The evite had made it clear that those invited should feel very comfortable to be very comfortable at the party. Every word dripped with innuendo:
"Attention Game Lovers: We're ready to play and sense you are as well. Come as you are by all means. No losers invited and no losers allowed. You're a winner by virtue of this invite. Now what will you do with prizes?"
She thought the cheese factor was a bit high but she applauded the courage it took for the newly "outed" swingers to host their first gathering of no-rules play. She just didn't want to attend.
She'd been there done that. And she was bored.
But Friday night was upon her and she had no commitments, no obligations, and no date. She wanted not to want more but she had to embrace her extroversion and acknowledge that the idea of spending a Friday night alone when she knew a party was underway was almost torturous.
So she was standing before the mirror with one of her favorite ensembles on. She didn't really like dress up in the technical sense. She was no one's maid. She was no one's baby doll. But she had a short skirt that showed her legs in the proper perspective to truly appreciate that short women still had much to offer in that area. She had a brilliantly white blouse that dipped between her breasts and with her best bra for showing off the D cups on, she knew that they were an attention getting pair. She also had a pair of maryjane type shoes with heels. Not quite the school girl but something suggesting she was ready for play.
Even if tonight what she really wanted was conversation.
Ahhhh. . . there's the rub. No one at this gig was all that interested in knowing her for her wit and charm.
Or so she thought.
The house was incredible. The entryway rose to the second floor. The couple's love of the renaissance period was evident on almost every wall. The den was perfectly attired with long inviting sofas and ottomans to allow for intimate conversations.
She arrived late and found many hook ups had already occurred. Pairings and trios were actively engaged in the nervous laughter that provided the background "music" for encounters in the making. She thought she recognized 80s music faintly playing as well.
"Disco is still not dead," she thought, "as long as one last gay couple lives and breathes."
She wandered to the kitchen where the open bottles of white, red and anything you want for shots were displayed. She poured and began to wander from room to room.
She smiled at the two women in the corner that she knew to be a couple playing what looked like a card game with words and a 20-something with a ready laugh and moist lips that she kept licking as she pondered her next move. The returned smile from the more aggressive of the couple welcomed her acknowledgement and warned that she was a bit too late for meaningful engagement there. They'd be leaving soon she could tell and someone was going to have to come back and get the pretty blonde's car tomorrow.
She kept moving.
The pool room was filled with half naked men and a woman fully clothed who seemed to be simply watching. Drink in hand, relaxed on the corner stool, she smiled at her entrance but quickly returned her gaze to the game. The foursome were obviously taking a shot at strip pool. They were also very gay and very drunk.
She continued the tour.
When she got to poolside, the conversations were quiet but evidence of a previous raucous behavior was all around. A few vibrators, a dildoe, an ass plug and numeorous other toys littered the walkway. She imagined the game of catch that must have been the center of attention earlier in the evening. She knew not one person and not one really looked to see if they knew her.
Frustrated with the fact that she'd even remotely thought this was a good idea, she considered making her exit immediately and without bothering to thank her hosts.
Then the woman from the pool room tapped her on the shoulder.
"Scared? Bored? Amused? or Aroused? You pick," the auburn haired beauty offered up. With deep emerald eyes and red highlights one almost expected a brogue to come forth from the nicely done (still at this hour) lips but it was Southern drawl all the way. She was a runner perhaps but definitely active. Her arms were bare and the yellow halter top highlighted their perfect tone.
"How about I'm scared that I look too bored when in fact I'm amused at how aroused everyone already is?"
"Nicely done. You deserve a refill," and the belle of the ball took her glass without question and led her to the remote bar set up at the back of the pool.
She followed simply because she had at least been engaged by this one. But she didn't really think she was into the idea of a girl on girl experience. She was looking for something a bit more erect than her previous experience with women had provided. Wait, she wasn't looking at all, she reminded herself. And yet, she still followed.
"I propose we play a game. A mind game," the belle offered and without waiting for approval began to create a cocktail that she quickly handed off as she described her activity. The slight lilt at the end of the sentence made it seem somewhat less like an order but it didn’t really qualify as a question either.
She decided to let the belle have her way until she would decide not to. Seemed like a reasonable plan. Besides, the belle knew how to make a cocktail. Lime, something a tad sweet, a splash juice and vodka. Her kind of drink. She’d see if it was her kind of game.
“We can sit in here,” the belle motioned to the pool “house” which was actually a room and bath situated off the garage. The guys had decorated it with a beach motif so there were two bleached wicker chairs facing each other next to the twin bed. The belle picked up one of the chair pillows and placed it on the floor as she sat down.
She followed her lead.
“Here’s how it can work. I’ll find something on you that reminds me of a story – true – and I’ll tell you what I’m looking at and I’ll give you the story. We’ll continue swapping roles until one of us is bored or has developed another game,” this time she did conclude with a question. “Agreed?”
“Sounds like you should begin since you have the concept down.”
“Ok . . . here goes. The white of shirt is very stark. Reminds me of sailboat I enjoyed one summer. My friend had refurbished it -- brilliant wood polished to perfection with these sails that took your breath away when you were at sea. . . They don't all have to be long. Your turn."
"Hmmmm . . . the color of the polish on your toes. I love coral. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that when I was in college I painted one wall what I thought was going to be exactly that color. Instead, on the wall it took on a Pepto pink hue. I lived with it for a week while I skipped meals to save money and buy another can of paint. I made the guy at the store mix it three times before I thought he had it right. When I finished that wall, I spent an afternoon just gazing on my work."
The belle looked around the room and then back at her new companion as though she had to clear her visual palate before moving on. "I noticed your ring finger has a slight indentation as though you were used to wearing a wedding band or some sort but now you don’t.”
“Am I supposed to correct you?”
“It’s not about the facts. It’s about the story,” she said, though not harshly. In fact her tone had taken on a less forceful quality and now she really was sounding like a storyteller … like a really good one at a library special events day for kids. She wasn’t condescending. She just knew her stuff.
She continued. “The missing ring reminded me of a doctor I knew who would take his ring off at the office because he was a general practitioner and never knew when he’d be called upon to get a tad bit messy, shall we say. When I first went to see him, I didn’t know the missing ring was for comfort and/or safety sake. I thought he might be divorced but didn’t know. As he lightly tapped my back and checked my lungs for congestion, I placed my hand on his and held it there. He was generally startled. As, quite frankly, was I because I had no intention of engaging with him at all when I first saw him. But there was something about the idea that he wasn’t complete, something was missing that drew me to him. And I wanted to connect. He started to object. But I looked at him and he knew. He stood there as I traced each finger with my own. I lingered a bit longer on the ring finger. Then I took my other hand and ran it up his thigh. I saw and felt that he was growing. I simply rubbed him a few moments, unzipped his zipper, dipped my head and took one long draw on him. I zipped him back up and placed both my hands on my thighs before the nurse returned. He continued the exam and we never spoke of it again. . . . Your turn.”
She had listened attentively and just before the belle had even gotten to the exam table, she somehow knew how the game was going to be played. She thought she might like it.
She sipped her drink, taking a long look at the incredibly serene woman who was sipping and silently waiting before her. “Your tan line is different from the halter you’re wearing. I was on a beach in Ecuador. A young man about 17 years my junior was with me. We’d connected in a language class and found that our interests were similar. We liked both to talk, to listen, and to write. On this day, we’d walked for a couple of miles away from our hotel and found a path to the rock formation that jutted up majestically along the edge of the beach. We easily walked out and sat on a boulder. He was a bit higher than me and I leaned back into his open legs as we listened to the waves crash, the birds do their thing and simply let each other be. We were present for one another but no words were exchanged. We couldn’t have heard each other anyway. I felt the sun on my face and shoulder and knew I was burning but it didn’t matter. I shifted slightly and felt him hard and pressing against my shoulder blade. I didn’t turn. I didn’t comment. I pushed back. He pushed forward. I moved my arm so that it was on his outer thigh and pulled him even closer. We rocked for a few minutes and then he came. He bent down, kissed my hair. And we stayed on the rocks for another 20 minutes or so. We walked back to the hotel and he came to my room, applied lotion to my shoulders and kissed me from head to toe. Three orgasms and one hour later, he came inside me.”
“You’re hair is at least three colors,” she did somewhat ask that one. She nodded in affirmation. “Once when I was in a salon, the owner said she was leaving early and asked if my stylist would lock up. The salon was funky, filled with art that was somewhere between good and trying really hard to be good. The music was the choice of whoever had the gumption to get up and find a new satellite station. My stylist was the last to leave most days because she was the most successful and I liked late appointments because I knew she’d play jazz if she had an option. A beautiful sax solo had just taken me to some fantasy quiet bungalo and I must have moved to the music more than I thought I had. She asked if I liked to dance. I told her that in my dreams I was sexy and stylish as I moved across the floor but in reality, I had a few issues with rhythm. I did, tell her though, that that never stopped me. She took my hand and pulled me out of the chair. She had at least three inches on me and she took the lead in spinning and swaying me to an upbeat number before drawing me in close for the slow song that followed. When it concluded, she looked down, smiled and bent lower to kiss me at the nape of my neck. She traced her tongue along my collarbone and then sucked on my shoulder as though she had an orange opened and juicy in her hands. I kissed what was left to me – her hair. It smelled of lavender and I breathed it in. She led me to her chair and pumped the floor handle so that it rose. She then sat me down, pulled me to the edge and shifting the gown out of the way, she raised my dress to affirm what she must have noted as I came in – a lack of panties. She smiled again and got down on her knees and buried herself in the fine curly hair that would be the only confirmation she would ever have that indeed she had matched my natural coloring almost perfectly. She tasted me, swallowed me and tasted me again and again. I held tightly to the arms of the chair and watched it all through the mirror. My response was one of the wettest and hardest I can recall in the last several years.”
She let that one rest for a moment. The words hung almost visibly in the air and she didn’t see a need to rush into another telling. She watched the belle sip her drink, lick her lips and wait. Both women had the look of patient contentment on their faces.
She breathed in and allowed her eyes to drop past the thick masses of reddish hair that fell just at the belle’s shoulders. She studied her more than ample breasts and yet didn’t find the story there. She kept moving southward and noted that the khaki shorts the belle was wearing with a soft, the comfortable yet pricey halter, fell a few inches above the knee and the knee had a scar. She reached forward and to touch the scar but didn’t. She allowed her hand to hold just above it. “I was training for a race. My running buddy was a few yards ahead of me and we were on an uneven sidewalk. I took a dive and landed hard. He came back to check on me and I noticed that his sweat was dripping on my leg even before I noted that I was bleeding and my pants were torn at the knee. He helped me up and I began to limp down the sidewalk. We were at least six miles from home and I wasn’t exactly sure but I suspected I had either broken or torn something important. Every step was close to excruciating. I was leaning on him when the old Thunderbird slowed beside us. The driver, a younger than us but older than young man, asked if we needed help. Ordinarily, I’d have been leery but ordinarily I wasn’t about to cry from pain. I told him where I was parked and asked if he could drive us there. He said yes and did. When we got into the car I smelled the pot but didn’t comment. He looked and sounded ok. My friend sat up front and I laid in the back. The two men chatted away about great restaurants in the area and their favorite place for fried chicken. I smiled and tried to ‘feel’ for an assessment of breakage. When we arrived at the parking lot where we’d left our cars, I rose up and noted that the two men were now holding each other’s thighs. I had missed the exchanging of numbers but that had occurred at the last traffic light. As they turned to kiss each other goodbye, I placed my hand on each shoulder and held tightly. They both turned and kissed my hands. I thanked our hero and exited the car as they kissed one more time.”
