Warning: coarse language and adult situations.

This story is a sequel to Casey vs The One Night Stand (which you may have already figured out from the snappy title!).

Chapter 1: The Singing Rage

Did I still think about him? Yes, from time to time. If by "from time to time" you mean every waking minute of every day and even sometimes in my dreams. Literally anything could cause him to pop into my head, especially when it was raining in the late evening or I poured somebody a Jack Daniels in the bar, ate a fresh sandwich, smelled cigar smoke, watched a man pull a gun in a television crime drama.

Lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling in the dark.

There had been a few other men over the past eight months, just casual encounters that never went beyond the first round of sex, but when I look back on them now I can see bits and pieces in each of them that reminded me of him – a strong jawline, a slight curl to the hair, tall or broad-chested or both. None of them were out-and-out doubles, but after a while it became so obvious to me what I was doing that I stopped having sex altogether rather than be self-conscious about the men I was drawn to.

Is it possible to re-virginize? Probably not, but I was starting to feel like I was getting closer every day. And the sad part about it is that I was beginning not to care.

I know I had told myself that I wasn't going to pine after him when he left. He had treated me honorably as far as telling me the truth of his wish for a brief relationship and I had entered into it on those terms. But the crux of the problem was, as much as the intellect is capable of working through these things in an objective manner, the heart is not, and my heart, against all common sense, logic and prudence, wanted John Casey.

I know my body sure did.

I was getting into a routine of coming home after working at the bar, showering to get the smell of booze and fried foods out of my skin, and popping under the covers naked. Then I'd begin my own form of meditation and visualization. I'd pick something about John that I remembered and picture it vividly. Maybe it would be the smile of pure enjoyment around his mouth and in his eyes as he clamped his cigar between his teeth. Or the faraway look he got as he screwed up his facial muscles and concentrated on coming. I particularly liked the one where he grinned and quirked his eyebrows, giving his face a devilish cast as he watched my face and searched with his fingers inside me for just the right spot and rhythm to make me lose control.

First, I'd fix the memory for that night's sex substitute session in my mind. Then, I'd actively begin to relax my body, making sure my shoulders weren't bunched up around my neck and that my leg muscles were loose. Next, I'd reach out in the dark and pull open the drawer of my beside table, groping around for my John-sized dildo with my left hand while I began to stroke my vulvae and clitoris lightly with the fingers of my right hand.

The images of John in my mind had been so carefully tended that they were as clear as if I was seeing them for the first time, and they never let me down. I had some lubricant handy in case it was needed but so far I had never even opened the tube, because by the time I had the dildo in my hand and had pulled my knees up and apart, I was always practically wetting myself with John-induced natural lubrication. The brain sure is a powerful sex organ.

Anyway, it always went kind of the same way each time. I'd wet the end of the dildo in those first juices and insert it just a bit so it would push out against the sides of my opening. Then I would reinforce the mental picture I had chosen for the night's festivities. Slowly sliding the device in, I would imagine John interrupting whatever it was he was doing in my imagination, and his head would come nearer to mine for a kiss.

As his mouth approached, his eyes would hood and become bottomless, his lips would slacken. He would draw a sharp breath in through his nostrils and maybe moan a bit in anticipation, and all the while I would be gradually, bit by bit, pushing the dildo in until it was completely inside of me. Then I would stop the motion and take the time to picture his kiss, his lips brushing mine, then making firm contact as he added some pressure with his head. He would open his mouth and the end of his tongue would dart out to wet my upper lip, causing me to drop my jaw open slightly. He would then extend his tongue into the opening, a bit past my teeth, to meet my tongue as he pressed his lips even harder to mine, then tighten and relax the muscles around his mouth in a sort of massaging motion until I relaxed completely into it, and – eureka! First prize.

Some nights, that was all it took, and I would thrash my legs around in a spasm of ecstasy, eyes shut tight, pretending it was John inside of me instead of a hunk of lifeless plastic.

