Getting Blogged

After dropping off the kids, I go to meet Scarlet at Penn Station. Our landmark is the big board of Amtrak arrivals and departures. It’s rush hour, and sure enough, it is crowded as hell.

I am armed with my memory of her picture, her cell phone number, and the news that her hair is now red. I had told her I would be a little late to meet her.

In order to be here at my earliest available moment, per her suggestion, she awoke before dawn and took a two-hour train into the city. This after working her job until midnight. She said he might be carrying a pillow so she could sleep on the train.

I spot her in the crowd. I have no doubt: it’s her. Pillow and all.

I come up behind her. I touch her right shoulder, and then kiss her left one. “Hi.”

She turns in one direction, then back to me. “Whoa, hey there.” We see each other’s faces for the first time. By design, all the safety nets are still in place. We have met in a very public place. Either of us can call it quits.

We lapse into an easy conversation, How was her trip? I am so impressed she is making this effort to meet. Oh, she is fine. It was cold this morning, but the trip was fine. Did I get the kids to school all right? Oh, the usual hassles, nothing major.

I have no idea what she thinks of me, but my first impression of her is most favorable. She speaks easily, openly, as we make conversation. She seems totally at ease. And she is so very pretty.

Her hair is straight, shoulder length and red, or rather, deep brunette with streaks of magenta (“No,” she corrects me, “corvette red and strawberry fields.”) Her brown eyes peer over slender rectangular glasses. She speaks with a slight lisp. When her mouth is at rest, it smiles naturally, in two tender waves.

She is wearing loose schlumpy clothes. Carrying her bag and a pillow, she is vaguely Janis Joplinesque, in a happy Pearl moment.

I take her pillow. As we stroll through rush hour at Penn Station, we may as well be ice-skating through a blizzard of commuters. We are at ease, and in no hurry.

I escort her onto the subway. We arrive near my place. It is cold and windy as we hit the streets.

“It’s cold! Maybe I should have worn underwear,” she says.

We arrive at my place, ditch our coats, and sit. We talk, and mostly, she talks. I’m sure she is nervous. I am too, but she is taking the bigger risk—and on less sleep. I ask questions so that I learn new things about her as she talks. We peck. I toy with her hair.

She notices details about my apartment, her eyes keen to details—almost like she is confirming what she has read in the blog. You do have a lot of books. Does that SpongeBob belong to your kids? Is this the room where the gatherings take place?

“I am not getting cold feet,” she says, more to herself than to me. She removes her shoes. We kiss.

I take her hand and suggest we move into the bedroom. “Oh that looks comfortable,” she says, falling face down into my bed. I lay down on top of her. It’s very cozy.

“This is just what I needed,” she says. “To be held.” I kiss her head, her shoulders. I roll off her, wrapping myself in an embrace around her.

“Let’s undress,” I say, “and feel each other’s flesh.” I take off her socks, and remove her pants. She pulls off my shirt. We are quickly nude. We embrace and neck, and she lies in my arms. I could hold her as she sleeps.

She turns, bringing her mouth to mine. Her kisses are giving and playful; she sucks my tongue into her mouth and teases that she could swallow it whole. Don’t, I say. You might need it later.

It feels so good to hold her, and she’s a great kisser. I tell her so. “Really?” she says, genuinely surprised. “I’ve never heard that I’m a good kisser.” Oh, but she is, and I want more. My fingers are drawn to her hair. She smells so fresh.

“I do have an oral fixation, though,” she allows. This is good to know.

I sit up to look at her. Her arms are on my pillows, her eyes closed, her mouth resting in its smile. Her skin is pale, like mine. She has small breasts, with pearly pink nipples. Her loose clothes have disguised a soft, feminine body, with a slender waist and full hips. Her pubis is shaved, revealing her pink pussy.

I kiss and suck her nipples. She tells me they were once pierced, and can take a lot of pain.

I kiss her belly, caressing her skin, pinching a nipple. Her hips squirm. My tongue wanders south.

“Good luck with that,” she says. “No one has ever made me cum like that.”

Now, now, I tell myself. You can ignore the gauntlet. You don’t have to regard this as a challenge. Not everyone gets off on oral sex.

I set to devouring her. She moans and squirms. At times, her body goes still. “That’s frustrating,” she says. What? “To get so close and not get there.” Did you prefer when I did this, I ask, flicking my tongue on her clit, or this, I ask, wrapping my mouth on her clit and sucking. She can’t say.

I keep an eye on her as I eat her. I play with her nipples. Two fingers enter her, and hook. I penetrate her with a steady rhythm, my mouth working in concert.

