He noticed her as he was walking down Broadway, just after 11 P.M. The Village was alive on that September Friday evening, people relieved of the workweek and the heat of a Manhattan summer. No more stinking garbage or sweaty subway platforms, but enough summer warmth to feel the freedom of evenings without coats and early darkness.
The scene was as it has been for decades, changing in tone with generations, but not in substance. Thousands of people streaming down the wide sidewalks: colors of skin, hair and clothes, old and young, smiling and laughing, scowling and dying. Books, antique clothes, magazine stores, locals sitting on stoops, students trying to look cool on their first days at NYU. Smells of ginger, garlic, soy, sesame, pizza, souvlaki, onions and killer dogs.
People waiting for buses, people peering into store windows and talking, people leaning against buildings reading books, people leaning against buildings dying. People leaving the 8th Street subway station into the night, people sitting on the sidewalk selling old books, new books, old clothes, incense, the debris of their lives. Furs and punk, jewels and bottle cap rings, Brooks Brothers, The Gap and the Salvation Army.
In the midst of all he saw her turn from Astor Place onto Broadway, walking downtown. The first thing he noticed was the way she moved. Not just graceful, fluid. Maneuvering through the crowd deftly but without any appearance of speed or haste. At the tail end of the short skirt season she was wearing a tight black skirt and black tights, a tight black sleeveless top. From twenty feet away she looked like a living statue, weathered brown but taut and strong. Her short black hair barely moved with her movements.
He was in no hurry and was drawn to her. He'd meant to move cross-town toward Indian restaurant row but found himself still trailing her by fifty feet by the time they passed Great Jones Street, heading toward Houston. It was not as if she was the only woman on the street. A blonde in cutoffs and a silk camisole. Another woman in a denim miniskirt, one of his weaknesses and a t- shirt with the neck torn out. It was this other woman who drew his interest and his thoughts.
He imagined her sitting in a large chair with her legs draped over plush arms. He knelt before her, gazed into the crotchless black tights and her pussy at their center. She grabbed his head, hooked her legs around his neck and pulled him into her, to lick and suck until she arched her back and pressed his face deep into her wet musky cunt.
He imagined pulling her into an alley just out of sight of the street, reaching under her skirt and rubbing her pussy until she began to move against his hand. He pressed her against the brick wall of the building pulled her hips out, hiked up her skirt and slid into her from behind, fucking her fast and hard as he reached around and rubbed her clit.
He imagined her facing him on the crowded street, unzipping his pants and stroking his cock while she reached beneath her skirt, lifted her leg onto a fire department connection and fingered herself. Crowds of people swarmed by as she jerked him and herself off, never taking her eyes off of his, watching each other slide over the edge.
His thoughts came quickly and almost without his conscious intervention and the thoughts kept him on her trail.
At Houston Street she stopped abruptly, even though the light was with southbound traffic. She turned and looked into his, eyes without hesitation, as if she'd known all along that he was there. He saw her standing there fifty feet away and suddenly felt her presence right before him, even as he saw her yards in the distance, down to the scent of her breath. Sweetish, a smell he could not quite identify.
She looked into his eyes, fifty feet away and right before him and for a split second he was struck with visions: Paris as seen from one thousand feet, a dark alley and a dead body, a taste in his mouth. An intense rush up his spine made him shudder slightly right there past Bleeker Street and the No. 6 station. And then the spell was broken. She held his gaze, smiled slightly and walked across Houston.
He'd never had a woman look at him that way, in a city where women on the street live defensively, avoiding eye contact. In a few seconds she'd turned his street voyeurism and fantasy into attraction, obsession and commitment. He wanted those legs wrapped around his waist, he longed for her pussy in his face, he needed to feel what she was like when she came.
He quickened his pace, but she was fast and always kept ahead. He followed her south past Prince Street and then left onto Spring. Just before Lafayette he saw her enter a building. He followed her up four flights of stairs she which took as if in graceful flight, music increasing in volume as they climbed. At the top he found himself at a large loft apartment filled with one hundred people, most of them dancing. The stereo playing "Burning Down the House" at high volume, the smell of beer, sweat, marijuana and perfume.
And then she was there in front of him, dancing, moving, bouncing, shimmying in perfect rhythm. Breasts swaying gently, skirt sliding up her taut thighs, eyes blazing. She moved onto the floor and he followed. Never completely comfortable on a dance floor, he now felt that he might as well be dancing with Nureyev.
She was not flashy, she didn't attract much attention, but her movements were perfectly fluid: graceful, sensual, erotic and strong all at once. They danced for half an hour until a slow number and she backed into him, rubbing her tight ass against his groin, feeling him harden. He placed his hands on her waist - strong and hard and cool again. He pressed forward against her ass and she made a hissing sound in response.
