The Voice of a Stranger

The gist of it was this: I had never met him before, but by the end of the night, I was going to have him.

I stood on the sidewalk next to one of those old fashioned gaslamps that makes one thankful for the effort, but unconvinced.  You might say that I was decked out as well as I could be, considering what I was planning for the evening's entertainment.  I was no starlet who knew the right poses or the right words to say.  But I'd heard the man's voice on the radio for enough nights that it had given me feelings in all of the right places.  I wasn't obsessed with him, of course- didn't want a relationship, didn't know how old he was beyond the barest guess, and had only seen a photo of him in passing on some charity event of the local radio station.  But that voice of his had moved me night after night.  I'd grown tired of lying on my sofa with a drink in my hand, imagining the timbre of his words caressing me, as if such a thing were possible.  I wanted to learn how it felt against my ear or how he came moaning in the darkness of his own inner sanctum.   Did he lie awake fantasizing random things, alone, drenched in his own sweat, winding his nakedness into his own sheets with dreams of longing? God, I hoped so.  I wanted him to cooperate tonight.

The simple truth was that he fit a type for me.  I had once seen a photograph of a model that had stayed with me and somehow had become my masculine ideal.  He was tall, saved from lankiness by muscle in the right places.  His lips were full, almost as full as that thick dark hair that went over his forehead and begged to be gripped with both of my hands.  Of course, he was also cocky.  Why are the self-abasing ones never worth a glance to me? Hell if I knew.  The model had sat back on his heels with his body stretched out all the way down to his groin, which was barely covered with a large black fedora.  His head was tossed back enough as if in challenge.  I still had the photo somewhere.

I'd gotten my first glimpse of the man in the flesh a week ago.  He had told his listeners every night in that deep, playful voice of his that his name was Gary West, that's West like Wild, gals, if you want to know- or so he'd said.  But it was all a show, or so I was learning.  He could talk the talk and do it well.  When it came down to it, he was a loner.  He walked like he had somewhere to go.  No nonsense and all of that.  This night, like any other, moved into the small hours, and West was walking to his apartment alone.  How convenient.  No wife, no kids, no dog.  This time, I followed.

He must have taken me for a hooker at first.  It was my confidence, not my clothes- they were too high class for a streetwalker, and eventually a glance at my face showed too much health for one of their ilk.  When he turned to see whether or not I was in fact following him, surprise showed on every dark feature.  I stared at his vivid lashes and his square hands in the dim hallway of the apartment building.  If he was going home to an empty apartment, why? Personal choice?  Caution?

"Oh, hey," he said. "You want an autograph, right? What should I sign?" I quickly put aside the retort that sprang to mind, realizing that my sparkling personality wasn't going to get me into West's bed tonight.  He didn't sound as confident as usual as he fished for a pen.  "Who should I write this out to?" I could feel the ungracious hammering of my heart in my chest, but I went for it.

"I didn't come here for your autograph, West. " Because I lacked the eloquence to elaborate, instead I pushed him against the wall of the stairwell and kissed him forcibly.  He came up against me, much stronger than I was and holding me at arm's length for a moment. "What the hell is your problem? Do I know you?"
"No, you don't," I told him, making certain that he got an open view of my sheer silk shirt.  I hadn't worn a bra for the occasion, and I happen to be one of those lucky girls who can pull it off.  His glare turned quickly to interest, and then to mild embarrassment.  The embarrassment began to wane the longer he found himself watching my chest, full and responsive beneath the insignificance of my shirt.  I gave him my best smile, playful and inviting, and he began to laugh in earnest.

"Things like this don't happen, right?  Is this a joke? Did you seriously come here just to make out with me in the hallway?"
"I came here to fuck you," I said. "Gary.  Would you be interested in fucking this evening, or do you have better plans?" He looked me up and down, sat his briefcase in the hallway while he fished for his keys.  When he turned, and I was standing against the wall nibbling on a fingertip, he shook his head in disbelief. 
"What's your name?"

"It's Linda." He took a few steps, then tentatively reached out both of his hands and put them on my shoulders. "Damn.  You really are beautiful.  You better come inside."

I recognized the hand-through-the-hair gesture he gave as he tossed his keys and briefcase on a stand by the door.  He'd had a terrible night at the station, culminating in coming home to find an assault-by-stranger in the hallway of his apartment building.  Rain was starting outside, adding to the effect of the night-any-can-happen atmosphere.  He walked to the fridge, took a swig of something, picked his mail up off of the floor.  Ah, bachelorhood.  "Have a seat, Linda.  Lin?  Lindy?  What do they call you?"

