyes had adjusted, the rest of her clothing were just visible in front of him, dropped in a trail that led to the only furniture in the room, a huge four-poster bed that was draped top to bottom in what appeared to be thousands of pale, silken handkerchiefs and scarves. The veils still moved from when she had parted the curtain to disappear behind them. Shedding his own clothes, he joined her.

She let him do as he wished, did to him what he wanted. The walk had cleared his head but now he felt drunk again. As time passed, he felt a lulling ease come over him. He reached out less and less often, let himself be lazy as his arms and legs rested on the soft, multitude of pillows that were her mattress. In the end, he had no inclination to move at all, lying passively, letting the pleasure of her wash over him, take him where he wanted to go. When she climbed on top of him and began to ride with an ancient rhythm, he was content to let her set the pace, feeling the soft movement of the shifting cushions moving under him, the soft silk of her working over him.

She held back as long as she could, letting him enjoy himself. She owed him that, she felt. She had to concentrate to remember he was there. It was easy to think of other things and let her body direct its own actions. It had been demanding this for too long. Giving in was sheer relief and utterly necessary, no matter what she thought before or later. At last, she felt him arch under her and waited until she knew he had his seed. It overcame her then, a helpless, satisfying, instinctive bliss that was all the more overwhelming for her trying to keep it in check.


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