I was standing in the small room, in front of a curtained window. Paul's hot breath on the back of my neck was doing little to dispel the tension that was tying me in knots, even though that's exactly what we were here for. The room was pretty dreary really; just this curtained window and a padded massage table behind us against the wall. Tired paint on the walls, scuffed tiled floor and ceiling, as if men before us had been walking the ceiling and dragged across the floor, which, for all I knew, was exactly what had caused the scuffing. A set of loudspeakers hung above and at the corner of the curtained window. Paul's arms came around me, he started to unbutton my shirt and pull the tail out of my jeans even before he pulled on the curtain cord.

I didn't want to lose Paul, and this might be my last chance to keep him, I thought. We'd met at a book event. He was the author, and I was the fascinated reader. We'd talked while he autographed my copy—and I'm afraid I'd gushed about his book. He had taken that in stride and had invited me for coffee after the signing. I was a young, impressionable college student, and he was a good twenty years older than I was—but very distinguished and handsome. Gray at his temples and dancing green eyes that held mine. Thick, sensuous lips, a cleft chin that made him look very urbane, and a well-toned bod. We weren't finished discussing the exotic sub story line in his book when the café was closing, so he invited me to his place for a nightcap. His apartment matched my suppositions in sophistication; we kissed on his deeply upholstered couch, and he had my fly open and had sucked me off, with me shooting off quickly, before I managed to escape in embarrassment and confusion.

Two days later, he saw me loitering on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building, and, without words, he came down, took me by the hand, and led me back inside his door. We 69ed on his bed for hours, with him trying to take it farther, and me breaking it off in fear. I'd given and gotten both hand and blow jobs over the past year, but it had never gone beyond that.

Paul wanted to fuck me. He had no interest in me topping him. I wasn't adverse in theory, but I'd tighten right up whenever we got to the brink. He was big and thick and long—and I was terrified of the pain. After our fourth meeting, he was positioned and entered me, but as soon he had, the pain was just too much for me. I tightened right up and screamed for him to stop. His frustration was palpable, and I declared I wanted it but just couldn't do it—that perhaps we needed just to give up on the effort and any idea of a relationship in the fullest sense. I could tell that he was conflicted, though. He said he was smitten with me, but I knew he couldn't be satisfied with just hand and blowjobs. I cried, and he gently massaged my body and then tried again, but I just couldn't take him; it was just too painful. He then said he had an idea that might help, and so here we were, two days later, in a back room of a men's club, standing in front of a curtained window.

Paul had my shirt open and he was