She broke the embrace and walked toward the door, latching onto his fingers as she went, and he followed. Up the stairs again, through a bulkhead door and onto the roof. The front of the building had a young couple fucking rear entry bent over the parapet. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist and his hands were slid under her blouse. They didn't notice the new arrivals. Neither did the two women leaning against a vent housing a few feet away smoking pot and watching the show.
She took him around the alley side of the building roof, away from the noise and people. She grabbed his belt and before he could properly react, she had him unbuckled and he was falling onto the roof onto his back. His shoes came off in a flash and his pants followed. She was on top of him, kissing him passionately, sucking deeply on his tongue. She reached behind and drew up her skirt and flipped herself around on him, lowering a musky cunt onto his eager face.
He began to lick and tongue her immediately, and she responded by rubbing herself over his face, smearing him with juices already flowing. The smell from her pussy, like her breath, was familiar, but he couldn't place it. But then he had never failed to enjoy the smell of a woman's sex.
He felt her lips on his cock and an incredibly fast tongue flicking its way up and down his shaft, lips pressed against the underside rubbing. Then she engulfed him.
He felt a presence, not the same as he had on Broadway, but a presence. He was being elevated into a state of pleasure, but had no feeling of concern that the expert ministrations would make him come too soon. Pleasure and control were both there. He felt as if he now had the ability to go forever.
He just kept licking and sucking on her clit, sliding his tongue inside her. She stiffened and stopped sucking him, changing to stroking him with her hand. She ground herself against him desperately and came making animalistic sounds. He almost felt she'd break his neck and his cock.
In a flash she had swung herself around and she was lowering herself onto his cock. She began fucking him vigorously from above, her mouth now at his neck and ears. He felt lightheaded and could not place where he was, as if another mind was enmeshed in his, his fantasies and thoughts taking on a life of their own.
Suddenly it was Madonna fucking him and he looked up into the mischievous eyes. Seconds later it was Julianne Moore, earthy and heated, red hair in his face. Then it was Roma Torre, wearing nothing but a cropped t-shirt pushed up to her shoulders, breasts thrust into his face to lick. Then it was Cindy McCoy, his girlfriend from high school, whimpering as she used to when she was on top. Each lover different, each pussy different, each scent different.
And then he was back with the woman, pussy gripping and pulsing on his cock, she had gone from tonguing and nibbling his ear to licking his neck. Her tongue drew obscene lines and circles on his neck and nibbled gently. He heard her panting and noise and her breath on his neck, sensations intensified by the coating of her saliva. Smooth teeth rubbed against his neck, including two sharp points lightly scraping his neck, teasing, as a woman does with her teeth when giving head. Tentative, soft bites. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to tease.
He felt her begin to tense again, her movements more insistent. He also felt his need approach a point of loss of all control.
He felt her sink her teeth into his neck just as they started to come. He couldn't hear the piercing of his skin, although it was the sweetest sound she ever heard. She tasted the sweetness of his blood and had to hold herself in control lest she go beyond where she intended. The rich, heady smell and taste took her into a swoon as she sucked and started to come at once. His neck, her need and her sex were all that existed in her world.
He could hear her moans as she felt the sweet blood wash over her teeth, splash against her lips and overflow slightly as she drank, as if she were receiving a load of his cum in her mouth. She licked and sucked his neck gently but with strength, rubbing her body against his, drawing herself toward the edge of her being.
He couldn't decide whether the fangs in his neck and her tongue and lips slurping his blood were just as much a source of his pleasure as the spasms from the rest of his body. They shivered and shook on the roof as she sucked him, with both sets of lips. And then her tongue licked the wound sensually, even lovingly. She kissed him one last time with bloody lips. The same scent he'd enjoyed but couldn't place from her breath and her cunt.
"Just a taste tonight, baby," she whispered into his ear before rising to her feet, looking down at him smiling.
He lay there with the midnight breeze blowing over his sweaty body, remnants of the visions departing for wherever visions go. He was left with his after shocks of orgasm, a lightheadedness from losing more than a pint of blood, and the disorientation that comes from suddenly being faced with the fact that that which you always thought could not be, is.
He looked to his left to the alley side parapet. His gut froze as her saw her rise to the parapet and without any hesitation, jump over into the abyss. He jumped to his feet, despite his body's better judgment. He ran to the parapet and wincing, looked over. Below, on the well-lit surface of the alley next to the building, there was no body. No damaged woman with broken legs. Nothing.
He looked toward the street just in time to see her pass beneath the security floodlight, rounding the corner onto Lafayette Street, flowing back into the New York night.