“I’m not bored. I’m wet and I would love to continue this. But not tonight. Tonight, I want to go to my room. They let me stay here when they have parties and there’s a possibility I might be drinking more than usual. I am not going to invite you there because . . . well, because I don’t want you to think that this was just about alcohol. I would politely like to ask you to have dinner with me tomorrow night. Would you?”
“You like a bit of control don’t you?” she said smiling and releasing her own control issues at the foot of the master. She fished one of the cards she was carrying out of bra (the skirt had no pockets and she hadn’t known what the night might hold). “I’d be delighted. I might have a story or two left in me.”
“Indeed.”
They rose, never touching, and exited in silence.
The belle climbed the stairs. She opened the front door and let the heat of the night air wake her. She’d ride home with the top down and relive the tale she would have told about the shoes the belle was wearing. She’d perfect the telling somewhat between now and what was actually going to be dinner tonight.
She hoped the hosts wouldn’t miss the fact that she’d never actually said hello.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Foreshadowing
She'd planned it as self-revelatory confession with comic undertones. She wondered if he'd laugh.
She recounted the tale of how when she was 8, her ever-struggling-financially-parents had purchased one nice gift for each of her siblings. Four "biggie" gifts meant there was no room for extras in the stockings. Apples, nuts, and that sticky orange chew candy covered in sugar and only found at Christmas filled in for Santa's extra reminders that he loved and cherished her.
Her "biggie" was a curly blonde doll and plastic lined baby carriage. She'd spent Christmas morning pushing her new charge around the cramped three bedroom house. She was beginning to feel she could love this non-TV-character-generic-wannabe if for no other reason than because Santa thought she could. Her mom then called her to breakfast. While she took seriously her responsibility, she was a chubby foodie-in-the-making and nothing would come between her and her mom's once-a-year-homemade biscuits. She dashed to the kitchen where all six of her family sat around the maple kitchen table so crowded in the small room that retrieving the biscuits from the countertop simply meant turning in her mother's chair.
Midway into the meal her brother remarked that something was stinky. Her older brother echoed the sentiment. Her sister agreed. Her father decided it was time to check out the growing pungency. He sent the children on a game of olfactory hide and seek. Her sister was the first to call out.
"Momma! I found it," she cried. "You should come quick. Just you."
She waited as her mom then called for her father. Her brothers jockeyed to be the next. Finally her parents were standing before her, concern oozing out of them but still silent. Her mom spoke first, "Baby, were you in a hurry when you left your room?"
"Guess so," she murmured, unclear if she were in trouble or being comforted. "Why?"
"Well, something's happened, honey," she said. "Your baby doll's carriage got too close to the wall heater and . . . "
Her father revealed the remains. The baby's blonde hair was now topped by a blackened melted mess. The carriage had a perfectly charred hole in its front.
She cried the tears her charge would never release. She knew it was her fault. She wanted to blame the Christmas breakfast smell of ham in the air but the still present odor of the melting plastic brought her to her senses. She had failed.
She wanted Santa to come back and make it right. Somehow she knew even then her parents couldn't. So until New Year's Day she proudly . . . or at least seemingly so . . . pushed that carriage up and down her street revealing her non-parenting skills just as the adulterous woman had worn the A (though she was years away from knowing that story).
She gave up her task only when boredom set in. Let's face it, baby carriages -- even with deformed babies -- can only take you to so many imaginative places.
She waited after completing the telling. He smiled at her, having chuckled initially as she described her defiance of social norms in the streets with her carriage. Now he had the look of one who was marveling. But she wasn't sure. Finally, he spoke.
"Some part of me wants to have saved you from the embarrassment. And the other knows that it was incidents such as this that shaped you into the woman I am thrilled to know."
"You are too terribly biased in my favor."
"And why not?" he said as he ceased the gentle rubbing of her forearm that he had absently begun the minute the story took a turn for the worse. "Why shouldn't there now be someone in your corner who is your absolute cheerleader?"
"Because I fear that getting too close to me often results in getting burned," she confessed. And the truth of their situation was as exposed as it had been for a long time.
They had simply pretended that she wasn't married and that he wasn't in the midst of an ugly divorce. They met each week at various restaurants around town and once a month arranged for a hotel at a downtown location no where near the suburbs in which each of them lived and worked. The friendship the two couples had once enjoyed was disrupted by the divorce so at least the awkwardness of double dating had been avoided. For six months they had settled into a routine that worked as long as they didn't examine it too closely.
She realized it was time to open her eyes.
She wasn't going to leave her husband. She didn't love him but she couldn't hate him enough to cause him that much pain. She had a life that worked for her. He had grown impotent years ago and refused to acknowledge it so she had taken care of herself in the way she knew how -- first personally and then with a series of lovers who were nothing more than men with whom she could enjoy an afternoon.
He was different. The friendship the four had shared had always been lopsided in their direction. They both enjoyed the theater and their spouses endured it. They both loved to cook and their spouses enjoyed the eating. They both wanted to travel and their spouses agreed to occasional weekend jaunts as a foursome. They never acknowledged any feelings for one another aside from the jokes their spouses even made about how they were much more evenly matched until he left the wife that had grown more bitter and spiteful with the passing years of no children and no focus on anything else.
She hadn't known he was even aware of her as a woman rather than just a friend until he asked her assistance one evening in purchasing some items for his new place. She agreed and her husband encouraged her to help him, noting that she was the one of the four with any decorating sense at all.
They shopped and compared and at first she hadn't responded when he continued to emphasize his points with a longer than usual touch of her arm. At checkout he had asked if she had time for a drink. She knew there was a nice quiet spot on the way home and since her husband was watching football or some kind of ball on one of his many satellite sports stations, she saw no reason to rush home. She'd said yes.
Over drinks their truths came out. He told her the disappointment and to some degree shame he'd harbored since learning he couldn't father any children. He acknowledged that it was his selfishness and pride that caused him to refuse his wife's suggestions of adoption. When she continued to focus on how they could have the family she desperately wanted, he found new ways to be the successful businessman and volunteer. From the outside looking in, they had it made. From the inside looking out, they were two lonely people who couldn't find their way back to one another.
She told him what she had never told a soul. She admitted that her marriage was more a friendship. She even told him about the other men though not in detail. Somehow she wanted him to know her as no one else did. She wanted him to see her for what she was, not for what she was supposed to be or pretended to be. She didn't even care if he was repulsed. The beauty of simply being without pretense was seductive. And she was ready to be seduced.
He drove her home but stopped a block before they arrived at her drive. He turned toward her.
"I have wanted you for more than a year," he said while focusing on her face with more attention than she'd received in a very, very, very long time. "And tonight, when you told me what you did, I wanted you even more. I wanted to see inside you as well as be inside you. I know you can't promise me a thing. I know you are going to stay right where you are. But if you ever . . . "
"Wait! I'm back at you wanting me! For a year?! Are you kidding me? I absolutely never knew," she was flabbergasted and looked away for a moment. That was the moment he moved in closer. Taking her face in his hands, he turned her so that they were eye to eye and only inches apart.
"Hear me. I have wanted you. I still want you. I simply want to know if you could begin to feel the same."
She looked in his eyes. And she kissed him. She kissed him as she had once kissed her husband when all she wanted was to explore every inch of him. She kissed him as she had wanted to about midway through the conversation when his pain was evident and his honesty anything but self-promoting. She kissed him with the passion and promise of more to come. Then she turned to look ahead and asked him to drive her home. As she exited the car, she made their next date.
They'd been faithful.
And now half a year into it, she was sure that the love she had never experienced before was hers to be had. She suspected she loved him early on, but she wouldn't consider the possibility. That love wouldn't change a thing. She was committed to chaos-contained. The onslaught of change that would drown them should they ever act on their fantasy lives would damage both them and the lives they'd constructed. She couldn't fathom how to survive it. So she lived for the days they had together and she endured the nights when she only wanted him to be the one beside her.
And now he was. He was beside her and offering her the one thing she needed in this moment -- a safe place to be . . . the bitch, the bride, the beauty, the burned, the flame. She relished every second.
He had found their favorite hotel when searching for a restaurant that had been recommended. Stopping by after the business lunch, he knew she'd love it. The rooms were spacious with a seating area separate from the bedroom and a bath tub big enough for all the sensual pleasures they'd teased each other with in the beginning days when phone sex was almost all they had going.
Today, he'd taken one of the many comp days he'd accummulated when his marriage was at its rockiest and he was at his most dedicated professionaly. She was "at a retreat center" searching for her spiritual center. The one part they hated were the lies that made them sound somehow better than they were. The result, though, was that his business was going as well as ever and her husband was happily content in knowing she was "there" for him emotionally if not physically.
She knew that friends that had known her from the beginning of her 20-year marriage wouldn't recognize the woman she was today. First of all, she was currently enjoying the jets of the tub with a glass of wine. And back then, she didn't drink. Secondly, she wasn't guilty. She had found a new definition of marriage that worked for them. No, she wasn't happy in the marriage, but she'd be more unhappy with the pain she'd cause in the leaving. And no, she wasn't happy that this incredible man that was disrobing to join her in the tub had to hide away with her. But she was ecstatic in the moment.
She waited for his 5 ft. 11 in. frame to settle in, facing her. She waited as the waves halted. She watched as he watched her. He smiled the smile of a man content. She smiled as his gaze moved from her face to the ample breasts that were half covered by the bubbles, half shining in their D-ness -- full and ready to be both fondled and sucked.
She raised her foot and nudged his nipple with her toe, squeezing slightly. She reached down and pulled his foot to her chest, placing it between her breasts and began to knead the muscles. Taking his toes in her fingers, she gave each a slight pull and twist, then worked her thumb up and down the bottom of his foot before moving to the top where she twisted her hands first left then right in much the same way he knew she worked his penis before going down on him.
He smiled and reciprocated on both her feet. "I have to admit that my most excellent professor has taken me to new heights in my massage techniques."
"I will give you an A- at least on this effort. And frankly, that's just to keep you striving."
She took both hands and squeezed the back of his ankles then worked her way up the calves. She thought of how he knew she was working her way up and most likely wondering if she'd stop midway or keep coming toward his mouth. She smiled in the fact that mid-calf she didn't know herself.
At his thigh, she delighted in the thickness of both that muscle and the ever-growing unit he now held in his hand. She paused long enough to bend down, slurp the tip as though it were a straw, and then lick her way up to his softly tufted chest. She swirled the water around his hair and nipples, first tweeking them slightly then nibbling on each. She sucked on his neck, making over the top noises that had him chuckling. Then she slowed down and took a deep breath. She held it as she took him in, retracing the path she'd just traveled with her eyes. As she turned, she exhaled and then lightly, ever so lightly, traced her tongue around his lip lines and then pressed her lips against his before slipping her tongue inside and sucking his in her mouth.
He placed his hands on her ass cheeks and squeezed. He began to work his way up her back, pulling the stress and strain away with each stroke. As she massaged his forehead and cheekbones, he made short work of her shoulders. At this point, she was straddling him. She loved the feel of his penis pressed against her and didn't want penetration to ruin the feeling. She was connected and warm and everything . . . fit.
He, however, was ready for more than what the space of the tub afforded. He suggested they relocate. She asked for a moment more and laid her head on his chest. He knew after the story she'd told him, she was asking for a hug from the daddy she'd lost only two years after that fated Christmas. He obliged. Holding her tightly, in silence, he reminded her that she was independent but not alone. He helped her remember what safety felt like.
Then she rose and gently toweling off first herself and then him, she allowed him to lead her into the bedroom where the duvet promised to swallow them whole and the sheets reminded her of a thin layer of velvet. She was feeling small and wanted to be buried beneath the whiteness of the spreads. She climbed in and covered up . . . completely. Holding the covers above her head to form a tent, she asked him to join her.
