Sam’s Room

Her room always smelled faintly like cocoa butter. The sweet milky smell hung gently in the air. The elevator in her building was a phone booth sized. It opened with a heavy hinged door. I would usually text her to let her know I was downstairs. Without reply an excruciatingly high-pitched beep would blare out of the little speaker, signaling I could enter. The walk to the elevator always made my heart race. These visits didn’t feel real until I took in the scent of cocoa butter. I became so sensitive to it, that once the elevator door opened, I could pick it up, whether it was real or not. She would usually leave the front door of the apartment unlatched. It was a small three bedroom place (is there any other kind in New York?) with a crooked C shape hallway which deposited you into each of the bedrooms on one side and the bathroom or kitchen on the other.

She was always waiting for me in the doorway of her bedroom. Only once did she put on something special. She was usually dressed comfortably from a day of working from home. I didn’t care what she was wearing, because we both knew it was coming off.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Sex for Samantha and I started well before I entered her bedroom. It usually started a day or two before. Text flashing across screens representing thoughts of bodies in motion. By the time we were physically touching, our minds had already been intertwined for hours.

Let’s say it was Monday. Some time during my morning bus ride, usually around eight, I’d text her, asking how she slept. She had trouble sleeping. She’d usually get back to me with a groggy half sentence “…good” or “…who needs sleep?”

Small talk over text would follow. I’d inform her that the George Washington Bridge was looking lovely. She would joke about waving out her apartment window as my bus went down the West Side Highway. The banter would continue as she prepared her morning coffee and told me about what she had to do for the day. She’d tell me when she had to put her phone away so she could get some work done. Her discipline was an incredible turn on. Hours later, I’d tell her that I wanted to be biting the back of her neck. She’d tell me that sounds amazing. I’d tell her how I wanted to press her up against the wall and kiss my way down her naked body. She’d tell me how she wanted to feel my hands on her shoulders.

Inevitably she’d ask me what kind of a mood I was in that day. My moods varied from dominant to sensual. Some women you only want to fuck. Others you only want to make love to. With Sam, I wanted every part of the spectrum. There was nothing I didn’t want to explore. No way I didn’t want her to come.

It would be all I could do to keep my phone hidden away in my bag during client meetings. I kept it out during the day at the office. Waiting for it to light up, waiting for the next thought to come from her mind to mine. Sometimes she was overtly sexual. Others she would tell me about a work problem.

We were friends. We also had incredible sex. She told me that she didn’t care about my situation. When I started to explain it she stopped me. She told me that it really didn’t matter to her. Someday it might, for now, it didn’t which was enough for me.

Once I was getting off the bus and making my way to the car it was time to reset my brain. That would mean that I had my phone away. We’d say our goodbyes. She would often go out with her roommates. Sometimes she would drink wine while reading. I would tend to dinner and teeth brushing and bedtime stories.

Then Tuesday morning would come around, thoughts of Sam had me continuously turned on. The banter would restart. She slept well. The bridge still looked nice. Then sometime before I got to the office I’d ask, “So what’s your day look like?” She would respond “WFH.”

WFH — work from home. This was her signal to me that she might be free. At first we’d dance around the idea of me coming over. Later on, we’d get to the point. I would tell her I was free from at about 3pm. She would tell me that 3pm works.

It took thirty minutes to take the subway from the office up to her part of town (yes, way way uptown.) It took an additional ten minutes to walk from the subway station to her apartment and three minutes to get buzzed in and up to her door — to the scent of cocoa butter.

On this particular Tuesday, I was in a dominant place. She knew this. We didn’t speak as I latched the apartment door behind me. I strode toward her, dropping my bag just inside her bedroom door. My hand slid up her back to the back of her neck. I held her tightly as I kissed her deeply. Her lips were thick and full. Kissing her was enveloping. I sank into her kisses deeply. I turned her and pressed her back into the wall. I tore her loose tee shirt off over her head. My mouth moving down her beautiful black skin. Her skin was soft to the touch, but somehow sturdy. No part of her didn’t feel strong. My teeth grazed her neck, she let out a moan.

