Stick to the plan

“No, Angel, that's enough for tonight.” I send her away gently, “Thank you for making this such a pleasant evening, I've enjoyed your company very much.” Alison looks a little surprised and confused by her dismissal, and I wonder if she too thought she'd end the evening pleasing me with her sweet body. Don't get me wrong, it is tempting, especially because of how good she looks at the moment. For now though, I am content with the memories of Alison's sweet body writhing under mine last night; I figure it wouldn't hurt to let her simmer a little before I turn the heat up again at the end of the week. “I imagine you have schoolwork to do, Angel, so don't let this old man keep you from your dreams.”

“You're not old Mr. P.” The response comes out reflexively, but I am old, and in her heart, I think she knows that this relationship isn't going to be like what she thought her college dating might be. Alison retreats with a shy smile on her face and I suspect that she's going to start working on the reading that I assigned instead of her regular courses.

The next few days pass relatively normally, the only change in the routine is that Dick does not come over for his usual booty call on either Monday or Tuesday. I try to explain my satisfaction at this change in routine to the fact that I won't have to listen to her bed banging, but I'm pretty sure that there is more to it than the peace and quiet. On both days Alison disappears to her rooms after dinner instead of watching TV with me and I miss her quiet company. Monday, she comes downstairs for a cup of decaf and a flaky apple pastry at halftime, but on Tuesday evening she is unusually quiet during dinner and her snack sits uneaten by her perch on the couch.

I try to be a decent landlord and respect the privacy of my tenants, but my relationship with Alison is clearly more complicated than that so I climb the steps silently to her room with the snack in my hand as an excuse. It is a little bit creepy of me to want to spy on her like this, but I just can't stop myself. At the top of the stairs, I see the bedroom door is slightly open and I peek in before knocking. The room is dimly lit by a nightlight, but I can see clearly enough to make out what she is doing.

She's lying naked face down on the bed masturbating furiously with her hips jerking against the hand trapped between her belly and the rumpled bedding. This is no gentle stroking; the poor thing's face is twisted in a frenzied mixture of desperation and euphoria as she humps her fingers wildly.

It is not hard to figure out what has brought on this feverish bout. John Norman's The Slavegirl of Gor lies on the floor near the bed, apparently knocked down by Alison's wildly gyrating body. Her moans are punctuated by broken phrases and muffled grunts and as I stand there in the dark with a plate of cookies in my hand, I can make out bits and pieces of the young woman's dark fantasy.

“Noooo....Don't touch me! Oh Lord Jesus... aaggh, augh, ughh ... please I'm not that kind of girl ... uugh ... oh No! So big ... so strong ... please don't make me ... not that ... oooghhh, Dear God, PLEASE!” I might be wrong, but it sounds to me like she is pleading not for mercy from her captor, but for the orgasm that, so far at least, seems to have eluded her.

I take one step back down the steps, when it occurs to me that there is no real reason that a have to go, from what I could tell from the brief glimpse it seems like Alison needs a man to give her the relief she is craving.