I’m a 25-year-old black girl, middle class and single. I spent a wonderful summer with Derek, a man a year older than I. He’s going to be married now, but I still think about him a lot. I sometimes fantasize about having sex with him in unusual places.
At the Metropolitan Opera House, in the parking lot, are two bathrooms for men and women. I’ve often gone there and seen no one on duty. He doesn’t know where we’re going and looks surprised when I pull him into the women’s bathroom. (I don’t know whether the men’s has stalls.)
Once inside a stall we start hugging each other frantically. I tug at his shirt, popping off a few of the buttons in my hurry. He’s wearing a T-shirt underneath and doesn’t protest when I start tearing at it. It comes apart with a satisfying ripping sound. I feel like an animal; I’m different from how he has always seen me. He’s inspired by my hunger, carried away by lust. Abandoning restraint, he pulls down the top of my dress; I’m wearing one of those black lace skimpy bras underneath. He flicks his tongue all along the edge of the bra, even sucking my nipples through the lace. I love the sensation, running my hands down his back, into his pants, cupping his buttocks (so nice!). He pulls my bra down with his teeth, leaving it tangled, almost pinning my arms. He bites gently, gently, at my nipples. It’s hard enough to make me gasp but not enough to hurt. We don’t have much time
– someone may come in. My hands are sliding around his pants and I jerk them down. He’s eager to help, gripping my buttocks tightly and raising me to meet his rock-hard erection. It presses into me with one sudden thrust, causing me to cry out. I’m not quite wet enough for him yet, so he has to shove harder than usual to move into me. But I don’t mind, it’s what I want. Standing up, there’s barely room to move. The constrained space means we’re banging against the walls, arching our bodies together, slip¬pery with sweat. We’re both out of control, giving vent to stifled yells and feverish kisses. My legs are wrapped tight around his waist; he couldn’t throw me off even if he wanted. I want to have his cock deep inside me.
More, more, harder, I whisper in his ear. He silences me with a kiss, but his thrusts become even fiercer, if possible.
Pulling my hair back so he can see my neck, he rains kisses on it, moving down toward my breasts again. I reach down and rub his cock when it partly comes out of my cunt. I bring up my own fingers dripping with my own juice and smear my nipples with it. He opens his mouth wide around the nipples, taking in as much of my flesh as he can, sucking as if he wants to swallow me. I’m gasping, nearly sobbing with pleasure. He was groaning out my name; now he’s just groaning. It’s so hard for us to keep quiet even though we know the necessity. He kisses me hard, thrusting his tongue down my throat (we’re definitely quieter now!). We almost come together; he continues to push into me urgently, pleading for me to help him. I twist against him and feel more orgasms shuddering through me. Finally he comes, his stiffened body grinding me into the stall door. We almost fall down, both of us exhausted by our violent love play. We pull on each other’s clothes, wipe our bodies with the toilet paper and slip quietly out of the bathroom. Even knowing that more awaits us at home doesn’t dampen the contentment we both feel.