Unwelcome Advances
What a place to be having doubts, he thought to himself, as Erica scrubbed herself against his rigid cock. Her face was buried in his neck, her rapid breathing interspersed with small squeals of delight. How long had he wanted this? Over a year? Why did he feel let down now that she had finally responded to him?
They had spent more time engaged in sex in the past two days than in the whole of their year-long on-again, off-again relationship. He had thought - had certainly intended - that it was over. Then she turned up on his doorstep, wanting to see his new place, and the influence of the house had taken over . . .
Now she had decided to move in, and he had been helpless to resist. Perhaps not completely helpless, but he was under such stress that he had kept postponing the argument. He would clear things up before she took over the house. He swore it to himself. But, for now, it was easier to go with the flow.
She cried out, biting his neck. He felt her body shudder. He grabbed her ass and thrust hard against her, willing himself... and came, feeling the rush of adrenaline and pleasure; warming to her presence, he cupped her breast... and she rolled off him, no longer interested.
Some things hadn't changed.
Prior to the past two days, Erica had slept with him only with great reluctance, and with little response when they had been intimate. Now she had found passion, but seemed still unwilling to share it; Michael's own pleasure did not seem particularly important to her.
Poetic justice, he thought, as he lay beside her. This is what I get for not resisting, for letting the house have its way, not holding out for a worthwhile relationship. This is the flip-side to the nights with Jenny, Alicia and Genie. He recalled Alicia, just days from her wedding, curled up against him, firm breasts tickling his chest, and looked over at Erica, turned away from him, oblivious to his presence.
Waking late the next morning, they didn't take the time for a repetition of the night's exercise. Michael felt strangely elated, as though he had been relieved of a chore. Which was absurd, he reasoned, because sex with Erica had become more than good, just somewhat abrupt. She wasn't Angel. No-one could be. But in his self-imposed exile from his love, she was exciting; when he thought how much he had wanted her in the past, when she rejected him, he felt doubly aroused.
He put a shorter day in at the office than usual. He spent much of it thinking about Erica; her single-mindedness in seeking her own pleasure at his expense was in its own way erotic; he found himself getting hard at the thought of her. He knew this couldn't last; he didn't want it to last, but right now, he wanted her.
When he arrived home early, he was surprised to see two cars in the driveway; Erica's Accord and a Corvette.
Inside the house, he found a lot of moving boxes, scattered in the hallway, a suitcase and a pile of dresses on hangars. Erica must have stopped by her apartment to pick up more clothes and belongings to move; apparently someone had come along to help. Not that a Corvette would be much help moving.
He couldn't find her downstairs, and she didn't seem to be out by the lake. There was a curious knocking sound from above, so he figured she was upstairs. He started climbing, daydreaming about the previous night, recalling how Erica's and his clothing were strewn over these stairs, in their eagerness. He frowned at seeing her white blouse in the upper hallway, he thought he had picked up all of the clothes. And she had been wearing pink yesterday.
Still not thinking clearly, he didn't make the connection with the sound he was hearing until he saw one cup of her hook-in-front bra in the hall, the long strap trailing into the bedroom. The door was partly open. He recognized the sounds of the antique bed, now, and with sudden hopelessness, heard Erica's heavy breathing in the noise.
Knowing but dreading what he would see, he tiptoed up to the door. Despair consumed him as he took in the sight. Erica squatting, leaning slightly forward, her back to the door. A man's legs extending behind her, a hand on her heavy breast. He couldn't see the man's face, but he could hear his controlled grunting.
Erica's sounds were becoming more distinct, low moans of pleasure, as Michael leaned back against the doorframe, sinking to the floor in abject depression. It was not jealousy as much as his total lack of control of the situation. His own live-in girlfriend, however temporary, however much he wanted to be out of the relationship, in his own house, in his own bed . . .
However much he wanted to be out of the relationship . . . as the cries from the room became more demanding, his window of despair shattered. He felt amusement bubbling up from the depths of his soul; amusement at himself, at his situation. He started to chuckle, but soon the laughter poured from him.
Oblivious to the screams and panicked activity from the bedroom, he laughed until he could not see for tears, until the muscles of his chest strained with the effort.