He crawled in from the opposite side and cradled her. Her ass fit snugly in the bend of his hips. His chest hairs, still slightly damp tickled her back before she settled in. He enveloped her and each hand clasped a breast, gently rubbing the nipples between each index finger and thumb. She reached behind her and found her prize. His cock was lovely. She thought he might not like the word if she said it aloud but she often thought it. "Lovely . . . absolutely lovely."
She showed her admiration by tugging and turning. She looked him in the eyes as she clasped him in her hands and began rubbing as though he were a spark waiting to ignite. She worked her way down to his balls and then used her thumb and finger to form the circle that would encase him. She squeezed slightly as she made her way up then down then up then down. She never let her eyes leave his. He knew she was watching and he knew she drew pleasure from his. He was glad to make her happy. He closed his eyes and went to the place where every cell was alive, every nerve ending ready to respond. He smiled.
She straddled him again. This time her hair was tickling his chest. As she scooted downward, she applied more pressure and let the tip of his cock tickle back. She kept moving. Her breasts encased him and she nodded downward to lick him as she simultaneously pushed each breast to a squeezing postion. He was covered in her. She rose and fell, rose and fell. He smiled again and reached out to touch her hair. She pulled away. "Later . . . just enjoy," she half ordered, half asked.
She looked at her prize. Thick and red . . . actually almost purple -- her favorite color. She had to use both hands to completely hold him. She never could take him in totally by mouth so she cheated. As she was doing now. She held the base in her hands in a basket weave of fingers, pumping in and out. She licked from tip to base as she pumped. She circled the tip with her tongue and then kissed open mouthed. She felt the ring of flesh on her lips and a tingle rose inside her. She pressed her lips harder and pushed down. Her hands kept working. He was, unbelievably, growing. She smiled and was grateful for the juices that were oozing and lubricating her way. She began to increase her speed and twist and turn as her mouth worked on the pulsating cock that at this moment was her very own. She rose to her knees and freely moved to first his left side and then his right as she worked her way around his body, ensuring that she was not missing an inch and stimulating from every angle conceivable. She put her hands around him again and practically dove down. She fought the gag she feared would keep her from going further. She made it this time -- all the way with his tip at the back of her throat. She hoped he'd noticed. She wondered if he could tell.
He could. "Where do you want me to come? If you keep that up, you may not have a choice and there are few things I plan on doing for you."
She paused. She watched his face one more time and relished the peace she saw there -- along with the pleasure.
"And what few things did you have in mind?"
He put both his hands on her shoulders, pushing slightly, he directed her to the edge of the bed. Her legs were hanging and her neck was supported by the incredibly soft yet sturdy pillows. She didn't wait long before he was on his knees beside the bed, his face parallel to her open legs. He inhaled and smiled at the musky scent she offered. He then buried his face into the carefully crafted patch of hair and tickled her clit with his tongue. He tickled again. Then he began to slurp her juices, sucking and breathing in so that the cool air caused her to squeeze tightly and stimulate herself from the inside out while he took care of the reverse route. Soon he was no longer teasing, no longer pausing. He was swallowing her whole and she came for the first time, pulling at his hair and pushing his shoulders even deeper into her.
When the waves of tightening and pulsing points of pleasure subsided, he put his cock on top of her aroused clit and the pressure made her gasp. She thought she might be too sensitive but somehow he knew and he dipped in and out of her as an artist dips his brush into the paint to collect just moisture on the tip for the stroke of genius yet to come.
He began to push further every other move inside. Soon she felt as though he were going through her. She was completely filled and she wanted him to continue, to stop, to come, to pound her, to stop, to come. She wasn't sure what she wanted. But she wanted. She grabbed the sheets in her hand and beat the bed. She didn't want to cry out. But she thought she would cry. This night was perfect. He was perfect. And he was coming.
"I ... I ... oh God ... I love ..." and he came.
She held tightly as he leaned against her. She absorbed the shots of those precious juices and they were on target. Each beat of his pulse was expressed in that glorious cock and she waited expectantly. Her second orgasm came on cue. She clutched him tighter. She doubled up and squeezed to add to the pleasure. He gasped but didn't complain. She held tighter still and reveled in the waves that were coming over her much like the waters of the tub had lapped on her skin. Sweat drops were forming between them and she had this sudden urge to lick them off him but she didn't have the energy to do it.
At least not then.
He waited until she calmed and then eased onto his side. Once again he cupped their bodies together. She smiled as his arm fell over her breasts and she slowly began to rub and tickle his hairs in much the same way that he had absent mindedly worked on her arm during her story.
She thought he might now be asleep since he hadn't uttered a sound. Then she knew.
Tears were forming at the corner of his eyes and slowly making their way down his flushed cheeks.
"What?" she turned toward him worried that some how she had physically caused him pain.
"I love you. I know you can't do a thing about it but I want you to know. I want only what I can have. And if this is it, so be it. But you must know, I love you."
She wanted to respond but thought better of it. "No," she said to herself. "I won't give him empty promises. I won't say what I don't know. But, God, if it's true, if I can love him, help me know."
She pulled him close. She held him tighter than before. And she placed her hand on his head. Fingering his curls she prayed she was offering comfort. She feared she was searching for the burn marks sure to come.
She recounted the tale of how when she was 8, her ever-struggling-financially-parents had purchased one nice gift for each of her siblings. Four "biggie" gifts meant there was no room for extras in the stockings. Apples, nuts, and that sticky orange chew candy covered in sugar and only found at Christmas filled in for Santa's extra reminders that he loved and cherished her.
Her "biggie" was a curly blonde doll and plastic lined baby carriage. She'd spent Christmas morning pushing her new charge around the cramped three bedroom house. She was beginning to feel she could love this non-TV-character-generic-wannabe if for no other reason than because Santa thought she could. Her mom then called her to breakfast. While she took seriously her responsibility, she was a chubby foodie-in-the-making and nothing would come between her and her mom's once-a-year-homemade biscuits. She dashed to the kitchen where all six of her family sat around the maple kitchen table so crowded in the small room that retrieving the biscuits from the countertop simply meant turning in her mother's chair.
Midway into the meal her brother remarked that something was stinky. Her older brother echoed the sentiment. Her sister agreed. Her father decided it was time to check out the growing pungency. He sent the children on a game of olfactory hide and seek. Her sister was the first to call out.
"Momma! I found it," she cried. "You should come quick. Just you."
She waited as her mom then called for her father. Her brothers jockeyed to be the next. Finally her parents were standing before her, concern oozing out of them but still silent. Her mom spoke first, "Baby, were you in a hurry when you left your room?"
"Guess so," she murmured, unclear if she were in trouble or being comforted. "Why?"
"Well, something's happened, honey," she said. "Your baby doll's carriage got too close to the wall heater and . . . "
Her father revealed the remains. The baby's blonde hair was now topped by a blackened melted mess. The carriage had a perfectly charred hole in its front.
She cried the tears her charge would never release. She knew it was her fault. She wanted to blame the Christmas breakfast smell of ham in the air but the still present odor of the melting plastic brought her to her senses. She had failed.
She wanted Santa to come back and make it right. Somehow she knew even then her parents couldn't. So until New Year's Day she proudly . . . or at least seemingly so . . . pushed that carriage up and down her street revealing her non-parenting skills just as the adulterous woman had worn the A (though she was years away from knowing that story).
She gave up her task only when boredom set in. Let's face it, baby carriages -- even with deformed babies -- can only take you to so many imaginative places.
She waited after completing the telling. He smiled at her, having chuckled initially as she described her defiance of social norms in the streets with her carriage. Now he had the look of one who was marveling. But she wasn't sure. Finally, he spoke.
"Some part of me wants to have saved you from the embarrassment. And the other knows that it was incidents such as this that shaped you into the woman I am thrilled to know."
"You are too terribly biased in my favor."
"And why not?" he said as he ceased the gentle rubbing of her forearm that he had absently begun the minute the story took a turn for the worse. "Why shouldn't there now be someone in your corner who is your absolute cheerleader?"
"Because I fear that getting too close to me often results in getting burned," she confessed. And the truth of their situation was as exposed as it had been for a long time.
They had simply pretended that she wasn't married and that he wasn't in the midst of an ugly divorce. They met each week at various restaurants around town and once a month arranged for a hotel at a downtown location no where near the suburbs in which each of them lived and worked. The friendship the two couples had once enjoyed was disrupted by the divorce so at least the awkwardness of double dating had been avoided. For six months they had settled into a routine that worked as long as they didn't examine it too closely.
She realized it was time to open her eyes.
She wasn't going to leave her husband. She didn't love him but she couldn't hate him enough to cause him that much pain. She had a life that worked for her. He had grown impotent years ago and refused to acknowledge it so she had taken care of herself in the way she knew how -- first personally and then with a series of lovers who were nothing more than men with whom she could enjoy an afternoon.
He was different. The friendship the four had shared had always been lopsided in their direction. They both enjoyed the theater and their spouses endured it. They both loved to cook and their spouses enjoyed the eating. They both wanted to travel and their spouses agreed to occasional weekend jaunts as a foursome. They never acknowledged any feelings for one another aside from the jokes their spouses even made about how they were much more evenly matched until he left the wife that had grown more bitter and spiteful with the passing years of no children and no focus on anything else.
She hadn't known he was even aware of her as a woman rather than just a friend until he asked her assistance one evening in purchasing some items for his new place. She agreed and her husband encouraged her to help him, noting that she was the one of the four with any decorating sense at all.
They shopped and compared and at first she hadn't responded when he continued to emphasize his points with a longer than usual touch of her arm. At checkout he had asked if she had time for a drink. She knew there was a nice quiet spot on the way home and since her husband was watching football or some kind of ball on one of his many satellite sports stations, she saw no reason to rush home. She'd said yes.
Over drinks their truths came out. He told her the disappointment and to some degree shame he'd harbored since learning he couldn't father any children. He acknowledged that it was his selfishness and pride that caused him to refuse his wife's suggestions of adoption. When she continued to focus on how they could have the family she desperately wanted, he found new ways to be the successful businessman and volunteer. From the outside looking in, they had it made. From the inside looking out, they were two lonely people who couldn't find their way back to one another.
She told him what she had never told a soul. She admitted that her marriage was more a friendship. She even told him about the other men though not in detail. Somehow she wanted him to know her as no one else did. She wanted him to see her for what she was, not for what she was supposed to be or pretended to be. She didn't even care if he was repulsed. The beauty of simply being without pretense was seductive. And she was ready to be seduced.
He drove her home but stopped a block before they arrived at her drive. He turned toward her.
"I have wanted you for more than a year," he said while focusing on her face with more attention than she'd received in a very, very, very long time. "And tonight, when you told me what you did, I wanted you even more. I wanted to see inside you as well as be inside you. I know you can't promise me a thing. I know you are going to stay right where you are. But if you ever . . . "
"Wait! I'm back at you wanting me! For a year?! Are you kidding me? I absolutely never knew," she was flabbergasted and looked away for a moment. That was the moment he moved in closer. Taking her face in his hands, he turned her so that they were eye to eye and only inches apart.
"Hear me. I have wanted you. I still want you. I simply want to know if you could begin to feel the same."
She looked in his eyes. And she kissed him. She kissed him as she had once kissed her husband when all she wanted was to explore every inch of him. She kissed him as she had wanted to about midway through the conversation when his pain was evident and his honesty anything but self-promoting. She kissed him with the passion and promise of more to come. Then she turned to look ahead and asked him to drive her home. As she exited the car, she made their next date.
They'd been faithful.
