Life of a Pro

Her partner Emily had hung around the party only for the first hour or so, and then she left to catch a flight back home. Heather had been alone with John for about 3 hours at the party. She could still remember the fateful moment that would change everything. In a sudden self-conscious moment in their conversation, she noticed that she had a hand on his arm and she realized that she had been absent-mindedly doing it off and on for at least an hour. She noticed it because for the first time, he reciprocated by putting his hand on her thigh. A season as a pro volleyball player gives you a good tan, and his skin color was a marked contrast on her leg.

When she saw that he had noticed her looking at his hand on her thigh, but did not remove it, the conversation came to complete silence, relaxed and yet tense silence. The romance and sensuality in the air seemed to swallow any possible words. Somehow he'd managed to speak. "Corny as this may sound, I have to say that from the moment I saw you on the court, I simply knew I had to touch you. Now that I have, I am overwhelmed with just how gorgeous and sexy you are. I would love nothing more than to take you home, and pamper you — feel you — smell you — taste you — serve you. If you don't mind being treated like an absolute Goddess, I would love for you to come home with me and spend the night."

Under any other context, she probably would have laughed at those words, which almost sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. But his sincerity was unmistakable, so instead she felt like she had been struck by lightning. He had so obliquely avoided this moment that the direct honesty of his words and the passion in his voice shocked her. She knew she was attracted to John, and had suspected that if he'd just made a move, they might end up spending some time together. But his words painted wonderful images in her head. She wanted to be felt, smelled, tasted, and served — whatever that meant, it sounded good to her. She didn't say a word, couldn't say a word to respond to him.

Instead, she squeezed his hand and got up from the bar stool.

As she sat in the plane heading back to Racine a year later, she marvelled over how unapprehensive she was as they left the bar together, how pure the excitement she felt was as they got in his car and went to his home. She had actually grown moist between her thighs sitting in his car, something she didn't ever remember doing before without some direct touch or stimulation. The moment was so romantic, and the electric charge of lust was very distinct in the hot summer air.

The drive was mercifully short, about 10 minutes. Neither of them said anything. It was like all that could be said needed to be said when they could actually be face-to-face. He lived in a new or near-new ranch house. She noticed that his house was in a relatively secluded, beautiful wooded area. Clearly he had money. When she passed through the front door of the house as he held it open, she had a brief pang of doubt. But then she felt his hand touch her back. It felt like fire traveling up her spine.

As soon as they were inside, she turned to him and they began to kiss. Gentle kisses on the lips gave way to the passion of kisses held back for too long. Long, moist, open-mouthed kisses. She could taste the beer in his mouth, but it tasted fresh and sweet. His skin had that distinctly masculine scent that she knew could not happen without sweat. Without transition, he had picked her up in his arms. Her head was nestled close to his neck as he carried her like a little girl into his living room.

He laid her gently on his sofa, sitting upright, and knelt in front of her. She remembered how erotic it felt looking down and seeing his lean waist between her knees. She remembered visions of him fucking her entering her head. She was amazed at how turned on she was and how [?] her thoughts were. She couldn't even blame the alcohol she'd drunk either. She hadn't had anything to drink for the last 1 to 1½ hours that they were at the bar, and except for a slightly lingering buzz, she knew she was straight.

She started to lean forward to kiss him, but he gently pushed her back and put his index finger to her lips in a motion oddly like shushing her. He said, "As an admiring fan, I would like to just spend this night admiring you. As long as we're in my house anyway, I'd like to treat you as my guest. This means you'll just have to sit back passively and allow yourself to be adored. Can you do that?" He lingered on the word "adored" and pressed his lips against her neck.

Mutely, she had nodded yes. Now it seemed ridiculous, but at the time, she trusted him completely. She was more than willing at that moment to give up control of the situation to be adored.

And adore her he did. She remembered the feeling of his hands caressing her back, waist and thighs as she sat back and relaxed on his sofa. He continually kissed her neck. Each kiss was drawn out, racing her pulse. He seemed to be trying to draw in her essence with each one. She could tell by the sound that with each inhalation he was savoring her scents. He began to speak to her through his kisses. "They say that girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice..."

Again, as the memories flooded back to her in vivid detail on the plane back to Racine, she felt a pang of regret that it hadn't just stopped there. What happened up to that point was almost like a fairy tale; it was everything she had ever envisioned in meeting a new man. Romantic. Hot. Sexy...

"I want to taste your sugar and your spice," he'd said, finishing each sentence with a kiss.

But what happened that night brought such shame to her afterward that she just couldn't bear it. To chalk it off as kinky sex didn't even scratch the surface. Her behavior was so unlike her own self-perception, but worst of all she had loved every minute of it. It wasn't until the next day, out of the heat of the moment, that her actions just seemed unconscionable to her. She had left without a word before he woke up the next day. Somehow he'd figured out her address and sent her letters. None of the letters even hinted at what had gone on that night, but she still could not answer them...

"And I don't care whether or not you're nice," he'd said. Each kiss drew his face closer to her chest.

"I care about worshipping you like the sweet Goddess you are." He opened her blouse with his teeth. She was not wearing a bra. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her toward him, arching her back. His words were intoxicating. They created a mood of complete abandonment. He could worship her any way he wanted.

He kissed a nipple and then drew it into his mouth. She let her head fall back and let out a soft moan. With one hand he caressed the other breast, teasing the nipple into full hardness. She felt the other hand on the middle of her back slide down the back of her jean shorts. She felt a finger slip down enough to touch the crack of her ass.

He removed the hand from her breast and unbuttoned the top of her shorts. His face soon followed, so that when he unzipped her shorts she could feel his breath lightly on her belly button and below. Using both hands he lifted her 5'7" frame enough to slide her shorts down her thighs and off of her ankles. He paused to lean forward and give the arch of each foot a gentle, lingering kiss. The sight of sheer reverence in the gesture made her feel a little light-headed; she wanted to feel those kisses everywhere...

"It is an absolute pleasure to kiss your feet," he said, and then took one big toe into his mouth. Then he began to lick the bottom of each foot. She spoke for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. "Do you have a fetish for feet?"