I spun her so she faced the wall. Her hands pressed flat against it as I kissed my way down her back. My hands slid up her stomach and sides. I cupped her breasts from behind as I kissed my way down her back. She moaned as I grabbed the waist band of her yoga pants and pulled it down. She always wore a thong. Today’s was red. I smacked her ass hard. She snapped a look over my shoulder that asked me, “is that all you got?” Lowering to my knees she naturally arched her back. I pulled her thong to the side and my tongue slide from the opening of her pussy up to her ass. Eventually I was tongue fucking her. She purred. I smacked her ass again. Her pussy wet, I stood behind her, before sliding two fingers into her pussy. Finger fucking her from behind as I leaned close to her face, holding her steady. She grew hot and flush. I knew it was close. She scratched the wall. Quietly she let out a sigh, then a moan. Then her voice grew small. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes.” She tensed, releasing her wetness into my hand.

She had told me the day before that she wanted my mouth on her breasts. She wanted her nipples teased. I turned her again to face me. I put my hands on her waist. Lifting from my legs I tossed her onto the bed. She let out a little laugh as she bounced harmlessly on the mattress. She kicked off her yoga pants and thong as I got undressed at the foot of the bed. I climbed up the mattress and gathered her breasts into my hands. Pressing them together I licked and sucked each nipple, circling it with my tongue, grazing it with my teeth. She moaned again. Her nipples hardened to my mouth. I pulled away, climbed off the bed and grabbed her ankles. I pulled her to the edge of the bed.

“Oh, no.” She said. She wasn’t ready to be fucked yet. She slid off the bed and grasped my cock. She teased the head of my cock with her lips and tongue. I shuddered. She took me deeper as my fingers slid into her hair. She opened her mouth wide and I started to fuck her mouth and throat. I always worried I might be hurting her when I did this. My worry would evaporate as she grabbed my ass and pulled me in. When a woman lets you fuck her mouth, it’s the ultimate expression of her wanting you. Beyond the physical sensations, it is the most deeply complimentary thing a woman can do. I didn’t want to come like this though. I wanted to fuck her. I needed to fuck her. I pulled her to her feet. We kissed again. The room smelled of cocoa butter and sex.

I pushed her on her back and she raised her legs. I bent at the waist and licked her clit. Her swollen, beautiful clit was in my mouth as I swirled my tongue around it. She gently whispered, “Oh God.” I stood up and looked her in the eye as I guided my cock inside her. She put her hand on my lower abdomen, a silent signal to go slow. Gently, inch by inch, I pressed myself inside her. She closed her eyes. I slowly moved in and out and I felt her body relax. I could feel that she was ready for me to go faster.

I started to pick up speed, thrusting harder. The look on her face grew intense. She wanted to come hard. I started to fuck her hard and fast. The sensation of her pussy was incredible. My pelvis crashing into her thighs, I spread her legs wide and drove deep inside her. She started to lose focus. I felt her body tensing. She started to moan loudly. It began to push me over the edge. I leaned forward, my weight resting on my hands. She pleaded for me not to stop. I started to come. She begged me not to stop. I kept driving into her. Her legs wrapped around my waist and she moaned loudly as she held me tight with her arms and legs. I stayed inside her as we recovered. My body drained, hers shaking as we kissed gently. Eventually, sweaty and tired I laid next to her.

Every time I came down from the high of us actually being together, usually after days and days of sexually charged banter, I became aware of my real life. The job I wasn’t doing. The wife and kids I wasn’t attending. The responsibilities I had left behind. I would become instantly flooded with guilt. Not guilt over hurting any one person, but at the sheer selfishness of my time with Sam. I wasn’t a boyfriend to Sam. I wasn’t a husband to my wife, I wasn’t being a father or even a good worker. Just a selfish half man, taking what I thought I needed to get by, an addict.

At the same time I didn’t want these encounters to end. So I never let these feelings reveal themselves to Sam. I would get up and start to gather my things. I’d walk over to the bathroom. We would chat about the next meeting I had to go to, the next client I had to smooth over. We’d talk about her work, or what she was going to do that night. Both of us cleaning ourselves up and getting dressed as if nothing incredible had just happened.

Once I had my armor back on and my possessions re-gathered, I would take her by the waist, we would kiss gently, like european friends. I’d make my way out into the real world, scanning a foreign neighborhood for anyone who might know me and wonder why I was there. I would put my wedding ring back on. I’d disappear into the subway. The ride through the tunnel was my time to decompress. Her scent still on my hands as I would question what I was doing, but not too deeply. I would justify my choices to myself. I would emerge back in midtown, ready for battle again. I would send two texts immediately upon getting signal again.

To Sam: That was fucking incredible. 
To My Wife: I should be on the 5:37 bus.

Both would get a smiley face in return.

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