Other times, depending on whatever point in my cycle my hormones were at, I had to work a little harder and wait a little longer for the fun part, but I didn't mind. That meant that, as I was rubbing and teasing my clitoris, I could imagine that it was John's tongue on me, and I would lick my own lips as I pictured the top of his head between my thighs while he licked me out. Based on my memories, I could even vary his facial expression as he looked up, his lips and mouth wet with my desire. Sometimes, he would look mischievous, as though he was plotting a new line of attack on my sensitive nerves before diving back in. Sometimes, he would look shy as though he was unsure whether he was making me happy or not. And sometimes, he would look very smug and self-satisfied, secure in the knowledge that he could bring out such strong reactions in me that it made me keen for more.

My particular favorite, though, was the look when he raised his face that telegraphed his need of me, because, when it came right down to it, this is what I was really wanting. I wanted him to need me enough to come back to me.

At this point, he would move quickly and decisively, because that was his nature. Bringing his body up over mine, sometimes pausing for a moment to kiss my belly or run his tongue into my navel or over a nipple as a tease, he would position his hips between my thighs and bend his arms so he could rest on his elbows. He would always check my face, first to see if I was all right and then to give himself a chance to take in my reaction and use it to heighten his own. And finally, depending on how much of a hurry he was in by this point, he would wait for me to grasp his penis and guide it in, use his own hand for the purpose or, if the positioning and timing were just right, without any manual assistance, thrust himself in with a mighty push that would always leave me gasping in surprise at the sensation of it.

And that's usually as far as that one needed to go.

Of the two, the short version or the long version, the longer one always gave me the more violent orgasm, but I wasn't choosy. For me, the real point was that John was, in one way or another, at the forefront of my thoughts, and if I couldn't have him near me in the flesh, at least I could have some measure of happiness on call when needed.

I'd always managed to get John, Jr., out, cleaned and back into the drawer for the next time before dropping off into a dead sleep, but sometimes it was a close call. I'd thought of getting a vibrator before we'd had our night together but now I'm glad I didn't. I don't think I could have conjured him up the same way over the whirring sound, imagined that it was his skin next to mine, his magnificent cock in me, or felt that he was with me again and loving me with his gorgeous body and mind.

So what does it say in the virgin manual about rubber appliances? Do they count? Because the only thing I was afraid of was that my memories of him would fade, that I would lose the shreds of him that swirled in my mind during the day and even more vividly during the night.

It was the only thing I was afraid of, that is, until one night at the bar, just before closing time after most of the customers had packed up and left, when the door swung open, letting in a rush of damp air left over from a recent rain shower, and John Casey stepped over the threshold.

I think my heart actually stopped for a second. I know people say that all the time but it's the strangest sensation. My heart stopped, time stopped, whatever, take your pick. All I know is that when it started up again my nerves were literally humming inside my body like high tension wires on full surge when his eyes met mine from across the room.

Thank God for small mercies. Willie and his friends had already left and the final three drinkers shuffled quietly around John and exited, leaving the two of us alone. As I had the last time, I came out from behind the bar and hurried over to the door to lock it and turn off the exterior lights.

So what was it that I was afraid of? Here he was, standing in front of me, just as I remembered him from the last time and just as I had pictured him every day and every night since he had disappeared from my life. I should be happy, right? But all I could do was stand mute before him, fearful that he was here for some reason not connected to me, to us, and that he would be gone again in a couple of minutes. I had never plunged from such a height of euphoria to such a depth of despair so fast in my life, and my stomach even lurched a bit and threatened to betray my nervousness.

John must have seen the turmoil my mind was in. He reached out a hand and placed his fingers gently under my chin, coaxing my eyes up from the floor, where I had been staring dumbly at his shoes.

"Hello, Darlene," he said in a low, gravelly voice that set my nerves to singing again.

I cleared my throat and blinked a couple of times like an owl that's just been disturbed in the middle of the day. It was actually difficult to begin to speak, but I knew I had to say something to cause this dream to become reality, so I made an extra effort and managed, "Hello, John."