And now half a year into it, she was sure that the love she had never experienced before was hers to be had. She suspected she loved him early on, but she wouldn't consider the possibility. That love wouldn't change a thing. She was committed to chaos-contained. The onslaught of change that would drown them should they ever act on their fantasy lives would damage both them and the lives they'd constructed. She couldn't fathom how to survive it. So she lived for the days they had together and she endured the nights when she only wanted him to be the one beside her.
And now he was. He was beside her and offering her the one thing she needed in this moment -- a safe place to be . . . the bitch, the bride, the beauty, the burned, the flame. She relished every second.
He had found their favorite hotel when searching for a restaurant that had been recommended. Stopping by after the business lunch, he knew she'd love it. The rooms were spacious with a seating area separate from the bedroom and a bath tub big enough for all the sensual pleasures they'd teased each other with in the beginning days when phone sex was almost all they had going.
Today, he'd taken one of the many comp days he'd accummulated when his marriage was at its rockiest and he was at his most dedicated professionaly. She was "at a retreat center" searching for her spiritual center. The one part they hated were the lies that made them sound somehow better than they were. The result, though, was that his business was going as well as ever and her husband was happily content in knowing she was "there" for him emotionally if not physically.
She knew that friends that had known her from the beginning of her 20-year marriage wouldn't recognize the woman she was today. First of all, she was currently enjoying the jets of the tub with a glass of wine. And back then, she didn't drink. Secondly, she wasn't guilty. She had found a new definition of marriage that worked for them. No, she wasn't happy in the marriage, but she'd be more unhappy with the pain she'd cause in the leaving. And no, she wasn't happy that this incredible man that was disrobing to join her in the tub had to hide away with her. But she was ecstatic in the moment.
She waited for his 5 ft. 11 in. frame to settle in, facing her. She waited as the waves halted. She watched as he watched her. He smiled the smile of a man content. She smiled as his gaze moved from her face to the ample breasts that were half covered by the bubbles, half shining in their D-ness -- full and ready to be both fondled and sucked.
She raised her foot and nudged his nipple with her toe, squeezing slightly. She reached down and pulled his foot to her chest, placing it between her breasts and began to knead the muscles. Taking his toes in her fingers, she gave each a slight pull and twist, then worked her thumb up and down the bottom of his foot before moving to the top where she twisted her hands first left then right in much the same way he knew she worked his penis before going down on him.
He smiled and reciprocated on both her feet. "I have to admit that my most excellent professor has taken me to new heights in my massage techniques."
"I will give you an A- at least on this effort. And frankly, that's just to keep you striving."
She took both hands and squeezed the back of his ankles then worked her way up the calves. She thought of how he knew she was working her way up and most likely wondering if she'd stop midway or keep coming toward his mouth. She smiled in the fact that mid-calf she didn't know herself.
At his thigh, she delighted in the thickness of both that muscle and the ever-growing unit he now held in his hand. She paused long enough to bend down, slurp the tip as though it were a straw, and then lick her way up to his softly tufted chest. She swirled the water around his hair and nipples, first tweeking them slightly then nibbling on each. She sucked on his neck, making over the top noises that had him chuckling. Then she slowed down and took a deep breath. She held it as she took him in, retracing the path she'd just traveled with her eyes. As she turned, she exhaled and then lightly, ever so lightly, traced her tongue around his lip lines and then pressed her lips against his before slipping her tongue inside and sucking his in her mouth.
He placed his hands on her ass cheeks and squeezed. He began to work his way up her back, pulling the stress and strain away with each stroke. As she massaged his forehead and cheekbones, he made short work of her shoulders. At this point, she was straddling him. She loved the feel of his penis pressed against her and didn't want penetration to ruin the feeling. She was connected and warm and everything . . . fit.
He, however, was ready for more than what the space of the tub afforded. He suggested they relocate. She asked for a moment more and laid her head on his chest. He knew after the story she'd told him, she was asking for a hug from the daddy she'd lost only two years after that fated Christmas. He obliged. Holding her tightly, in silence, he reminded her that she was independent but not alone. He helped her remember what safety felt like.
Then she rose and gently toweling off first herself and then him, she allowed him to lead her into the bedroom where the duvet promised to swallow them whole and the sheets reminded her of a thin layer of velvet. She was feeling small and wanted to be buried beneath the whiteness of the spreads. She climbed in and covered up . . . completely. Holding the covers above her head to form a tent, she asked him to join her.
He crawled in from the opposite side and cradled her. Her ass fit snugly in the bend of his hips. His chest hairs, still slightly damp tickled her back before she settled in. He enveloped her and each hand clasped a breast, gently rubbing the nipples between each index finger and thumb. She reached behind her and found her prize. His cock was lovely. She thought he might not like the word if she said it aloud but she often thought it. "Lovely . . . absolutely lovely."
She showed her admiration by tugging and turning. She looked him in the eyes as she clasped him in her hands and began rubbing as though he were a spark waiting to ignite. She worked her way down to his balls and then used her thumb and finger to form the circle that would encase him. She squeezed slightly as she made her way up then down then up then down. She never let her eyes leave his. He knew she was watching and he knew she drew pleasure from his. He was glad to make her happy. He closed his eyes and went to the place where every cell was alive, every nerve ending ready to respond. He smiled.
She straddled him again. This time her hair was tickling his chest. As she scooted downward, she applied more pressure and let the tip of his cock tickle back. She kept moving. Her breasts encased him and she nodded downward to lick him as she simultaneously pushed each breast to a squeezing postion. He was covered in her. She rose and fell, rose and fell. He smiled again and reached out to touch her hair. She pulled away. "Later . . . just enjoy," she half ordered, half asked.
She looked at her prize. Thick and red . . . actually almost purple -- her favorite color. She had to use both hands to completely hold him. She never could take him in totally by mouth so she cheated. As she was doing now. She held the base in her hands in a basket weave of fingers, pumping in and out. She licked from tip to base as she pumped. She circled the tip with her tongue and then kissed open mouthed. She felt the ring of flesh on her lips and a tingle rose inside her. She pressed her lips harder and pushed down. Her hands kept working. He was, unbelievably, growing. She smiled and was grateful for the juices that were oozing and lubricating her way. She began to increase her speed and twist and turn as her mouth worked on the pulsating cock that at this moment was her very own. She rose to her knees and freely moved to first his left side and then his right as she worked her way around his body, ensuring that she was not missing an inch and stimulating from every angle conceivable. She put her hands around him again and practically dove down. She fought the gag she feared would keep her from going further. She made it this time -- all the way with his tip at the back of her throat. She hoped he'd noticed. She wondered if he could tell.
He could. "Where do you want me to come? If you keep that up, you may not have a choice and there are few things I plan on doing for you."
She paused. She watched his face one more time and relished the peace she saw there -- along with the pleasure.
"And what few things did you have in mind?"
He put both his hands on her shoulders, pushing slightly, he directed her to the edge of the bed. Her legs were hanging and her neck was supported by the incredibly soft yet sturdy pillows. She didn't wait long before he was on his knees beside the bed, his face parallel to her open legs. He inhaled and smiled at the musky scent she offered. He then buried his face into the carefully crafted patch of hair and tickled her clit with his tongue. He tickled again. Then he began to slurp her juices, sucking and breathing in so that the cool air caused her to squeeze tightly and stimulate herself from the inside out while he took care of the reverse route. Soon he was no longer teasing, no longer pausing. He was swallowing her whole and she came for the first time, pulling at his hair and pushing his shoulders even deeper into her.
When the waves of tightening and pulsing points of pleasure subsided, he put his cock on top of her aroused clit and the pressure made her gasp. She thought she might be too sensitive but somehow he knew and he dipped in and out of her as an artist dips his brush into the paint to collect just moisture on the tip for the stroke of genius yet to come.
He began to push further every other move inside. Soon she felt as though he were going through her. She was completely filled and she wanted him to continue, to stop, to come, to pound her, to stop, to come. She wasn't sure what she wanted. But she wanted. She grabbed the sheets in her hand and beat the bed. She didn't want to cry out. But she thought she would cry. This night was perfect. He was perfect. And he was coming.
"I ... I ... oh God ... I love ..." and he came.
She held tightly as he leaned against her. She absorbed the shots of those precious juices and they were on target. Each beat of his pulse was expressed in that glorious cock and she waited expectantly. Her second orgasm came on cue. She clutched him tighter. She doubled up and squeezed to add to the pleasure. He gasped but didn't complain. She held tighter still and reveled in the waves that were coming over her much like the waters of the tub had lapped on her skin. Sweat drops were forming between them and she had this sudden urge to lick them off him but she didn't have the energy to do it.
At least not then.
He waited until she calmed and then eased onto his side. Once again he cupped their bodies together. She smiled as his arm fell over her breasts and she slowly began to rub and tickle his hairs in much the same way that he had absent mindedly worked on her arm during her story.
She thought he might now be asleep since he hadn't uttered a sound. Then she knew.
Tears were forming at the corner of his eyes and slowly making their way down his flushed cheeks.
"What?" she turned toward him worried that some how she had physically caused him pain.
"I love you. I know you can't do a thing about it but I want you to know. I want only what I can have. And if this is it, so be it. But you must know, I love you."
She wanted to respond but thought better of it. "No," she said to herself. "I won't give him empty promises. I won't say what I don't know. But, God, if it's true, if I can love him, help me know."
She pulled him close. She held him tighter than before. And she placed her hand on his head. Fingering his curls she prayed she was offering comfort. She feared she was searching for the burn marks sure to come.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The Games We Play
The letters on her rack -- S,O,L,T,R,P,I -- felt almost too plebian. She loved the glamour words, the ones no one expected, the polysyllabic wonders that impressed. Unfortunately, impressive usually only netted you a few points. Sometimes it was as simple as knowing where the "ho" had to go and you could collect 28 points in a single move.
Her opponent was studying the Scrabble rack with more intensity than she thought the game merited. The young woman was probably in her late 20s/maybe early 30s. She wore her long blonde-streaked brown hair in a ponytail which highlighted the incredible bone structure of her face. High cheekbones seemed like an understatement. Her bluegreen eyes were highlighted by just a touch of makeup. In fact, she was one of those "natural" beauties. Obviously she wore some make up but it was so perfectly applied that it would be easy for the uninformed to think she was simply blushing in the warmth of the junior college classroom that was serving as their "study hall."
Renee hadn't known exactly what she was getting into when she applied for the Learning Lab class on "How to Better Your Scrabble Game" but she loved words and she was so new to the city that she was trying just about anything to meet people. Already she'd suffered through a Singles-Who-Dine group she'd found online and other than discovering a couple of really good restaurants that she'd love to take a date to at some point in the near future, that experience had left her slighty "gassy" from the overabundance of hot air floating around the I'm-too-desperate-for-my-own-good-atmosphere every time the group gathered. She'd also powerwalked in the nearby park with eyes open to others alone and sans earphones. Alas, no luck.
So . . . she returned to the game of her childhood, her introduction to the joy of conjuring just the right connections at just the right time to garner a double, yea verily, possibly triple word score. She was convinced that though her grandmother introduced her to Scrabble at the tender age of 9, she was never the victim of "oh-let's-let-her-win-for-her-ego's-sake" type of grandparenting. No. She suffered humiliating defeat after humiliating defeat, placing "the", "cat" and "pole" on the board more times than she could count while her grandmother scarffed up the points with "queue" and "axis" placed on a double letter goldmine.
Still, she had grown up competing only with family. She wondered what she'd encounter with folks equally as enticed by the baby pink, blue and ... oh so seductive hot pink squares that practically demanded your attention every time you unboxed the board.
