Erotic Story: Credit

By seeing London, I have seen as much of life as the world can show.
Samuel Johnson

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She never asked why he didn’t leave his wife. Cheaters always marry the sweet ones, angelic beings, victims. An unearthly status that grows with every childbirth she suffers, with every holiday he neglects, and that blinds him with guilt every time he cheats on her. Lauren assumed his marriage had been his final hope of becoming a better man, and now his wife was his penance for having failed miserably. Being torn apart by guilt was his punishment for being the bad guy when she would be eternally holy, above suspicion.

Her phone rang. When she saw his name on the screen her heart made an immature jump, as she picked up with a smile.
“Is this my baby bee?” a husky voice asked.
“Baby bee! Oh my God that is so cute!” She pulled her nose in happy wrinkles, and curled up her lip in a childish grin. “I like this much better than Lady!”
In fact she hated Lady. She hated Babe. She hated Hey you. All things he reserved for when she forced him out of an after-sex Whatsapp silence, when she was still sore from him and fear for STD’s lurked beneath her everyday mask, and she needed him to let her know he was still there. And he wasn’t.
“I guess this means we’re not breaking up!” she concluded her analysis. Suddenly last week’s sleep-over became a vibrant memory, her happiness flaring up, as if she had been worried that enjoying the afterglow would set off a full-blown panic attack.
“Breaking up? Of course not. I still want to take you with me.”

Big and Lauren had been on and off for four months, a couple of sexual encounters and an increasing number of platonic dates, hang-out-togethers, run-in-to-you-gethers and left-my-sweater-at-your-place-drop-overs. Lauren had slept hugging and smelling his sweater, that Big had forgotten after he had helped her move house and had met most of her friends. Something she could still not believed had actually happened. And he had inaugurated the house.
“I want you to make tender love to me,” she had demanded.
At noon, they had breakfast at a restaurant because Lauren had warned: “No matter what’s in my fridge, we’re not going to find our dream breakfast in there.”
“I felt a bit guilty,” Big said. ”You asked for innocent sex and we ended up being very loud and your bed was banging to the wall.”
Lauren laughed. “It was the first night we slept together. Like babies. That’s pretty innocent.”
And now he was calling her Baby Bee and wanted to take her on a trip. It was progress.

Lauren only had one suitcase; a small white one, with red and pink stitching on the sides, and a print of 50s drawings. It was a suitcase that you could pull off if you were twelve or if you were 42 and wore coats that were so stylish that no one questioned your sense of fashion. Lauren adored her suitcase. It was a part of her identity, and just like her two cats it had become a deal breaker if you didn’t appreciate it.
They were waiting at the check-in at one of the remote gates.
“I do feel a bit boring now,” Big nodded to his stark blue Samsonite. The sun was shining relentlessly. He was wearing pilot sun glasses.
“You look like Michael Madsen,” she said. “Far from boring.”
“Who’s that?”
Sometimes she forgot that contrary to her, he had actually studied in college, that he was actually making good money with his business, and that he had never invested in developing a hobby or an interest other than finance, booze or other bad habits she definitely did not want to think about.
“Oh, you d love him,” she said, realizing she could never trust him if she continued that line of thinking. She forced herself to focus on him calling her Baby Bee and complimenting her pink suitcase.


