It was true. Lisa knew it. She'd always sounded like one of the guys. It was part of the problem.
The jackhammer stopped. The gorgeous one had noticed her practically drooling over him as he worked, and now he paused and looked at her. Lisa couldn't help herself; she licked her lips. He smiled.
"I only got… had… you know, sex like that once, I guess," Darlene said softly, self-consciously. "It was on the night of my senior prom in a vibrating bed at the Dew Drop Inn. A bunch of us rented a whole slew of rooms for a party — " Darlene stopped, suddenly realizing that Lisa wasn't listening. She followed her friend's eyes to the window. A good-looking construction worker was standing, hips thrust out, hand on crotch, beckoning to Lisa. Darlene could read his lips as he mouthed, "You want this?"
Darlene gasped in shock, then gasped again when she saw that Lisa was nodding and smiling back. "Lee!" Darlene exclaimed, embarrassment blushing in her cheeks. "My God! You're incredible! You'd better cut it out or he's going to think you're serious. That's how women get raped you know."
Lisa looked at her friend sideways, then back at the construction worker who was gathering up his coat and lunch pail, his eyes still on her, beckoning. "I'm sorry, Dar," Lisa said. "I've got to go."
Darlene sat agape as Lisa left with the construction worker.
The weekend was a blur for Lisa. They guy's name was Rod and he was a weekend cokehead working his way up to a full-time habit. Lee didn't care. She'd tried the sexual enhancements of coke before, was even into it heavily for a while. If it wasn't for her deviated septum, which gave her voice its nasal twang and often prevented her from snorting and getting off, she could have easily been a coke addict, too. Now she was a lot of things, but a nymphomaniac cokehead would have been hitting the bottom of the barrel. If she'd gone that route, it would've only been a matter of time before she would have been reduced to prostitution to support both her habits.
As soon as they got to his apartment, Rod produced a large baggie of nose candy. She did a few lines and was on her way. When Rod used an artist's feathery brush to apply some of the South American jungle dust to her nipples and other sensitive areas, she was lost.
She had snatches of memory: Rod doing line after line of coke, then making wild, gymnastic love to her for hours on end; drinking Jack Daniel's from the bottle, Rod using the bottle on her, filling her, drinking from her; people coming and going (did she make it with several of Rod's friends — Hey guys, check it out! This bitch is a nympho! — at once?). The overall memory, though, was of a blurring, bubbling endless eruption of sexual pleasure that sent her soaring into the depths of orgasmic unconsciousness.
When she woke, late Saturday night, her body ached everywhere and her mouth felt as if the proverbial army had marched through it — twice! Rod was asleep next to her, the rim of his nostrils caked with the remains of his last hit.
Lisa looked at his naked body in the moonlight coming through the window and felt the burning desire begin again deep in her groin. The past forty-eight hours had been the best sex she'd ever had. She'd come as close to the perfect orgasm as she was likely to get; it had taken drugs, liquor, and group sex, but still she'd come up short; still, she was left unsatisfied.
In the moonlight, she played with him, and despaired. She was never going to get what she needed. She was never going to reach the perfect plane of orgasmic fulfillment. There was no man alive who could satisfy her. She was thirty-two years old and had been searching for the perfect orgasm since she was ten and had lost her cherry to a bicycle seat on a long ride, during which she had also discovered her addiction to orgasms.
Since then she'd suffered every bizarre sexual humiliation and degradation, from having to be taken to the hospital at the age of fifteen to have a chunk of pepperoni stick removed from her womb, to taking on the entire football team after the Thanksgiving game her senior year in high school. Two decades of sexual adventurism and the closest she'd ever come to the perfect cum was this pitiful weekend with Rod and company. If AIDS didn't get her, boredom surely would.
Still asleep, Rod was stirring under her touch. He moaned deeply in his throat and his breathing became shallow. Lisa stroked him and felt the fire in her loins begin to spread. Moaning, more a cry of pain than of lust, Lisa went down on him, awakening his sleeping lust with her tongue and lips.
Rod moaned and Lee heard an echo of her pain in it. She worked on him faster, swelling him to the point of release, then backing off. Rod slept on, but his desire was fully awake and standing tall.
With a whimper of despair at the futility of it all, Lisa mounted him in the moonlight, pulling him inside her, wanting to pull all of him, his entire body, inside her as if that were the only way she could ever be satisfied.
His breathing became choppy. He began to buck beneath her. She rode him, tiny orgasms starting before she even had him all the way inside her, and sighed at the frustration of it all.
Rod began wheezing loudly with exertion as he convulsed beneath her. Just when she thought he would wear out, he began to make strange gargling noises and his bucking took on new energy. His writhing awakened the start of what she knew was going to be a truly momentous orgasm.
"Yes! Yes!" she cried. Please don't come too soon! she prayed.
His hands closed on her arms and he began to shake her. The first wave of the orgasm washed over her, electrifying her hips, driving their grinding motion to a pistonlike frenzy. Rod let go of her arms and reached for her breasts. He clutched at them feebly as the second wave hit her, much stronger than the first. Her stomach shimmied like a belly dancer's.
"Don't stop!" Lisa cried as Rod's hands collapsed to his sides. He's finished! she lamented. He lunged up into her once, twice, then a third time that drove so deep into her that the fourth and fifth waves of the orgasm rolled over her simultaneously.
Rod was unmoving beneath her. Lisa rode him faster, trying to keep him from wilting. Just a little longer! she silently pleaded. She was never going to make it. He was going to get soft. She was going to lose it. Again!
The unexpected happened: Rod didn't get soft. In fact, he got harder! It felt like he was swelling inside her. Lisa shrieked with joy.
Orgasms six through one hundred were a chain reaction, constantly bombarding her within the space of twenty minutes. After that, they all ran together into one endless, super-duper orgasm that incredibly got better and better and felt like it could go on forever.
It was still dark when she woke, but of what night it was, she was unsure. She had the feeling that more than just a few hours had passed. She woke on the floor at the foot of the bed, her legs tangled beneath her, thighs glued together, a bump the size of a golfball on the back of her head.
I fell out of bed, she thought, and she giggled. Despite the pain in her head and the soreness in her body, she felt fantastic. "It's happened," she whispered to the darkened ceiling. "I've done it." The itch was satisfied, the burning was quenched. She didn't know for how long, and didn't care at the moment. This was the first time since that fateful bike ride long ago that she was fully and completely satiated and satisfied with sex.
And it was fine; it was oh so fine.
Massaging her legs out from under her, she got to her knees. From there she was on eye level with the bed. She looked, blinked, looked again, and gasped at what she saw in the moonlight. The sleeping Rod was still erect! In fact, he was more than erect. His already ample size had swelled thicker and seemed to stand taller. The memory of it doing so inside her made Lisa smile until a hysterical cackle of joy was streaming from her open mouth. Laughing herself breathless, she climbed on Roger for another ride and was instantly consumed by another endlessly perfect orgasm.