meeting_amanda

Archive-name: meeting_amanda

Subject: Backrub Repost: "Meeting Amanda" (m/femvampyre)

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

Meeting Amanda
by Backrub

WARNING: This story contains graphic descriptions of
sexual activities. Do not read this story if you are
below the age of consent or such material might
offend you.

He noticed her as he was walking down Broadway, just
after 11 P.M. The Village was alive on that
September Friday evening, people relieved of the
workweek and the heat of a Manhattan summer. No more
stinking garbage or sweaty subway platforms, but
enough summer warmth to feel the freedom of evenings
without coats and early darkness.

The scene was as it has been for decades, changing in
tone with generations, but not in substance.
Thousands of people streaming down the wide
sidewalks: colors of skin, hair and clothes, old and
young, smiling and laughing, scowling and dying.
Books, antique clothes, magazine stores, locals
sitting on stoops, students trying to look cool on
their first days at NYU. Smells of
ginger/garlic/soy/sesame, pizza, souvlaki, onions and
killerdogs.

People waiting for buses, people peering into store
windows and talking, people leaning against buildings
reading books, people leaning against buildings
dying. People leaving the 8th Street subway station
into the night, people sitting on the sidewalk
selling old books, new books, old clothes, incense,
the debris of their lives. Furs and punk, jewels and
bottlecap rings, Brooks Brothers, The Gap and the
Salvation Army.

In the midst of all he saw her turn from Astor Place
onto Broadway, walking downtown. The first thing he
noticed was the way she moved. Not just graceful,
fluid. Maneuvering through the crowd deftly but
without any appearance of speed or haste. At the
tail end of the short skirt season she was wearing a
tight black skirt and black tights, a tight black
sleeveless top. From twenty feet away she looked
like a living statue, weathered brown but taut and
strong. Her short black hair barely moved with her
movements.

He was in no hurry and was drawn to her. He'd meant
to move crosstown toward Indian restaurant row but
found himself still trailing her by fifty feet by the
time they passed Great Jones Street, heading toward
Houston. It was not as if she was the only woman on
the street. A blonde in cutoffs and a silk camisole.
Another woman in a denim miniskirt, one of his
weaknesses and a t-shirt with the neck torn out. It
was this other woman who drew his interest and his
thoughts.

He imagined her sitting in a large chair with her
legs draped over plush arms. He knelt before her,
gazed into the crotchless black tights and her pussy
at their center. She grabbed his head, hooked her
legs around his neck and pulled him into her, to lick
and suck until she arched her back and pressed his
face deep into her wet musky cunt.

He imagined pulling her into an alley just out of
sight of the street, reaching under her skirt and
rubbing her pussy until she began to move against his
hand. He pressed her against the brick wall of the
building pulled her hips out, hiked up her skirt and
slid into her from behind, fucking her fast and hard
as he reached around and rubbed her clit.

He imagined her facing him on the crowded street,
unzipping his pants and stroking his cock while she
reached beneath her skirt, lifted her leg onto a fire
department connection and fingered herself. Crowds
of people swarmed by as she jerked him and herself
off, never taking her eyes off of his, watching each
other slide over the edge.

His thoughts came quickly and almost without his
conscious intervention and the thoughts kept him on
her trail.

At Houston Street she stopped abruptly, even though
the light was with southbound traffic. She turned
and looked into his, eyes without hesitation, as if
she'd known all along that he was there. He saw her
standing there fifty feet away and suddenly felt her
presence right before him, even as he saw her yards
in the distance, down to the scent of her breath.
Sweetish, a smell he could not quite identify. She
looked into his eyes, fifty feet away and right
before him and for a split second he was struck with
visions: Paris as seen from one thousand feet, a dark
alley and a dead body, a taste in his mouth. An
intense rush up his spine made him shudder slightly
right there past Bleeker Street and the No. 6
station. And then the spell was broken. She held his
gaze, smiled slightly and walked across Houston. He'd
never had a woman look at him that way, in a city
where women on the street live defensively, avoiding
eye contact. In a few seconds she'd turned his street
voyeurism and fantasy into attraction, obsession and
commitment. He wanted those legs wrapped around his
waist, he longed for her pussy in his face, he needed
to feel what she was like when she came.

He quickened his pace, but she was fast and always
kept ahead. He followed her south past Prince Street
and then left onto Spring. Just before Lafayette he
saw her enter a building. He followed her up four
flights of stairs she which took as if in graceful
flight, music increasing in volume as they climbed.
At the top he found himself at a large loft apartment
filled with one hundred people, most of them dancing.
The stereo playing "Burning Down the House" at high
volume, the smell of beer, sweat, marijuana and
perfume.

And then she was there in front of him, dancing,
moving, bouncing, shimmying in perfect rhythm.
Breasts swaying gently, skirt sliding up her taut
thighs, eyes blazing. She moved onto the floor and
he followed. Never completely comfortable on a dance
floor, he now felt that he might as well be dancing
with Nureyev. She was not flashy, she didn't attract
much attention, but her movements were perfectly
fluid: graceful, sensual, erotic and strong all at
once. They danced for half an hour until a slow
number and she backed into him, rubbing her tight ass
against his groin, feeling him harden. He placed his
hands on her waist - strong and hard and cool again.
He pressed forward against her ass and she made a
hissing sound in response.