Renee was a word nerd and she knew it. So she decided, "Why not embrace it?" And she enrolled in the course. Frankly, it was $40 well spent if she discovered a few tricks and maybe, just maybe, met a new friend.
She had seen Jules the first night of class but really hadn't paid too much attention. Sure she was taller than many of the women in the room, but they were also slightly stooped by age! And, yes, she was of that athletic build that suggested she spent some time in the pool or the running track, but, truthfully, Renee wasn't looking for yet-another-"oh-yes-I'll-bask-in-your-shadow"-beauty for a friend. She was coming into her own confidence with her post-30 wisdom and liked what she saw when she looked in the mirror -- a healthy woman with curves and a smile that warmed you even if you weren't all that attracted to freckles and candor!
Renee had spent more their her fair share of time with the spotlight women. Her college roommate was the basketball standout who somehow understood that athletics didn't mean she couldn't be feminine. After her degree she shared a two bedroom in a great urban center with a real beauty queen. She held several titles and still knew her way around a hairspray encounter!
Now, in a new city with a new apartment and enough salary to enjoy both good food, good wine, and cable television, she thought it was time that she held her own. She knew she had something to offer someone with the sense to look in her direction.
What she didn't know was whether she cared which gender was looking.
When the instructor had set up the now familar "class" agenda of round robin matches, she thought she might get to meet Ted, the seemingly sensitive type who had smiled at each person during first night intros as though he expected exactly what you had to say about yourself. Ted wasn't a hottie but he wasn't bad. He had a few years on her and with that tan, he had to enjoy the outdoors. Unfortunately, Ted was only into nodding during group introductions. Listening one-on-one was not his forte. He actually couldn't stop talking . . . even when the tiles were few and the score was tight. Please! Had he no respect for the game? And, really, Renee couldn't find much enthusiasm for the third retelling of how he had acquired his entire game collection off a series of shrewd purchases from craigslist!
She did enjoy Jane's stories of living in the deep south for most of her life and how she still was considered a Yankee by many of her co-workers. She laughed when Roy, an elderly man who had some difficulty maneuvering the steps to the classroom, turned into a dashing charmer as soon as he was seated and his seven tiles were in place for competition.
But she hadn't yet encountered Jules. Until, of course, tonight. Jules often arrived late and so she was paired with the odd man/woman out who thought they would have to the second round of play. As a result, everyone was glad to have the chance to play and thus praised Jules, even though not a soul could tell much of the details of her life.
On this particular evening, Jules arrived on time and looked casually comfortable and relaxed in peasant skirt and t-shirt. She wasn't trying too hard and Renee liked that. When they drew each other for the first round of play, they smiled and moved quietly to the table that would serve as their "battleground." In truth, Renee wasn't that competitive and she suspected neither was Jules. But they shared a certain level of intensity.
"This," Renee decided, "could be good."
Renee drew the highest point tile to determine that she'd begin play and therefore win the double word score. But she didn't luck out so much with the draw of tiles. "Trips" seemed soooooo boring and she wondered if giving up that "s" so soon was a good idea. But a 4-letter start seemed like a shout out to desperation so she studied her rack a while longer. Finally, she settled on "spoilt" which left her with only an "r" for the next round of play. It wasn't pretty. Points were not mounting. But she was pleased.
Jules smiled. "And don't you hate it when the milk is?"
"Ahh ... but are you one of my tribe and somehow feel the need to share the experience by insisting everyone else take a sniff?" Renee laughed.
"Oh, no! You're one of THEM!" and then she got that triple letter whammy by strategically placing the h and doubling up on words and points.
"Ouch!" Renee said and realized that she was well-matched.
"You're spending a Thursday night with a ragtag group of what must to you appear to be senior citizens only to humiliate us?" she added as she studied her new tiles with a tad more concentration that her previous play had required.
"Oh, I have loved this game since I was in college," Jules offered grabbing new tiles to replace the treasure trove she had just placed down. "My roommate introduced me to it and I became addicted."
"Late night Scrabble instead of late night doughnuts?" Renee asked as she placed her satisfactory if not exactly "sexy" play on the board.
"Oh no, I had my fair share of doughnuts!" Jules confessed. "As a matter of fact, my graduation present to myself five years ago was a diet that included shedding 70 pounds and a determination that I'd feed my head and my love of the outdoors before I'd feed my body to that extent ever again!"
Renee found herself enjoying the honesty with which Jules played and spoke. She also realized that after one game, she wanted to spend a bit more time with the young woman. However, rules of the class demanded that the winner -- which was Jules ... really! -- move on to the winner's circle while Renee tried to redeem herself with the white-hairs that never seemed to quite get that the "pretty" words never really added up to much of a score.
"Hey," Jules said as she collected her things, "I really had a good time. Any chance you don't have plans for after?"
"Absolutely .. I don't," Renee countered. "How about I buy you a celebratory . . . well, we'll come up with something other than doughnuts, ok?"
Jules smiled. "Agreed! I'll catch you in the hallway."
They met in a slightly awkward silence until Jules offered, "I think I know a place that's open and nearby if you're game for outdoor dining and lots and lots of vines!"
"i can never say no to vine covered anything. I'll follow you."
They walked and covered the usual getting-to-know-you-topics: home states, degree emphases, current jobs.
Soon they were at the door of what appeared to be a nameless coffeehouse/bar. They entered to the sound of world music playing live in the room next door -- sounded strangely like a sitar and was. They ordered a glass of wine each and an appetizer to share -- pita and hummus. Renee paid with only a slight argument from Jules and they made their way to a table underneath white lights and almost entombed by vines and plant life. The idea that they were in a city with the traffic only feet away seemed almost a dream. Someone was thinking Midsummer Night's Dream when they designed this place they both agreed.
Over the first glass of wine and snack they learned a few more details. Jules wanted desperately to move from page layout at the neighborhood weekly she worked for to an actual exhibit of her mixed media. But she currently lacked the contacts and time to invest in the project that she envisioned would someday be her tracing of AIDS from a "gay man's disease" to one affecting women, children and the underprivileged and ill-informed.
Renee warmed to her with every syllable. As a longtime AIDS hospice volunteer in her previous hometown, she still hadn't found the group she knew was out there that would satisfy her need to give back, but she hadn't tired of looking. Hearing that someone else shared her sense of injustice made her strangely aware of her own humanity. And ... also strangely ... her longing.
Renee realized she was attracted to Jules. As their conversation wore on, she caught herself listening less and watching more. She watched as Jules emphasized her passion points with her long slender fingers. She smiled as the young woman's tendrils of hair kept falling in her face and she kept pushing them behind her ear as her enthusiasm for the subject grew and the hairs just kept releasing themselves.
She almost hesitated to look at her lips and when she did her fears were confirmed. She wanted nothing more than to kiss them, not to silence the younger woman's tales of world travels to study art or small town mentalities left behind, but rather to encourage the flow to continue.
She noted that there was a slight curve at the crease of Jules' mouth that left the suggestion of a permanent smirk and wondered if the artist had ever played on that stroke of luck. Had she ever used her natural beauty to her advantage?
And then Renee remembered that Jules' "natural beauty" was newfound and that left her wondering how exactly Jules viewed herself.
As they split and split again the last bit of pita, Renee asked, "So, Ms. I-Find-Art-In-Everything, what do you see when you look in the mirror? A masterpiece? A work in process?"
Jules stopped her first survey of the room since she sat down and looked directly at Renee. "Funny you should ask? Are you a former fatty as well? Cause truthfully, I go back and forth on that one. Some days I see the woman I'm proud to be -- healthy, free and ready for what comes next. Some days I want to cover myself in a sheet and be known as the ghost artist."
"I understand. Ghostwriting is one of my favorite ways to make a few extra bucks."
"Aha! You were what? Big boned in school?"
"How did you know? Yep, it was half sizes for me all the way through high school," Renee confessed a detail she hadn't though of in almost two decades.
"Wait just a minute then," and Jules jumped up and made her way out of the room. When she returned she had two beverages.
"A toast," she offered passing the diet 7-Up to her new friend. "To the women we were, the women we are, and the women we will be."
They drank and smiled.
The next class they met before and after and found yet another healthy appetizer to share and yet another out of the way and intimate cafe.
The third class since they engaged Renee was the first to arrive and the first to speak. "Tonight, my place -- unless that makes you uneasy . . ." She hated that she sounded somehow unsure of herself, for in reality, she was very definite about her plans.
"I'm only uneasy because I was going to ask you for next week! Absolutely, I'll look forward to it even as I triple word score my way to the top spot tonight. I'm feeling very, very lucky."
Renee grinned. "My thoughts exactly," she mused.
When they arrived at Renee's two bedroom apartment with her version of modern minimalist decor -- no dried flowers, wallpaper or excess bric-a-brac thank you very much -- Jules commented on the clean lines and the carefully selected artworks that graced each of the four walls of the den.
"I like your taste," she offered as she studied the pieces that Renee had collected in her travels as a writer and consultant.
"Tell me which ones intrigue you and which ones offend," she said as she moved to the kitchen to begin preparing the three course menu she'd been planning for the last week. "And remember, for every piece there's a story, so this is your warning to get your comments in early!"
Jules laughed and began her commentary on color and style. Renee countered with the tales of when and where and why she'd purchased what. She also laughed at how her kitchen had almost turned into her playground as she prepared the white wine, capers, and artichoke sauce for the mushroom and spinach ravioli, tossed the avocado and cucumber salad in the champagne vigagrette and stowed the glass bowls in the freezer for the sorbet she'd serve after the meal.
Jules noted with appreciation how she had planned a meal both satisfying and still healthy -- enough.
Renee noted that when Jules enjoyed herself her bluegreen eyes got even brighter.
The Sauvignon Blanc Renee had chosen from the Malborough region of New Zealand was also a hit. Her success in the kitchen, she hoped, would be a foreshadowing for her success with the next phase of her seduction.
"Sorbet?" she queried but stood without confirmation to move toward the freezer.
"Yes, absolutely," Jules responded as she both offered her plate and brushed Renee's hand with her own. She let it linger and held Renee's as she added, "No one has treated me this well in a long, long time. Thank you."
Renee was touched by both the gesture and the words. "Truly . . . my pleasure."
They enjoyed the lemon infused sweetness and allowed the quiet to take its place in the room as they shared a few anecdotes about summers growing up in small towns. They laughed easily. They listened intently.
When the last drops of now-syrup were drained from their bowls they smiled in satisfaction. Renee was the first to speak.
"I don't know where you are in this, but I decided this week that I would be a fool not to bring it up. I am attracted to you. I find you fascinating and delightful all in the same conversation. I also find you to be sexy and arousing. But I'm willing to put that on the back burner and never return to that subject again if you are in the slightest bit uncomfortable because it's not my intent to lose . . . "
Jules laughed the loudest she had since arriving.
"Excuse me?" Renee responded, hoping that Jules was reacting to the formality of her approach and not the content of her words.
Her hopes were rewarded.
"God, Renee, I wanted to make love to you the first night we played against one another but I focused on the tiles in order to not come off as some desperate stalker using Learning Lab classes to find her prey!"
"Oh, well . . . and then there's that . . . " Renee said straightfaced before laughing herself.
Jules leaned in and kissed Renee before the chuckle had even concluded. Renee realized the lips she'd first relished were all that and more.
"So I take it you have a bit of experience in these matters?" Renee asked.
"A bit. And you?" Jules pulled away only to find Renee's hand and begin stroking it as she raised it to her face and kissed the fingers that had worked so hard for her pleasure in the kitchen.
"Not much. But after my divorce, I've been trying a bit of this and that and I've discovered that sexual pleasure can come in many, many forms. Respect is my requirement. Everything is open to discussion."
