Allison kept going back to buy more stuff.

She didn't need any of it, but she definitely needed something, and the guy selling the stuff looked like he might have what she needed. Not that he was Mel Gibson or Kevin Costner or anything, but she wasn't star material herself exactly and he was both handsome enough and vaguely easy, with that dog-like always-on-the-make look that she had learned to find attractive.

The second time she went, she bought something really big. A wicker trunk that would require two people to carry home. Which of course gave her an excuse to ask him to help her carry it. Which he did, without complaint, but after they'd gotten it inside he declined her offer to stay, and rushed back to help his roomates with the selling.

So before she went out a third time, and she promised herself that it would be her final trip because the guy was turning out to be a more expensive date than he had so far proved himself to be worth, she changed her clothes, replacing her nice neat jeans with a pair full of strategically placed rips, no underwear, and a top that was basically a large handkerchief with strings.

This time she had her eye on the couch. Not that she really needed a couch, but if his couch was in her apartment it might prove familiar enough to put him at ease, encourage him into one last fuck on it, or if he hadn't yet gotten lucky on it, one first fuck.

He was more than happy to help her again and walked backwards with his end the entire way back down the sidewalk, which thank God was down hill from his apartment to hers, his eyes focused on her swaying breasts beneath her emerald green handkerchief top.

Ordinarilly she prefered it when men looked her in the eye, but she'd worn the top for a reason and it seemed, finally to be getting through to him that she was a sex object and perhaps available.

They got the couch inside the door and placed exactly where she wanted it.

He didn't really look all that tired, but she needed an excuse to get him on it so she bent over further than she needed to, fully aware of how much and well the rips in the jeans were showing off her ass, patted the cushion of the couch even more suggestively, said "You look tired, sit," and then sat down next to him when he succombed, their legs touching and his hand (finally!) exploring the rip along her right front thigh. Which she took as invitation enough to turn and grab and kiss him.

Which was enough for him to take charge, to reach around and untie the strings that were barely holding her top on, to tease her exposed breasts, to pinch and fondle the nipples as he kissed her, to unsnap her jeans and help her pull them off over her hips, to help her unbutton his shirt and remove his pants, to lay her back on the couch and enter her, to finally finally give her what she wanted.

Their mouths locked, their tongues darting, she wrapped her legs around his back, delighting with the pounding of her clit and the feel of his cock inside her. That was she had wanted and craved, the feeling of a cock inside her, the completeness and connection of a good fucking, the joy of the old in out, in out, the look in a man's eyes when he is about to come inside her, the tension, the grunting, the explosion of his soul just for her.

It was the moment in life that brought her the most satisfaction, the most gratitude, and her connection to God. It was a moment she would repeat with him (and sometimes, when she was in one of her more interesting moods, with others) over and over for the rest of her life, for these are the seductions that marriages are made of.