The second the hotel room shuts behind us, she immediately turns around to kiss me. As if the neutral hours on the plane, in restaurants, cab, have created a buildup that now requires immediate release. She rubs her pelvis against me, my hand slides into her white coat. Taste of soft mints from the lobby. Appreciative moaning in my neck as she kicks off her heels and lowers half a head. Our coats off, my shirt open, her top over her head revealing a purple lace bra. Her warm pale arms wrap around me. More skin. I pull off her jeans over her ankles, as she lies lip biting on the box spring, anticipating to be fucked soon. I kiss her undies and sneak a finger in. Wet enough to do this quick and give her the pleasure of force. I turn her around and rip the string down to her thighs. We chuckle when we realize we need to break up our play to get a condom.
“Amateur,” she teases me, as she pulls up her string and walks to her handbag. I laughingly give it up, undress, and stretch out on the bed. She puts two condoms and lube on the nightstand and straddles on top of me. So wet I can feel it through the lace.
She sighs as if she’s thinking, then lowers down to my nipple and licks it, softly blowing it cool.
“Other one,” I instruct.
She looks up, surprised about the order, then smirks and repeats it on the other side. Sticking out her tongue and keeping eye contact.
“Take it down.”
She hesitates. I can spell out her thoughts reading her face. If she obeys this is the first time we do this without a condom. She drops chin to chest, her hair falls in front of her face. She starts to move back, I pull my leg from underneath her and spread. She sits in between. Blonde curls shielding her away. A warm hand takes my cock. A peck at the base, near the balls. Another warm hand cups my dick in the L shape of her thumb and fingers, pressing firmly into my belly. She strokes upward, down. A lick on my balls, a gentle suck. She tilts her head to the side, revealing her face and presses her tongue to the base. She lets the wet tongue trace the hand all the way up, and licks the foreskin, sucks the tip then pushes the skin back. A firm tongue pressing against the back. My gasp catches her gaze, looking up, and she continues her tongue and lip play around the tip. A warm hand again, now stroking together with her warm mouth.
“Christ, let me fuck you.”
She sits up throwing me a self-content smile and turns to the stand to pick up a condom. One hand pressing down the bed, the other reaching. As she leans over, her hips arch seductively.
She tears the foil and rolls it down. She’s sitting there like a naked fifties pin-up, with her hips broader than when she’s standing or lying down.
“Let’s get this off, “ I help her out of her last piece of fabric. “And what about it? Do you want to be fucked in your ass?”
“What? Now?” her laughter is loud and merry. “Oh my God…. I don’t know!”
Like hell she does.
“I guess…… Just really didn’t expect it!”
She takes the lube, kneels back onto the bed, knees wider this time, and tells me she appreciates me asking boldly, or taking risks. She likes to hear my voice.
“I could have rejected you!”
She’s holding the bottle, and I sit up and let her put lube my fingers. We did this once before.
“Reject me?” I say. And take my fingertips to her ass, and push one finger in. She collapses with pleasure onto my shoulder the moment I press deeper. “I know you better than that.”

She has the same strong physical response as the first time.
“I want to be on my back again,” she insists.
Apparently wishing for a rerun, rather than trying something new. I do as she asks. Lying on her back, with her knees up and wide, I take my dick to her ass and press it in. She screams in pain. I immediately retreat but it’s too late. Tears fill her eyes, as she cries it hurts so much, and cups her hand over her ass in horror. I give her a moment to catch her breath, and then take her hand away. “Let me feel. What’s going on?”
I use just one digit, and can see her relax. Still weary, but it clearly doesn’t hurt anymore. I move it, massage strategically. A shallow, slow stroke. Her breath deepens.
“Can we try again?” she asks, widening her legs.
“I think you need to turn around.”
A feeble smile, yet curious. Her strong back turns towards me.
“You can lie down all the way,” I say when I see her wonder if she should be in doggy.
It’s different this time. More relaxed. I can slide in easily and there is no sign of any pain. She squeezes the pillow, occasionally saying she likes it, or lifting up her head and looking over her shoulder. Something I reward by saying something about the view of her ass, or how good it feels. And she talks back, the same light conversation. The small talk connects us but we’re apart this time, and I can feel her drift away, needing less reassurance. I lean forward and lie on top of her, sliding a hand under her. She can ride my fingers. She relaxes even more, and I slide in deeper. I rock back and forth, fucking her, cradling her with my body.
“I can’t take any more,” a small voice sobs. “It makes me cry.”
I slide out, and lie there, hugging her sorrow.
“You’re always so happy after sex,” she says when the crying has stopped. “You don’t have any issues.”
I tell her that she’s right. “But in a few days I can feel totally different.”
“You mean guilt, right?” she asks.
I nod silently.