She broke the embrace and walked toward the door,
latching onto his fingers as she went, and he
followed. Up the stairs again, through a bulkhead
door and onto the roof. The front of the building
had a young couple fucking rear entry bent over the
parapet. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist
and his hands were slid under her blouse. They
didn't notice the new arrivals. Neither did the two
women leaning against a vent housing a few feet away
smoking pot and watching the show.

She took him around the alley side of the building
roof, away from the noise and people. She grabbed his
belt and before he could properly react, she had him
unbuckled and he was falling onto the roof onto his
back. His shoes came off in a flash and his pants
followed. She was on top of him, kissing him
passionately, sucking deeply on his tongue. She
reached behind and drew up her skirt and flipped
herself around on him, lowering a musky cunt onto his
eager face. He began to lick and tongue her
immediately, and she responded by rubbing herself
over his face, smearing him with juices already
flowing. The smell from her pussy, like her breath,
was familiar, but he couldn't place it. But then he
had never failed to enjoy the smell of a woman's sex.

He felt her lips on his cock and an incredibly fast
tongue flicking its way up and down his shaft, lips
pressed against the underside rubbing. Then she
engulfed him.

He felt a presence, not the same as he had on
Broadway, but a presence. He was being elevated into
a state of pleasure, but had no feeling of concern
that the expert ministrations would make him come too
soon. Pleasure and control were both there. He felt
as if he now had the ability to go forever.

He just kept licking and sucking on her clit, sliding
his tongue inside her. She stiffened and stopped
sucking him, changing to stroking him with her hand.
She ground herself against him desperately and came
making animalistic sounds. He almost felt she'd
break his neck and his cock.

In a flash she had swung herself around and she was
lowering herself onto his cock. She began fucking
him vigorously from above, her mouth now at his neck
and ears. He felt lightheaded and could not place
where he was, as if another mind was enmeshed in his,
his fantasies and thoughts taking on a life of their
own. Suddenly it was Madonna fucking him and he
looked up into the mischievous eyes. Seconds later it
was Julianne Moore, earthy and heated, red hair in
his face. Then it was Roma Torre, wearing nothing
but a cropped t-shirt pushed up to her shoulders,
breasts thrust into his face to lick. Then it was
Cindy McCoy, his girlfriend from high school,
whimpering as she used to when she was on top. Each
lover different, each pussy different, each scent
different.

And then he was back with the woman, pussy gripping
and pulsing on his cock, she had gone from tonguing
and nibbling his ear to licking his neck. Her tongue
drew obscene lines and circles on his neck and
nibbled gently. He heard her panting and noise and
her breath on his neck, sensations intensified by the
coating of her saliva. Smooth teeth rubbed against
his neck, including two sharp points lightly scraping
his neck, teasing, as a woman does with her teeth
when giving head. Tentative, soft bites. Not enough
to leave a mark, but enough to tease.

He felt her begin to tense again, her movements more
insistent. He also felt his need approach a point of
loss of all control.

He felt her sink her teeth into his neck just as they
started to come. He couldn't hear the piercing of
his skin, although it was the sweetest sound she ever
heard. She tasted the sweetness of his blood and had
to hold herself in control lest she go beyond where
she intended. The rich, heady smell and taste took
her into a swoon as she sucked and started to come at
once. His neck, her need and her sex were all that
existed in her world. He could hear her moans as she
felt the sweet blood wash over her teeth, splash
against her lips and overflow slightly as she drank,
as if she were receiving a load of his cum in her
mouth. She licked and sucked his neck gently but
with strength, rubbing her body against his, drawing
herself toward the edge of her being.

He couldn't decide whether the fangs in his neck and
her tongue and lips slurping his blood were just as
much a source of his pleasure as the spasms from the
rest of his body. They shivered and shook on the
roof as she sucked him, with both sets of lips. And
then her tongue licked the wound sensually, even
lovingly. She kissed him one last time with bloody
lips. The same scent he'd enjoyed but couldn't place
from her breath and her cunt.

"Just a taste tonight, baby," she whispered into his
ear before rising to her feet, looking down at him
smiling.

He lay there with the midnight breeze blowing over
his sweaty body, remnants of the visions departing
for wherever visions go. He was left with his after
shocks of orgasm, a lightheadedness from losing more
than a pint of blood, and the disorientation that
comes from suddenly being faced with the fact that
that which you always thought could not be, is.

He looked to his left to the alley side parapet. His
gut froze as her saw her rise to the parapet and
without any hesitation, jump over into the abyss. He
jumped to his feet, despite his body's better
judgement. He ran to the parapet and wincing, looked
over. Below, on the well-lit surface of the alley
next to the building, there was no body. No damaged
woman with broken legs. Nothing. He looked toward
the street just in time to see her pass beneath the
security floodlight, rounding the corner onto
Lafayette Street, flowing back into the New York
night.

Backrub (a.k.a. BCKRUB@aol.com)
July 30, 1995

Last modified (12/24/96 14:11:42) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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