She very quickly cums, in waves of moans. Suddenly, she convulses and twists away. She pulls me to her mouth and kisses me.

“You made me shake,” she smiles.

“I’m so glad honey,” I smile back. “Now I’m going to fuck you.”

She watches as I put on a condom, her first real look at my cock. I kiss her, and I am in her. I close her eyes, and watch as she responds to me.

For a while, she is relaxed, content to get fucked, not moving very much. I build a fast steady motion and she begins to moan, and to move. Then, she loses it. I try again. She gets close, but if I break the motion—by shifting my weight, or trying another staccato—she loses momentum.

I slip down to suck her pussy. I give her four fingers, two from each hand, working in counter rhythm. She cums.

“Kudos to you,” she says afterwards. “You made that work for the first time, and then you did it again.” We rest a moment, then I am back in her.

“I want you on top of me,” I say.

“That’s not the best position for me,” she says. “I can’t keep the rhythm.”

“You seem to like a regular beat,”

“I’m a musician,” she says. “I can’t stop counting time.”

I pull her on top of me without removing my cock. “I will help you keep count,” I whisper. She starts to fuck me, as I push up. One two three, one two three, this is the beat, one two three, one two three.

Her hair is in my face. I pull it up and hold it. She slips off beat. I hold her breast, pinch her nipple. Don’t think, I think. Feel this.

My hands go to her hips, and flow with her motions. I keep steady under her. We go for a while, then rest. I am in her arms, listening to her heart pound, kissing her skin.

“You really got me off,” she says. “Can I return the favor?” By all means, I say.

She moves to put her face near my cock. She takes hold and points it at me. “You don’t shave here. Boo to you.” I start to reply, but she has taken my cock full into her mouth.

Her mouth moves up and down fast, soaking me. She is improvising, moving across tempos, and breaking it up with slow deep plunges.

This is so good, I tell her. “Really?’ she smiles? “I’m not really doing anything.” I tell her what she is doing that works: the wetness, the motion of her tongue, the way she gets me excited then slows me down with her deep throat.

She says she’s just keeping her mouth happy, like eating taffy.

As I give myself over to the pleasure coursing through me, I think: this girl got up at dawn to travel two hours so she could suck my dick—just because she likes the way I write. This is a very hot thought.

I think about her reaction to the blog. She has told me she gets off on being dominated, and we’ve been playing so nice. “Honey, you need to decide if you want me to cum, or if you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you to cum. But I am not saying no to getting fucked.”

I pull her hair to get her off my dick. I tell her to bend over so I can fuck her.

“Knock yourself out back there,” she smiles. “The harder the better.”

I start fucking her fast with deep, long strokes. I take a moment to get acquainted with her asshole, massaging it with my thumb. She moans.

I keep the beat, grabbing her hair in one hand.

I grab the skin of her back firm in both hands, and use these hands full of flesh as reigns to ride her harder. Her moans are louder, her breathing faster. I release my hands and slap her ass. Hard, rapid, often, never losing the motion as I fuck her.

I slip the tip of my thumb into her ass, using it as a lever to move her. She yowls.

I grab her hips. I move my hands to the skin of her waist, and grab hold. I squeeze tight and pound. She moves her ass back on to me.

Her hand comes back to mine. I let go of her flesh. I slow my fucking.

I rest inside her. I kiss her back. I nibble her skin.

I tell her I want more of her mouth. She sucks me, and I am so focused on her mouth, and her pretty face.

I flash on our previous conversations—she wants bukkake. Glad I remembered.

I flip her on her back. I squeeze her sweet pink nipple as I cum on her face, in her hair, on her neck and chest. Her eyes are closed, and her smile is so soft and lovely. I kiss her, smearing my cum on her flesh with my hands.

“I smell like man,” she laughs.

“They say it’s good for wrinkles,” I tell her.

“But I don’t have wrinkles.”

“See how well it works?”

We shower together, and as we do I think I would like nothing better than a nice road trip with this funny girl who found me.

I had promised her a grilled cheese sandwich. She put on her sweater and we talked as I cooked. We kept kissing. I couldn’t leave those lips alone.

We ate, then spent some more time in bed, talking, kissing, holding one another. She says she wants to come back. I want that. We compare schedules and make a date.

She is so pretty. I would like her to know that. She doubts it, but how can she?

I take her back to the train station. We walk slowly, holding hands, moving in our own bliss. As we kiss goodbye, she says she has a “perma-grin.”

I tell her I want her to chose a name for me to give her in this blog.

She christens herself “Scarlet.”