And then I was caught up in his embrace.

His arms circled my body tightly, almost too tightly, and he lifted me so my feet were dangling a few inches from the floor. His chin was tucked over my shoulder, as mine was over his, and when he lowered me back down a moment later and we pulled our heads back, we were wearing identical grins of happiness.

For some reason, I got nervous again, which was silly, considering I hadn't been nervous with him the first time we had been together. Maybe it was because I had built up such a strong fantasy life around him and I was afraid he would discover it or maybe he wouldn't find me attractive this time. All my fears were unfounded, however, as the kiss fantasy that I had run over and over again in my head was playing out now in real life. He looked deep into my eyes before searching out my lips with his, and when our mouths made contact, that old familiar jolt ran through my body, searing every fiber with its intensity and finally taking up residence in my lower abdomen. Our physical contact seemed to affect John in a similar fashion, and he thrust his hips forwards while bending his knees so he could make contact with my crotch. I was ready for him, my thighs parted, and I pushed back, tilting my pelvis towards him, frenzied by my hunger for him.

This second contact between our bodies did nothing to relieve our need to be touching each other. In fact, it just served to intensify my longing to feel more of John and he of me.

Our knees gave out at the same time and we sank to the floor of the tavern, still holding a relatively chaste kiss considering what our lower regions seemed to be doing of their own accord. And even as we writhed around, our breathing coming dangerously fast, John was careful to make sure I didn't hit my head or that he wasn't squashing me. I'm not sure I would have cared at that point anyway, because the only thing I could really feel were his mouth on mine and his stiffening cock, still inside his pants and, in spite of at least four layers of fabric between us, making me harder and wetter than I had been in a very long time as he ground himself onto me and moved his hips up and back in a teenage version of sex that I had vague memories of from my youth.

None of the pimply faced boys from way back then had ever made me feel like this, though, and I cried out in anguish when he suddenly stopped his movement and raised up off of me. I opened my eyes to see what was happening and my look of disappointment changed to one of lust as I saw John's hands going for his pants button and tugging open his zipper. I followed suit and hastily opened my jeans, wiggling my legs around so I could kick off my shoes and push the pant legs down and off the ends of my feet along with my panties. By the time I had re-positioned my legs so they were spread sufficiently to allow John to resume his rightful place between them, he had pulled his pants down far enough so they were no longer a barrier to our coupling, and he was almost entirely inside me before I had a chance to register and enjoy his entry.

And, as before, in real life and in my fantasies, he paused when his full length was where it belonged to kiss me, gently this time. He even whispered my name when he was finished with the kiss, which, for maximum effect, I will repeat here for you.


And I was bumped up to the next level of bliss. If it wasn't Nirvana, then it was damn close, I'm telling you.

When he started to withdraw and began short, urgent strokes, I knew it was because he was just as excited as I was, too excited to completely withdraw and push in again. I gave in to an overwhelming urge to say his name at this point, and with each quick thrust that drove him deeply into me, I repeated, "John, John, oh, John," and variations on that kind of thing. The words "I love you," also popped into my head at one point, but I pushed them aside, moaning loudly and calling out his name as he grunted and stopped abruptly at the top of his final thrust.

The walls of my vagina were moving around so much at this point, rippling and contracting, that he cried out with pleasure and wiggled his bum around a bit to try to get in even farther. We both suspended movement at the same time to focus all our attention on our final throes of passion, even going so far as to hold our breaths, and we let out gasps at the same time a moment later when it was finally, finally over.

John's eyes focused on mine after that and a beatific smile creased his cheeks as he watched my face relax and light up in my joy.

"So," he said, chuckling slightly, "I just dropped by to see if you might want to spend some time with me again."

I smiled even wider at this and we both began to chortle like idiots, which eventually turned into full-blown laughter and, with helpless tears of happiness rolling down my cheeks as I listened to John's loud guffaws booming through the bar, I was almost afraid that someone would call the police to find out what the commotion was all about.