I wipe the steam from the mirror and look at my blushing face. My wet hair wrapped in a towel around my head, cheeks a radiant pink, and with a growing smile from being blissed out by a.m. sex, and because it’s funny to see yourself this way. On moments like this I know I made the right choice: to become single, and to develop my sexuality. Because nothing else, no money, no career and especially not a decade long relationship, can bring me the buckets of happiness that is shining in this reflection. Despite of the many fears that haunt me. Or as I begin to understand it – because of them. The fear is the fuel. A violent demon, yes, but also my strongest ally. The fear of lifelong viruses. And so many of them so disturbingly contagious. Hiv should have been the least of my worries, although when you’re younger you have more to lose.

Biggie’s phone call vibrates through the thin wall. Something about his appointment today. I m curious if he’s put on a suit. I pull the bathroom door open and walk to the messy bed. He throws me an appreciative glance from his chair, as he continues his conversation.
“Yes, I ll hold.”
I take the bathrobe off and leave it on the desk. I crawl onto the messy bed on all fours, with my back towards him. I touch my pussy from between my thighs as I have fun looking at him, making a soundless Oh my God and quickly coming over to caress my butt cheeks, and then licking my parted labia.
“Does half one suit you?” a muffled voice on the phone asks.
“That will do. Thanks.”
I stretch out fully, the sheets are cold to my naked belly, resting on my elbows.
“I like that you’re dressed, and I m not.” I say. “And that you’re wearing a suit.”
“What else do you like?” he sits next to me and resumes caressing my butt.
“The potential. Everything we still haven’t done…. It makes me happy.” I lie down, my breasts flat on the bed, and turn to one cheek. The hand is still caressing me.
“Will you spank me one day? Like really spank.”
He hesitates. “It’s a bit tricky. Like where exactly. And not too hard.”
“That doesn’t sound very Christian Grey.”
“I am not Christian Grey. You’re not a 20 year old virgin. Thank God for that.”
“Did you ever have virgins?”
“Not on purpose. It’s not a happy place.”
“I think it’s a real turn on!” I reach my hips up to him. “I wish you would be my first. And that it would really hurt.”
“It hurt yesterday and it nearly killed you.”
“Oh my God yes! What did you do? Within one minute I went from ouch ouch and crying to Fuck me. What was that?!”
“A secret.”
“So you did do something?”
“Yes. Not gonna tell.”
He slips his hand down between my thighs. I open my legs. He touches the entrance.
“I’m so sore,” I giggle. “I’m horny but sore.”
He places me over the rim of the bed, and starts to kiss and lick, but I can’t enjoy it.
“I want to give you a blowjob,” I say. “A proper one. Sit on the chair.”
The man in the suit sits down and I squat down, and open his pants. As always, he is hard.
“Don’t come in my mouth,” is the last thing I say.
His offended look convinces me he won’t.


His pants are on his ankles, his shirt is open. He watches her hands work him, and her mouth spitting saliva, as much as she can produce in those crucial seconds where she can’t use her mouth. She keeps looking up. Everything excites him: her played submission, her joy to please him, her eye for the visual effect of having her kneeled and naked before him. His orgasm comes as he closes his eyes and throws his head back, despite his desire to keep looking. He can feel the drops of sperm on his belly and chest. She’s still stroking him, slowly. She sees a million ways in which she’s at risk, but only one thing prevails: than he can be trusted. He warned her. He acted responsible in the only area where she needed him to.
He looks down and she looks up, still stroking, her hand covered with her spit and his sperm.
“God you should see yourself,” he pants from exertion. “Look at you…. smiling.”


Until 2013 I ve been writing Dutch erotic stories; a collection that I m about to publish as 22 Erotische Verhalen. Credit is second in a series of real life inspired English erotica. The first story was The Biggie.

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