"I respected you since you played "spoilt" as a beginning move," Jules smiled, and lifted Renee from her seat with a request to "tour" the apartment as she made her way to what she obviously assumed was the bedroom.
The rest of the evening was a exploration in bodies and experiences. Jules took the lead but Renee served as teacher/apprentice on more than one occasion. They discovered what pleased and teased. And they moved with the ease of women satisfied with play and serious about pleasure.
Kisses were soft and sweet except when they weren't. On one occasion, Renee was consumed with the need to take Jules in in one sweeping motion. She moved deftly from kissing Jules' forehead to sucking on her neckline to teasing her nipples with small pulls and pseudo bites to licking her way down her gorgeously round and yet not too full belly to the barest of hairlines at her crotch and then teasing her way in and out of her vagina while beginning to massage Jules' clit and with the fastest of fury mix the massages, licks, and sucking until Jules was writhing in pleasure.
Later, Jules reciprocated, with Renee's ass as her vocal point. She voiced her admiration for the perfectly formed cheeks and traced her finger down the defined path until she found her destination. She massaged Renee with first one finger . . . then two ... then three as she marveled at how Renee's tightness aroused and spurred her on. She could feel Renee's longing for her and she wanted to oblige.
Their fascination with one another grew throughout the night and into the morning. Orgasm after orgasm left them quietly sharing more of their stories, enjoying the release and then somehow restored to explore once again. Finally weariness overtook them and they slept.
Jules regretted when she woke in the early morning hours far too aware of the appointment she'd set up with the gallery owner regarding her possible exhibit. She didn't want to leave. She didn't want to disturb Renee's beautiful and peaceful sleep.
She wanted the play to continue.
Still, she knew that Renee would understand. So she quietly collected her clothes and made her way into the room where she suspected what she needed could be found.
When Renee awoke a couple of hours later and made her way into the now cleaned dining area, she was greeted with the most beautiful and sexy Scrabble rack she'd seen in quite a while.
C. A. L. L. M. E.
"Absolutely," she responded. "Absolutely."
Her opponent was studying the Scrabble rack with more intensity than she thought the game merited. The young woman was probably in her late 20s/maybe early 30s. She wore her long blonde-streaked brown hair in a ponytail which highlighted the incredible bone structure of her face. High cheekbones seemed like an understatement. Her bluegreen eyes were highlighted by just a touch of makeup. In fact, she was one of those "natural" beauties. Obviously she wore some make up but it was so perfectly applied that it would be easy for the uninformed to think she was simply blushing in the warmth of the junior college classroom that was serving as their "study hall."
Renee hadn't known exactly what she was getting into when she applied for the Learning Lab class on "How to Better Your Scrabble Game" but she loved words and she was so new to the city that she was trying just about anything to meet people. Already she'd suffered through a Singles-Who-Dine group she'd found online and other than discovering a couple of really good restaurants that she'd love to take a date to at some point in the near future, that experience had left her slighty "gassy" from the overabundance of hot air floating around the I'm-too-desperate-for-my-own-good-atmosphere every time the group gathered. She'd also powerwalked in the nearby park with eyes open to others alone and sans earphones. Alas, no luck.
So . . . she returned to the game of her childhood, her introduction to the joy of conjuring just the right connections at just the right time to garner a double, yea verily, possibly triple word score. She was convinced that though her grandmother introduced her to Scrabble at the tender age of 9, she was never the victim of "oh-let's-let-her-win-for-her-ego's-sake" type of grandparenting. No. She suffered humiliating defeat after humiliating defeat, placing "the", "cat" and "pole" on the board more times than she could count while her grandmother scarffed up the points with "queue" and "axis" placed on a double letter goldmine.
Still, she had grown up competing only with family. She wondered what she'd encounter with folks equally as enticed by the baby pink, blue and ... oh so seductive hot pink squares that practically demanded your attention every time you unboxed the board.
Renee was a word nerd and she knew it. So she decided, "Why not embrace it?" And she enrolled in the course. Frankly, it was $40 well spent if she discovered a few tricks and maybe, just maybe, met a new friend.
She had seen Jules the first night of class but really hadn't paid too much attention. Sure she was taller than many of the women in the room, but they were also slightly stooped by age! And, yes, she was of that athletic build that suggested she spent some time in the pool or the running track, but, truthfully, Renee wasn't looking for yet-another-"oh-yes-I'll-bask-in-your-shadow"-beauty for a friend. She was coming into her own confidence with her post-30 wisdom and liked what she saw when she looked in the mirror -- a healthy woman with curves and a smile that warmed you even if you weren't all that attracted to freckles and candor!
Renee had spent more their her fair share of time with the spotlight women. Her college roommate was the basketball standout who somehow understood that athletics didn't mean she couldn't be feminine. After her degree she shared a two bedroom in a great urban center with a real beauty queen. She held several titles and still knew her way around a hairspray encounter!
Now, in a new city with a new apartment and enough salary to enjoy both good food, good wine, and cable television, she thought it was time that she held her own. She knew she had something to offer someone with the sense to look in her direction.
What she didn't know was whether she cared which gender was looking.
When the instructor had set up the now familar "class" agenda of round robin matches, she thought she might get to meet Ted, the seemingly sensitive type who had smiled at each person during first night intros as though he expected exactly what you had to say about yourself. Ted wasn't a hottie but he wasn't bad. He had a few years on her and with that tan, he had to enjoy the outdoors. Unfortunately, Ted was only into nodding during group introductions. Listening one-on-one was not his forte. He actually couldn't stop talking . . . even when the tiles were few and the score was tight. Please! Had he no respect for the game? And, really, Renee couldn't find much enthusiasm for the third retelling of how he had acquired his entire game collection off a series of shrewd purchases from craigslist!
She did enjoy Jane's stories of living in the deep south for most of her life and how she still was considered a Yankee by many of her co-workers. She laughed when Roy, an elderly man who had some difficulty maneuvering the steps to the classroom, turned into a dashing charmer as soon as he was seated and his seven tiles were in place for competition.
But she hadn't yet encountered Jules. Until, of course, tonight. Jules often arrived late and so she was paired with the odd man/woman out who thought they would have to the second round of play. As a result, everyone was glad to have the chance to play and thus praised Jules, even though not a soul could tell much of the details of her life.
On this particular evening, Jules arrived on time and looked casually comfortable and relaxed in peasant skirt and t-shirt. She wasn't trying too hard and Renee liked that. When they drew each other for the first round of play, they smiled and moved quietly to the table that would serve as their "battleground." In truth, Renee wasn't that competitive and she suspected neither was Jules. But they shared a certain level of intensity.
"This," Renee decided, "could be good."
Renee drew the highest point tile to determine that she'd begin play and therefore win the double word score. But she didn't luck out so much with the draw of tiles. "Trips" seemed soooooo boring and she wondered if giving up that "s" so soon was a good idea. But a 4-letter start seemed like a shout out to desperation so she studied her rack a while longer. Finally, she settled on "spoilt" which left her with only an "r" for the next round of play. It wasn't pretty. Points were not mounting. But she was pleased.
Jules smiled. "And don't you hate it when the milk is?"
"Ahh ... but are you one of my tribe and somehow feel the need to share the experience by insisting everyone else take a sniff?" Renee laughed.
"Oh, no! You're one of THEM!" and then she got that triple letter whammy by strategically placing the h and doubling up on words and points.
"Ouch!" Renee said and realized that she was well-matched.
"You're spending a Thursday night with a ragtag group of what must to you appear to be senior citizens only to humiliate us?" she added as she studied her new tiles with a tad more concentration that her previous play had required.
"Oh, I have loved this game since I was in college," Jules offered grabbing new tiles to replace the treasure trove she had just placed down. "My roommate introduced me to it and I became addicted."
"Late night Scrabble instead of late night doughnuts?" Renee asked as she placed her satisfactory if not exactly "sexy" play on the board.
"Oh no, I had my fair share of doughnuts!" Jules confessed. "As a matter of fact, my graduation present to myself five years ago was a diet that included shedding 70 pounds and a determination that I'd feed my head and my love of the outdoors before I'd feed my body to that extent ever again!"
Renee found herself enjoying the honesty with which Jules played and spoke. She also realized that after one game, she wanted to spend a bit more time with the young woman. However, rules of the class demanded that the winner -- which was Jules ... really! -- move on to the winner's circle while Renee tried to redeem herself with the white-hairs that never seemed to quite get that the "pretty" words never really added up to much of a score.
"Hey," Jules said as she collected her things, "I really had a good time. Any chance you don't have plans for after?"
"Absolutely .. I don't," Renee countered. "How about I buy you a celebratory . . . well, we'll come up with something other than doughnuts, ok?"
Jules smiled. "Agreed! I'll catch you in the hallway."
They met in a slightly awkward silence until Jules offered, "I think I know a place that's open and nearby if you're game for outdoor dining and lots and lots of vines!"
"i can never say no to vine covered anything. I'll follow you."
They walked and covered the usual getting-to-know-you-topics: home states, degree emphases, current jobs.
Soon they were at the door of what appeared to be a nameless coffeehouse/bar. They entered to the sound of world music playing live in the room next door -- sounded strangely like a sitar and was. They ordered a glass of wine each and an appetizer to share -- pita and hummus. Renee paid with only a slight argument from Jules and they made their way to a table underneath white lights and almost entombed by vines and plant life. The idea that they were in a city with the traffic only feet away seemed almost a dream. Someone was thinking Midsummer Night's Dream when they designed this place they both agreed.
Over the first glass of wine and snack they learned a few more details. Jules wanted desperately to move from page layout at the neighborhood weekly she worked for to an actual exhibit of her mixed media. But she currently lacked the contacts and time to invest in the project that she envisioned would someday be her tracing of AIDS from a "gay man's disease" to one affecting women, children and the underprivileged and ill-informed.
Renee warmed to her with every syllable. As a longtime AIDS hospice volunteer in her previous hometown, she still hadn't found the group she knew was out there that would satisfy her need to give back, but she hadn't tired of looking. Hearing that someone else shared her sense of injustice made her strangely aware of her own humanity. And ... also strangely ... her longing.
Renee realized she was attracted to Jules. As their conversation wore on, she caught herself listening less and watching more. She watched as Jules emphasized her passion points with her long slender fingers. She smiled as the young woman's tendrils of hair kept falling in her face and she kept pushing them behind her ear as her enthusiasm for the subject grew and the hairs just kept releasing themselves.
She almost hesitated to look at her lips and when she did her fears were confirmed. She wanted nothing more than to kiss them, not to silence the younger woman's tales of world travels to study art or small town mentalities left behind, but rather to encourage the flow to continue.
She noted that there was a slight curve at the crease of Jules' mouth that left the suggestion of a permanent smirk and wondered if the artist had ever played on that stroke of luck. Had she ever used her natural beauty to her advantage?
And then Renee remembered that Jules' "natural beauty" was newfound and that left her wondering how exactly Jules viewed herself.
As they split and split again the last bit of pita, Renee asked, "So, Ms. I-Find-Art-In-Everything, what do you see when you look in the mirror? A masterpiece? A work in process?"
Jules stopped her first survey of the room since she sat down and looked directly at Renee. "Funny you should ask? Are you a former fatty as well? Cause truthfully, I go back and forth on that one. Some days I see the woman I'm proud to be -- healthy, free and ready for what comes next. Some days I want to cover myself in a sheet and be known as the ghost artist."
"I understand. Ghostwriting is one of my favorite ways to make a few extra bucks."
"Aha! You were what? Big boned in school?"
"How did you know? Yep, it was half sizes for me all the way through high school," Renee confessed a detail she hadn't though of in almost two decades.