"Take your clothes off, West."
He chuckled to himself, a low, musical sound. "So, you really want to do this." I watched him open his tie, open a few buttons.  So far, so good.  He had some hair on his chest that you could see through his open collar.  "You're serious." I started to walk toward him slowly.  He didn't move at first, watching me as if riveted by the play in progress.  I chucked my coat off to the side in a heap and slid my silk shirt just high enough so that he could see my naked nipples standing out hard and high for him.  Then gradually I eased it upward, making certain that when I shook my hair free, it would have the proper effect.  West's face took on a peculiar expression.  His eyes were on my hair brushing around the peaks of my nipples.  His hands, however, were working on his belt.  He'd made his decision.  A good one.

I didn't miss the insistent bulge forming in his jeans or how he didn't seem to be wearing any underwear.  I blessed the thought of dress casual.  The man that wore a tie with his jeans presented a treasure box of possibilities.  He'd play along.  I was incredibly glad. 
West had removed his shirt while I pondered how well he filled those jeans of his and how the hair between his legs would tickle my thighs when at last he would lie between them.  I didn't get a chance to admire his naked chest as much as I would have liked, because very suddenly he was pressed against me, one hand holding my jaw, the other taking a breast into his hand to tease the nipple taut.  He kissed me firmly and strongly while he toyed with the nipple between his fingertips.  The first small strokes of some invisible finger of desire touched me deep inside, and I felt a dampness in my panties where he pressed hard against my belly.  He drew back after the long kiss, grinning playfully.  Without a word he then lifted me up into his arm and carried me to the large white futon in the center of the room.  He seated me on the futon, spreading my legs with his hands and pulling my panties down to my ankles and onto the floor.  The skirt I was wearing allowed him full access, and, as if grateful for this unexpected pleasure, he opened his jeans so that I could see his deliciously rigid cock rising to the occasion.  I wanted to put my mouth on him then and there and watch him writhe and moan and come, but I wanted him inside of me more.

"Tell me, West.  Where do you lie when you are alone and you do yourself?" I smiled up at him with my most mischievous expression.
His voice was labored, raw, exposed. "Right here."

"Do you watch something? Read something?" I gripped the head of his cock firmly, massaging him, and would not let go until he spoke. 
"No.  Nothing." I thought of all of the nights I had lain in my bed or sat in a chair by the radio with the volume turned up, feeling that voice of his moving over my skin like a cool, whispering breath.  How I'd imagined that his voice alone was moving over my skin instead of my hands, a phantom lover gliding down my belly and kissing below my navel.  West had now grasped the idea that I wanted him to talk, and talk he did, inching his way into me with his lips next to my ear.

"It's this.  The fantasy is this.  She's a stranger, any woman, maybe some drifter who wants to be fucked in the dark.  She doesn't always have a face.  She hears my voice every night and she wants me every night, and she thinks only of me when she gets turned on and wants it." He paused, as if for effect.  "Do you want it? Do you want me to fuck you?" His hair fell over one eye, making him seem strange and savage as he started to rock back and forth with a rhythm that spoke of need.  His strokes inside of my wetness filled just the right emptiness, just the right angle to answer my hunger for him.

I could feel his pulse deep there inside mingled with my own, a shadow chasing the feeling of his silken fullness.  As he moved, I whimpered helplessly, aware of my own rising frenzy to keep him there.  I reached out to roughly take his hair into my hands as if in fear that he would stop.

"Is this what you want, what you came here for? Do you want more of this? Is it as good as you wanted?" His voice was taunting me sweetly, easing over my hot skin in a wash of sensual joy.  It was a voice that I knew well, had heard many times in my dreams and fantasies.  I listened only to him, focused only on the present.  West reached for me now, turning me away from him so that he could take me from behind as I preferred.  His movements quickened, and he became more the animal, less the man.

There would be little restraint left for me at that point, for as I pushed back against him while he drove in and out of me, that subtle rising itch within me began, and I wanted more of it.  He turned my face to the side so that his tongue could play about my lips, but I was already at the height of my excitement and started to cry out against his mouth.  He felt so right, so natural and so good that I could have cried for pleasure.  The tender weakness stole over me so that I shook until the roots of my hair were soaked, gripping him tightly with my body, refusing to let go.

Then he seemed to gasp, stopping suddenly, increasing the speed of his thrusts.  West moaned softly over and over as he came violently inside of me.  Our heavy breathing filled the space of the empty room in tune with the rain outside hitting the windows. 

At last satisifed, we both began to laugh at the mystery and ridiculousness of what had just happened.  He reached over to help me sit up, then sat down beside me.  "So.  Where are you from?"
Our laughter was the start of a great evening.