Like most good stories, this story involves a train station.

Chapter 24: Bitten

When I knew her the City was burning. Flames and smoke covered the horizon. The inescapable smell of death and burning metal pervaded everything. I had watched as thousands of people perished and heard the screams of horror of the thousands that had watched them die with me. The military blockaded the streets so that if I left, I could not return. I was a refugee in my own city.

She lived one flight up from me. Because of the fires neither of us had very much to do. Both of our schools were closed. They were behind the blockades. I tried to go out and give blood, but the Red Cross had run out of storage capacity. We had little else to do but wait.

I would make her eggs in the evening, I was young and that was basically all I could cook.

We were so broke that I was living on a porch and she didn’t even have a bedroom door, just a beaded curtain. When we went to bed, I’d lay awake downstairs thinking about her, just one floor away. I wanted to walk upstairs, part that curtain, and press myself on top of her. That never happened as I am not a rapist, but she would later confess that she also fantasized I would do that exact thing.

I used to say that there are two types of women; women that liked to play with Barbie Dolls when they were young and women that were into horses when young. Each wants a different type of control. The Barbie girls want to control in a domestic sense, a husband and kids, a well-manicured lawn, a white picket fence. The horse girls want to control in the more animalistic sense, something wild that they control by sheer willpower and skill.

Horse girls are in my opinion a bit better in bed.

I also fantasized about her coming downstairs, opening my door, and pressing herself on top of me, riding me. The fantasy of being taken is not gender-specific. That also never happened though.

We lost touch for a while, the City’s fires went out, but circumstance brought us back into contact while ours were still smoldering. I was living in the City, and she was traveling to it. I met her at a train station. A grand old station, built a century ago, filled with the afternoon sun.

When I met her, I was dressed in white linen with a brown leather messenger bag containing only a bottle of wine. That was very uncharacteristic for me, I usually dress in black. I thought I looked ridiculous, but she thought I looked handsome; the white linen a stark contrast to the grimy City.

We were still broke, so we spent the day walking around the City, enjoying the parks, taking in the sunlight. We wound up at a small French café that I knew of. A dark, bohemian, romantic place filled with half-broken, antique furniture.

When I call it French, I’m going by branding. The only thing French about the place was the name. The owner and wait staff were off-the-boat Russians. They did not give one shit about customer service, or capitalism for that matter. It could take over an hour for someone to even just take your order, and another hour to get your food. When you were done, they didn’t care how long you sat drinking wine and coffee while smoking cigarettes. It was probably a money-laundering front for the Russian mafia, given how much their lease must have cost and little money they were making.

It was the perfect place to go. We sat there for hours, enjoying one another; drinking the wine I brought. We both ordered eggs, just as we’d eaten during the fires. Also, because they were the cheapest thing on the menu.

When the sun went down, and it was time to go, she followed me back to my place. We were both a little tipsy, and very happy.

We went to my bedroom and tore each other’s clothes off. She performed one of the most exceptional blow jobs I’d experienced by that point in my life. When it was time for me to return the favor and go down on her I noticed something very unique about her body. While she was very athletically muscled everywhere else, her pelvis was incredibly soft. It was like burying my head in a pillow. I wondered if it was from riding.

Once she was ready, she flipped over onto her stomach so that I would enter her from behind. We were still just a little shy and starting face to face was too much. Soon she became more comfortable and flipped us over and began to ride me. She was incredibly wild. Most of my previous lovers had been, if not shy, much more reserved. I was taken away.

Then she bent down and bit my nipple, hard.

No one had ever done that to me before and I nearly cried out. That single small action, that single bite, has stayed with me over the decades. I liked it.

It, combined with the intense style of her lovemaking opened me up to an entire range of possibilities I hadn’t even considered. It would take years before I would be good at that type of sex, but I’m happy I learned.

I flipped her over and we finished together in missionary position with our eyes locked. She was grinning the silly grin that women who truly relish sex will get on their face during the act. I’ve described it in other stories, so this may sound repetitive, but there is only one word for the look: bliss.

After that night we saw each other a few more times but eventually parted ways. Our lives simply went in different directions. I’ll always remember that bite though.