"Wait just a minute then," and Jules jumped up and made her way out of the room. When she returned she had two beverages.
"A toast," she offered passing the diet 7-Up to her new friend. "To the women we were, the women we are, and the women we will be."
They drank and smiled.
The next class they met before and after and found yet another healthy appetizer to share and yet another out of the way and intimate cafe.
The third class since they engaged Renee was the first to arrive and the first to speak. "Tonight, my place -- unless that makes you uneasy . . ." She hated that she sounded somehow unsure of herself, for in reality, she was very definite about her plans.
"I'm only uneasy because I was going to ask you for next week! Absolutely, I'll look forward to it even as I triple word score my way to the top spot tonight. I'm feeling very, very lucky."
Renee grinned. "My thoughts exactly," she mused.
When they arrived at Renee's two bedroom apartment with her version of modern minimalist decor -- no dried flowers, wallpaper or excess bric-a-brac thank you very much -- Jules commented on the clean lines and the carefully selected artworks that graced each of the four walls of the den.
"I like your taste," she offered as she studied the pieces that Renee had collected in her travels as a writer and consultant.
"Tell me which ones intrigue you and which ones offend," she said as she moved to the kitchen to begin preparing the three course menu she'd been planning for the last week. "And remember, for every piece there's a story, so this is your warning to get your comments in early!"
Jules laughed and began her commentary on color and style. Renee countered with the tales of when and where and why she'd purchased what. She also laughed at how her kitchen had almost turned into her playground as she prepared the white wine, capers, and artichoke sauce for the mushroom and spinach ravioli, tossed the avocado and cucumber salad in the champagne vigagrette and stowed the glass bowls in the freezer for the sorbet she'd serve after the meal.
Jules noted with appreciation how she had planned a meal both satisfying and still healthy -- enough.
Renee noted that when Jules enjoyed herself her bluegreen eyes got even brighter.
The Sauvignon Blanc Renee had chosen from the Malborough region of New Zealand was also a hit. Her success in the kitchen, she hoped, would be a foreshadowing for her success with the next phase of her seduction.
"Sorbet?" she queried but stood without confirmation to move toward the freezer.
"Yes, absolutely," Jules responded as she both offered her plate and brushed Renee's hand with her own. She let it linger and held Renee's as she added, "No one has treated me this well in a long, long time. Thank you."
Renee was touched by both the gesture and the words. "Truly . . . my pleasure."
They enjoyed the lemon infused sweetness and allowed the quiet to take its place in the room as they shared a few anecdotes about summers growing up in small towns. They laughed easily. They listened intently.
When the last drops of now-syrup were drained from their bowls they smiled in satisfaction. Renee was the first to speak.
"I don't know where you are in this, but I decided this week that I would be a fool not to bring it up. I am attracted to you. I find you fascinating and delightful all in the same conversation. I also find you to be sexy and arousing. But I'm willing to put that on the back burner and never return to that subject again if you are in the slightest bit uncomfortable because it's not my intent to lose . . . "
Jules laughed the loudest she had since arriving.
"Excuse me?" Renee responded, hoping that Jules was reacting to the formality of her approach and not the content of her words.
Her hopes were rewarded.
"God, Renee, I wanted to make love to you the first night we played against one another but I focused on the tiles in order to not come off as some desperate stalker using Learning Lab classes to find her prey!"
"Oh, well . . . and then there's that . . . " Renee said straightfaced before laughing herself.
Jules leaned in and kissed Renee before the chuckle had even concluded. Renee realized the lips she'd first relished were all that and more.
"So I take it you have a bit of experience in these matters?" Renee asked.
"A bit. And you?" Jules pulled away only to find Renee's hand and begin stroking it as she raised it to her face and kissed the fingers that had worked so hard for her pleasure in the kitchen.
"Not much. But after my divorce, I've been trying a bit of this and that and I've discovered that sexual pleasure can come in many, many forms. Respect is my requirement. Everything is open to discussion."
"I respected you since you played "spoilt" as a beginning move," Jules smiled, and lifted Renee from her seat with a request to "tour" the apartment as she made her way to what she obviously assumed was the bedroom.
The rest of the evening was a exploration in bodies and experiences. Jules took the lead but Renee served as teacher/apprentice on more than one occasion. They discovered what pleased and teased. And they moved with the ease of women satisfied with play and serious about pleasure.
Kisses were soft and sweet except when they weren't. On one occasion, Renee was consumed with the need to take Jules in in one sweeping motion. She moved deftly from kissing Jules' forehead to sucking on her neckline to teasing her nipples with small pulls and pseudo bites to licking her way down her gorgeously round and yet not too full belly to the barest of hairlines at her crotch and then teasing her way in and out of her vagina while beginning to massage Jules' clit and with the fastest of fury mix the massages, licks, and sucking until Jules was writhing in pleasure.
Later, Jules reciprocated, with Renee's ass as her vocal point. She voiced her admiration for the perfectly formed cheeks and traced her finger down the defined path until she found her destination. She massaged Renee with first one finger . . . then two ... then three as she marveled at how Renee's tightness aroused and spurred her on. She could feel Renee's longing for her and she wanted to oblige.
Their fascination with one another grew throughout the night and into the morning. Orgasm after orgasm left them quietly sharing more of their stories, enjoying the release and then somehow restored to explore once again. Finally weariness overtook them and they slept.
Jules regretted when she woke in the early morning hours far too aware of the appointment she'd set up with the gallery owner regarding her possible exhibit. She didn't want to leave. She didn't want to disturb Renee's beautiful and peaceful sleep.
She wanted the play to continue.
Still, she knew that Renee would understand. So she quietly collected her clothes and made her way into the room where she suspected what she needed could be found.
When Renee awoke a couple of hours later and made her way into the now cleaned dining area, she was greeted with the most beautiful and sexy Scrabble rack she'd seen in quite a while.
C. A. L. L. M. E.
"Absolutely," she responded. "Absolutely."
Sunday, August 19, 2007
The Chef's Tour
She was convinced the anchovy paste convinced him.
She had sauteed shallots, garlic, and the paste in a bit of olive oil and a tab of butter before she added grape tomatoes, artichokes, capers and finally the tuna. After a white wine reduction she tossed it all with some angel hair pasta and served her impromptu supper to the bartender.
Initially, she'd thought he might be gay. He did, after all, work in a gay bar. Close cropped hair, stylish glasses, a physically fit frame that suggested he spent more than a few days a week in a gym and a tendency to actually listen suggested he was not your typical straight guy. Plus, she had at least ten years on him and still, he was paying very close attention to everything she said.
The event that had brought them to each other's attention was yet another cocktail party kicking off yet another fundraising gala that required still more table sales and silent auctions. She was supporting a friend who had to be there because the organization for which she worked would benefit if the gala was truly successful. Since the friend was buying the $3 well drinks and there were tasty -- though not exactly gourmet -- cheeses and crackers to enjoy, she certainly wasn't sacrificing much but a few hours of her time.
When she realized the guy serving her vodka and tonics might actually be one of the few straight men in the room, the sacrifice seemed neglible.
They spent the first hour -- in between his drink pours -- discussing education. He was exploring an alternative certification program that would allow him to teach in a middle school classroom. She knew of at least two people who had explored and successfully engaged the program and were now happily in front of students. He connected that they were somehow connecting.
The second hour's conversational path wandered around and about the topic of sexuality. They were, after all, surrounded by gay men and women so it wasn't too off the wall that the topic might come up. She had just been asked if she were gay by a one-drink-over-the-limit lesbian who guessed that indeed she wasn't.
"Don't give off the vibe, huh?" she'd asked her assessor.
"Your shoes give you away," she noted pointing to the open toe heels.
"Point taken," she'd responded, noting that the majority of footwear in the room was practical and/or closed toed.
When she relayed the conversation to her friend and the listening-in bartender, they discussed the viability of the "spectrum" theory -- that most of us fall in the spectrum between 100% gay and 100% hetero.
He didn't offer up where he fell but she did catch his wandering focus toward her breasts -- which she had carefully orchestrated to be in their full glory by virtue of the dress she'd chosen and the seat she'd taken at the bar which allowed for maximum breast pumpage if she leaned forward in just the right way.
The two hour commitment was coming to a close when he suggested that her knowledge of the teaching gig he was exploring was worthy of further conversation and noted that he'd be leaving his bartending gig 15 minutes after the event concluded.
"Want to delve into this a bit further, huh?" she asked. "Well, how about over supper?"
"My treat," he said. "After all, you are sharing your expertise."
"I am at that but my expertise extends well beyond the classroom so I think you should . . . " she grabbed a cocktail napkin and wrote her address and her phone number on it . . . "call me when you're close and I'll tell you how to transverse the obstacle course that is my complex parking lot before I feed you a delectable dinner guaranteed to produce teacheresque brain cells. . . . Unlesss, of course, you're allergic to tuna."
"No allergies. And I'll be there in 45 minutes top."
She walked to her car with her friend and they laughed at the idea that she might have just snagged a hottie at a gay bar.
She contemplated the possibility that he wouldn't show. But something within her knew she'd made the connect.
So with a bottle of wine chilling and the ingredients prepped she waited.
But not for long.
He entered her apartment with just the right amount of admiration for her numerous artworks. She directed him to the barstool that would enable him to watch while she completed the sauteeing. Wine poured, she resisted the urge to mention that the tables had now been turned.
He appreciated her taste in whites. She sliced some havarti and offered him smoked almonds and crackers to supplement the mild flavor of the cheese.
As she cooked, she noticed that he had a wide range of interests. A military background had secured him numerous cross cultural experiences. Returning to school in his late 20s had offered him a generational perspective often lacking in most college freshmen. And bartending in a gay bar in a major metropolitan city ... well ... he had lots of stories to tell.
What she noticed most, though, was his willingness to let the conversation flow, asking questions of her, allowing her stories to prompt his own.
By the time the pasta was before him, they were into their second bottle of wine and confident that the conversation would not end soon.
By the time he'd commented on the rich layering of flavors (thanks in part to the aforementioned anchovy paste), she'd began to wonder if his lips would taste as good as the sorbet she was planning on serving as a dessert.
She didn't have to wait until post-mango freshness.
"You're talents are obvious on many levels," he said as he raised his glass in both a toast and salute to her. "I look forward to examining them further as the night wears on."
And he leaned in for a kiss that tasted of the tartness of the dish and the sweetness of possibilities.
She hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand on his thigh.
"Would you like dessert now . . . or later?" she asked, squeezing slightly and moving her hand a half inch upward.
"I think . . . dessert can take many forms," and he cupped his hand behind her neck, massaged momentarily, and then brought her close for yet another kiss.
"And I think ... " she breathed deeply, trying to find the words that would express exactly what she wanted to happen in the next 45 minutes to an hour or so ... "you're right."
She stood and took his free hand into her own. She raised the fingers to her lips and kissed each softly before selecting the index finger for preferential treatment.
Sucking first on the tip, she took in just a bit more and stopped. Smiling, she led him to her bedroom.
The moon was shining bright enough into her window that no further mood lighting was required. She casually punched the stereo and music softly flooded the room. She pulled him bedside, turned to face him, and looked into his eyes.
"I'm not apologizing, but I am acknowledging, that I am a few years your senior and thus . . . "
He hushed her. "And thus . . . nothing. You are who I choose to be with. You."
She let the nagging doubts go.
She wondered if he would be the agressor. She was delighted that everything was mutual. She tugged at his shirt tail. He lifted her dress over her head. She unbuckled his belt. He looked longingly at her breasts.
"Kisses?" she teased.
