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Crystal's Persuasion
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Crystal's Persuasion
My girlfriend Crystal is from the suburbs; malls, nice homes with lots
of grass, and three cars in every garage (the Beamer for the kids,
don'cha know). Me, I'm from the city; discount stores, row homes on
pavement with aluminum siding and car alarms going off in the street.
She's 25, and white. I'm 30 and black. I work with computers, and play
music part-time on the weekends. She's an auditor for a brokerage house,
and used to spend money on the weekends. We met while I was playing, but
it took an unusual catalyst to get us together: my ex-girlfriend, Pam.
Pam is drop-dead gorgeous, a walking wet dream. She's about five-
four, with blonde hair (sometimes it's curly, sometimes not). She has
bright blue eyes, and a slender, firm body that inspires thoughts of
rabid, mindless marathon sex. She's a city girl, and works as a cocktail
waitress at one of the clubs we play regularly at. Pam's aggressive if
she sees something she likes. She's not afraid of anybody. Pam's been
around the block a few times, and is wiser than her 23 years. She's
almost the exact opposite of Crystal. Crystal played the coy little girl
"notice me" game with me, while Pam... Let me tell that story first.
I had been playing every other weekend at the club where she works for
about three months. Being an average, under-sexed male, I noticed her
like all the other men who walked in the club. I drooled, too.
Unfortunately, I couldn't even try, since she was clearly off-limits.
It's bad news for a band to piss off the staff at a club, and unwanted
advances are the easiest way to do that. That will get you fired faster
than almost anything else. One Saturday night after closing, I was
waiting for the owner. Pam sat next to me, counting her money. I heard
her say, "Excuse me, Don."
"Yeah, Pam?" I tried to be nonchalant, but my heart started racing.
"Why don't you just ask me out instead of looking at me with puppy dog
eyes all of the time. I _am_ an equal opportunity dater," she said
sweetly. My jaw bounced off the floor twice. "Let's do something after
I ring out," she suggested. After all business had been taken care of,
she and I walked out to our cars. That is where I found out what her
definition of "something" was. Pam produced a rubber from her purse.
("Just in case I meet somebody -- interesting.") She looked deeply into
my eyes, and I got lost in hers'. "My place or yours? This is what
you've been wanting, right?"
We never even made it out of the parking lot. After kissing
frantically for about five minutes, she and I climbed into my van. Pam
pulled my pants down, put the rubber on me, and removed her panties. I
felt her settle onto my erection. "You look shocked," she panted.
"Isn't it what you expected?" She began to pump her hips, sliding
ferociously along my dick. I had no brain; Pam's scent, her facial
expression, and her enthusiasm were more than enough to make thought
impossible. It didn't hurt that I was living out a most recent,
extremely recurrent fantasy. I didn't care that Pam was essentially
masturbating herself on me. It didn't last long, either. "Now that
you've had the fantasy, will you call me next week? I think you're
cute." She sat next to me, still dressed in her tuxedo top, miniskirt
and fishnet stockings.
"You're kidding, right?" was my response. "Why in the hell wouldn't I
call?"
"Because you already got what you wanted," Pam replied. That wasn't
quite true. She had masturbated herself on me while I watched. That was
considerably less than what I wanted. "So." Pam let the sentence drop
with that one word.
"Pam," I started, then stopped. "I'm sorry you're so cynical, but I'm
not like other guys." I ran that back through my head. "I guess you've
heard that before," I said sheepishly.
"Uh-huh. But -- you are the first guy since high school to look at me
with puppy dog eyes. Maybe you're not lying." Pam kissed me on the
cheek. "Bye." She got out of the car, smiled and walked leisurely to
her car. I called her the next day, and that began a six month romance.
Much to Pam's pleasure, I was a much more active lover than I had been in
the van. Our after-work van encounters continued; at first, they were
the subject of gossip at the club, but then became accepted fact, hardly
worth comment. For about five months, it was great.
The last month felt wrong. The sex was still incredible, but
conversation had dwindled to virtually nothing. Finally, we had the
inevitable discussion. I brought it up over dinner one night. "It's not
working, is it?" She looked up at me through surprised blue eyes.
Lowering them before speaking, she sighed, "No..." She cleared her
throat before resuming, stronger this time. "No, Don, it isn't. It's
been fun, but you're right."
"Anything I can do?"
"No, I'm sorry, but I don't think so," Pam ruefully replied. "Please
don't take this personally, but, I'm afraid I've gotten bored with you."
She quickly added, "Except in bed. You're pretty creative, y'know?" She
smiled sadly. "What you need is a nasty streak." Regarding me fully, she
continued before I could say anything. "I mean, I'm about to go into
diabetic shock, you've been so sweet. I guess I'm looking for the spice
of danger."
"A nasty streak? I just wasn't brought up that way. And I doubt that
I can change, even for you," I stated.
"See? There you go again." Pam patted my cheek and leaned closer.
"You can't hurt me. I really do like you a lot, and I want to be
friends." She paused. "Really, I don't think I could have this
conversation with another guy. I think about all the times you made me
laugh, and I value your advice. Can we -- be friends?"
I looked at her with all the seriousness I could muster. There was
hope written all over her face, and the entire apartment was silent. My
voice was quiet, deep; grave. "Wouldn't this be a hell of a time for me
to get that mean streak you just talked about?" Pam was stunned for an
instant, then she read the laughter in my eyes and laughed herself.
"That's why it's been fun," she chuckled. "I knew there was a reason
I wanted to go out with you in the first place." Pam leaned over and
kissed me on the cheek. Then she nibbled on my ear and whispered, "Wanna
do it once more? For old times' sake?" It turned out to be more than
once, lasting into Sunday afternoon. Pam is still a walking wet dream.
Our discussion continued over coffee in bed. Pam explained, with
loving care, exactly what she felt had gone wrong. If anything, I hadn't
been possessive enough, and too acquiescent to her wishes. I asked her
how she had become so wise in her 23 years. "Bimboism isn't terminal. I
know, 'cause I used to be one. I'm smarter now -- I hope."
I really care for Pam a lot. She's a good friend, and I learned a lot
from her, especially after we broke up, which brings me to Crystal.
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