I liked him enough to have fucked him the night we met at a party and he pulled me into the clothes closet and hammered me senseless. We stayed in the closet for at least two fuckin’ hours, most of it spent fucking like crazy. I had two holes poked in my arm and one in my left thigh from the clothes hangers we knocked to the floor while rutting around. The one on my upper arm bled pretty badly, because a hell of a lot of the dresses on the floor were bloodstained when we opened the closet and looked back inside. The girl throwing the party had to have been royally pissed, but I had no intention of paying her for the damage and really didn’t care if I ever saw her again. Anyway, Stevie asked me for my number and I gave it to him. Most quickies never call, but I give my number out cause you never know. And if the sex is good I’ll ask for their number too. I had my period the following day. That’s why I mention it, I had a similar feeling to the one I had when he pulled me into that. We eventually would call each other Kat (me) and Cyrano (him), pet names we gave each other, for reasons I shall explain later. On our daily commute together, I could often see that being with me caused a beautiful thick ridge all the way up the front of his trousers. EVERY time! Sometimes the head was real close to peeking out above his waist line; I would gaze soulfully into his eyes, love and lust and passion and hungry desire and emotion all filling my soul. And then I would lock my eyes on the thick bulge under his zipper, absent-mindedly licking my lips, and I think he knew what my tongue wanted. I think – in fact, I know – his own tongue had similar ideas and plans for me. Whenever I thought nobody would notice, I would fleetingly brush my hand against Eric’s bulge and become breathless when I felt all of his beautiful hard thickness throbbing powerfully against my fingers. Sometimes I would turn my back to him for a moment in the crowded aisle of the bus, and he would cup.
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