During that coffee with Simone I’d almost made a slip. She’d said something – I forget what – that made it unclear how she’d got my email, and gave the impression she’d got it from a friend. I half followed up this comment, but in doing so almost gave away that I did not recall where I’d met her. But by switching back to what I had thought to be the case (that she had got it from the university people) I was able to cover my error (something which was eased by her only moderate command of English) and thus hide from her the fact she was, to me, at that point, essentially wholly random.
The messages that we exchanged after that coffee soon came towards the point, and I asked if next time I could see her all night.
‘Ha ha, I think it’s impossible’ she replied. ‘But if you can come to
That was a promising reply, yet she remained a little unsure (and that of course made her the easier to seduce) and followed it with another message to say, ‘You can laughing now. I’m silly, right?’
A week or so after that coffee, I found myself with a free day, due to a cancelled class, all the students having been packed off to learn the sparkling profundities of the Three Representatives. Or was it the ‘Seven Goods and Seven Bads’? Or the ‘Four Maybes, One Yes and Three Don’ts’? Some such specious dreck.
And so, suddenly free, I messaged her suggesting a meet. She accepted with alacrity, as I knew she would since her messages the intervening days had been green lights all the way. We met at a big mall near People’s Square, her clad in a white dress covered with dark polka dots which fluttered in the warm breeze, wrapping itself more closely around the contours of her body. But we did not linger, soon heading home so I could ‘show her my flat.’ This of course was a euphemism, and she showed she knew it by the tense, expectant way she sat in the cab. She knew it was sex, I knew it was sex. But I also knew that this was no easy green light. She would still need persuading, cajoling. And indeed she then seemed to set up a get-out, telling me ‘My stomach aches.’ This, of course, meant she had her period, at which I felt a brief surge of chagrin. So maybe I was wrong, I thought, and we would not be lovers today. But then I thought again; she was, after all, coming back with me. Whatever happened, this was most surely not merely a matter of ‘showing her my flat.’
Her nervousness increased once we got back to my flat, but I did not let that stop me too long, clipping her in my arms and angling for a kiss. She tensed, but did not pull away; let me kiss, but did not respond. And in this she was just like when I was seducing Tingting; bursts of passion mixed with stretches of reluctance. She’d kiss back for a moment or two, then withdraw again. Yet clearly she was interested, not murmuring for me to stop as I caressed her body.
I was sitting on the dining room table as this took place, her in my arms, her body held between my knees. I wanted to take her to the bedroom – which of course met with much protest from her, ‘No, no, I can’t, I am not a bad girl..’ Yet even so she let me lead her there. At the threshold she stopped; so I just picked her up – she is light, lithe -- and carried her to the bed.
It took a while, her passive and active by turns; a battle between what she wanted to do, and what she was conditioned to do. Again like Tingting, she wanted to be persuaded, wanted to be talked round. And some sweet words, some whispered ‘darlings’ and my assurance that she was not at all a bad girl allowed me to begin to undress her.
And now her reluctance showed for what it was, a mere veneer, for she began to return kiss for kiss, and now with interest, with passion, none of the perfunctory, cool response of before. Now she willingly let me unzip her zip, slip her cute white skirt up over her head, to reveal her smooth body, her bra, which, unusually, was not a padded one, for her breasts did not need it.
Indeed, she even worried out loud to me that her breasts were too big – a rare worry for a woman here to have. More than this, she was actively apologetic about the size of her breasts, telling me, ‘I hope you don’t mind… I don’t like it..’ And while I tried to convince her that they were wonderful, exciting, sexy, well-shaped, she was reluctant to believe me.
But she was still not fully ready, for she would not let me take her panties off, though I very much wanted to see her naked. But she was pretty sure about keeping her panties (tight fitting white cotton sporty type) on, and I accepted it was as a result of having her period rather than fear of fucking, for by this time I knew she was not a virgin. And so I did not push the matter. Why should I? I now knew that getting was I wanted was just a matter of time. There was no hurry – indeed, the anticipation made it all the more interesting.
I, naturally, was already naked, and at first she refused to look at my cock. And for our whole time abed she was not quite comfortable with it. She half wanted to look, half was afraid to. So I had to ease her hand down there, and then she did caress me a little, but nervously, unsure.
She did gratify me with murmurs as to its size – which murmurs, given her general innocence, could not have been calculated enough to be flattery. ‘It’s so much bigger than my boyfriend’s...His is just…’ and here she tailed off.
Ah, her boyfriend, who she mentioned to me before as something of a playboy, a handsome guy, runner after women. This is palpably rubbish, for what she went on to tell me shows he was no sort of lover. Kissing, caressing, I asked her if she enjoyed sex. ‘Sometimes..’ she said, with not much enthusiasm. In our resulting conversation I learned that she has been with him two years. And in this two years they have made love …six times. So few that it is easy for her to remember each time – each time, I tell myself (with little risk of being wrong) brief and unimaginative. I could easily imagine his technique – brief, hasty, furtive, bumbling; taking, not giving. Six times in two years! I knew that next time we met I would show her more than she’d dreamt of.