He bent forward and lifted her right breast to his mouth. His tongue teased and tasted her nipple. She reached behind and took off her bra. He cupped both breasts in both hands and alternated between the two.
She let the pleasure set in.
Then she took to her bed. And removed the rest of her clothes. He followed.
Momentarily at a loss, she simply took him in. He had at least half a foot on her. His muscles were defined -- perhaps once well defined. Now, they suggested fitness and an appreciation for lazy afternoons. He wasn't tanned but he was perfectly haired. She liked a bit of chest hair but wanted it to have its boundaries. Not a sign of back hair in sight. His dark curls repeated themselves around his more than adequate cock . . . which was growing in appreciation of the situation.
She smiled and placed her hand on his ass. Squeezing, she kneaded her way around his thigh and took the growing penis in hand.
He smiled and positioned himself slightly above her. Clasping his hands on each breast, he pulled slightly on each nipple.
She reciprocated by tugging and squeezing before lightly kissing his tip.
Looking up for his reaction, she admired his admiration. She let the kiss linger longer before taking him in inch by inch. Her tongue provided the pressure, criss-crossing the shaft at rapid fire pace, teasing each cell before changing pace entirely and taking him in with a dive of sorts, deep throating him once, twice and three times.
He moaned.
She grabbed his chest and pinched his nipples -- hard. He almost whimpered. And then he moaned again.
He regrouped. He rose. He slipped inside her while toying with her clit. It was her turn to moan.
He slipped in and out, in and out, in and out and increased in speed.
She clutched his butt cheeks and inserted her fingers into his crack. She searched for an entry point and eureka!
His eyes opened wide. But he didn't caution her. She proceeded.
As did he.
She mimicked his moves in and out. She wished for the growth of her own digits in order to please him more. She substituted width and length with speed and creativity. She wondered if he were feeling a portion of the intensity she was experiencing. She didn't wonder long.
"If you keep that up," he labored to locate the words, "I'm going to come any moment."
"I'm counting on it," she said, knowing her own propensity to reciprocate in multiple spasms once his juices were exploding within her.
He came hard. She came harder.
They clutched each other with sweat-drenched urgency. Then relaxed.
She waited before pulling away and laying beside him. Then she placed her hand slightly above the raised hairs on his chest. They almost tickled her palm. She traced his body with the hairs as her guide -- not touching but close enough to suggest something mounting within.
He breathed in deeply. She smiled, knowing that he was recovering faster than most. She had plans that would test his stamina. Plans that included much more than a few moments of anal anxiety. She knew he had at least another couple of hours in him. She started working on the menu.
She had sauteed shallots, garlic, and the paste in a bit of olive oil and a tab of butter before she added grape tomatoes, artichokes, capers and finally the tuna. After a white wine reduction she tossed it all with some angel hair pasta and served her impromptu supper to the bartender.
Initially, she'd thought he might be gay. He did, after all, work in a gay bar. Close cropped hair, stylish glasses, a physically fit frame that suggested he spent more than a few days a week in a gym and a tendency to actually listen suggested he was not your typical straight guy. Plus, she had at least ten years on him and still, he was paying very close attention to everything she said.
The event that had brought them to each other's attention was yet another cocktail party kicking off yet another fundraising gala that required still more table sales and silent auctions. She was supporting a friend who had to be there because the organization for which she worked would benefit if the gala was truly successful. Since the friend was buying the $3 well drinks and there were tasty -- though not exactly gourmet -- cheeses and crackers to enjoy, she certainly wasn't sacrificing much but a few hours of her time.
When she realized the guy serving her vodka and tonics might actually be one of the few straight men in the room, the sacrifice seemed neglible.
They spent the first hour -- in between his drink pours -- discussing education. He was exploring an alternative certification program that would allow him to teach in a middle school classroom. She knew of at least two people who had explored and successfully engaged the program and were now happily in front of students. He connected that they were somehow connecting.
The second hour's conversational path wandered around and about the topic of sexuality. They were, after all, surrounded by gay men and women so it wasn't too off the wall that the topic might come up. She had just been asked if she were gay by a one-drink-over-the-limit lesbian who guessed that indeed she wasn't.
"Don't give off the vibe, huh?" she'd asked her assessor.
"Your shoes give you away," she noted pointing to the open toe heels.
"Point taken," she'd responded, noting that the majority of footwear in the room was practical and/or closed toed.
When she relayed the conversation to her friend and the listening-in bartender, they discussed the viability of the "spectrum" theory -- that most of us fall in the spectrum between 100% gay and 100% hetero.
He didn't offer up where he fell but she did catch his wandering focus toward her breasts -- which she had carefully orchestrated to be in their full glory by virtue of the dress she'd chosen and the seat she'd taken at the bar which allowed for maximum breast pumpage if she leaned forward in just the right way.
The two hour commitment was coming to a close when he suggested that her knowledge of the teaching gig he was exploring was worthy of further conversation and noted that he'd be leaving his bartending gig 15 minutes after the event concluded.
"Want to delve into this a bit further, huh?" she asked. "Well, how about over supper?"
"My treat," he said. "After all, you are sharing your expertise."
"I am at that but my expertise extends well beyond the classroom so I think you should . . . " she grabbed a cocktail napkin and wrote her address and her phone number on it . . . "call me when you're close and I'll tell you how to transverse the obstacle course that is my complex parking lot before I feed you a delectable dinner guaranteed to produce teacheresque brain cells. . . . Unlesss, of course, you're allergic to tuna."
"No allergies. And I'll be there in 45 minutes top."
She walked to her car with her friend and they laughed at the idea that she might have just snagged a hottie at a gay bar.
She contemplated the possibility that he wouldn't show. But something within her knew she'd made the connect.
So with a bottle of wine chilling and the ingredients prepped she waited.
But not for long.
He entered her apartment with just the right amount of admiration for her numerous artworks. She directed him to the barstool that would enable him to watch while she completed the sauteeing. Wine poured, she resisted the urge to mention that the tables had now been turned.
He appreciated her taste in whites. She sliced some havarti and offered him smoked almonds and crackers to supplement the mild flavor of the cheese.
As she cooked, she noticed that he had a wide range of interests. A military background had secured him numerous cross cultural experiences. Returning to school in his late 20s had offered him a generational perspective often lacking in most college freshmen. And bartending in a gay bar in a major metropolitan city ... well ... he had lots of stories to tell.
What she noticed most, though, was his willingness to let the conversation flow, asking questions of her, allowing her stories to prompt his own.
By the time the pasta was before him, they were into their second bottle of wine and confident that the conversation would not end soon.
By the time he'd commented on the rich layering of flavors (thanks in part to the aforementioned anchovy paste), she'd began to wonder if his lips would taste as good as the sorbet she was planning on serving as a dessert.
She didn't have to wait until post-mango freshness.
"You're talents are obvious on many levels," he said as he raised his glass in both a toast and salute to her. "I look forward to examining them further as the night wears on."
And he leaned in for a kiss that tasted of the tartness of the dish and the sweetness of possibilities.
She hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand on his thigh.
"Would you like dessert now . . . or later?" she asked, squeezing slightly and moving her hand a half inch upward.
"I think . . . dessert can take many forms," and he cupped his hand behind her neck, massaged momentarily, and then brought her close for yet another kiss.
"And I think ... " she breathed deeply, trying to find the words that would express exactly what she wanted to happen in the next 45 minutes to an hour or so ... "you're right."
She stood and took his free hand into her own. She raised the fingers to her lips and kissed each softly before selecting the index finger for preferential treatment.
Sucking first on the tip, she took in just a bit more and stopped. Smiling, she led him to her bedroom.
The moon was shining bright enough into her window that no further mood lighting was required. She casually punched the stereo and music softly flooded the room. She pulled him bedside, turned to face him, and looked into his eyes.
"I'm not apologizing, but I am acknowledging, that I am a few years your senior and thus . . . "
He hushed her. "And thus . . . nothing. You are who I choose to be with. You."
She let the nagging doubts go.
She wondered if he would be the agressor. She was delighted that everything was mutual. She tugged at his shirt tail. He lifted her dress over her head. She unbuckled his belt. He looked longingly at her breasts.
"Kisses?" she teased.
He bent forward and lifted her right breast to his mouth. His tongue teased and tasted her nipple. She reached behind and took off her bra. He cupped both breasts in both hands and alternated between the two.
She let the pleasure set in.
Then she took to her bed. And removed the rest of her clothes. He followed.
Momentarily at a loss, she simply took him in. He had at least half a foot on her. His muscles were defined -- perhaps once well defined. Now, they suggested fitness and an appreciation for lazy afternoons. He wasn't tanned but he was perfectly haired. She liked a bit of chest hair but wanted it to have its boundaries. Not a sign of back hair in sight. His dark curls repeated themselves around his more than adequate cock . . . which was growing in appreciation of the situation.
She smiled and placed her hand on his ass. Squeezing, she kneaded her way around his thigh and took the growing penis in hand.
He smiled and positioned himself slightly above her. Clasping his hands on each breast, he pulled slightly on each nipple.
She reciprocated by tugging and squeezing before lightly kissing his tip.
Looking up for his reaction, she admired his admiration. She let the kiss linger longer before taking him in inch by inch. Her tongue provided the pressure, criss-crossing the shaft at rapid fire pace, teasing each cell before changing pace entirely and taking him in with a dive of sorts, deep throating him once, twice and three times.
He moaned.
She grabbed his chest and pinched his nipples -- hard. He almost whimpered. And then he moaned again.
He regrouped. He rose. He slipped inside her while toying with her clit. It was her turn to moan.
He slipped in and out, in and out, in and out and increased in speed.
She clutched his butt cheeks and inserted her fingers into his crack. She searched for an entry point and eureka!
His eyes opened wide. But he didn't caution her. She proceeded.
As did he.
She mimicked his moves in and out. She wished for the growth of her own digits in order to please him more. She substituted width and length with speed and creativity. She wondered if he were feeling a portion of the intensity she was experiencing. She didn't wonder long.
"If you keep that up," he labored to locate the words, "I'm going to come any moment."
"I'm counting on it," she said, knowing her own propensity to reciprocate in multiple spasms once his juices were exploding within her.
He came hard. She came harder.
They clutched each other with sweat-drenched urgency. Then relaxed.
She waited before pulling away and laying beside him. Then she placed her hand slightly above the raised hairs on his chest. They almost tickled her palm. She traced his body with the hairs as her guide -- not touching but close enough to suggest something mounting within.
He breathed in deeply. She smiled, knowing that he was recovering faster than most. She had plans that would test his stamina. Plans that included much more than a few moments of anal anxiety. She knew he had at least another couple of hours in him. She started working on the menu.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Mountain Climbing with Tourists
The woman touring Manchu Pinchu with us looked over my shoulder.
"I really wanted to climb that thing but my husband said no," she pouted.
I turned ... so ignorant of my surroundings that I hadn't realized one of the more famous mountains in the world towered behind me.
"Oh, we are!" said my travel companion, a gay man I have loved for years and who had recently become my travel partner.
"We're what?" I queried.
"We're climbing the mountain. As soon as the tour is over," he replied.
"Might have been nice if you'd mentioned mountain climbing in all the preparation for this trip!" I tried sounding incredulous but it was useless. He knew I was up for anything he thought we could pull off.
"I'm climbing a mountain," I muttered to myself and any angel of mercy that might have been tuning in at the time.
We finished the step-by-step exploration of one of the true wonders of the world. I loved the way the stories of class were evident in architecture. I loved the mystical element that laid around each corner, especially the section of the structure that allowed you to be heard yards away even if you were simply whispering. The idea of such a majestic structure hidden beneath jungle for years inspired me. Hidden mysteries often fascinate me.
We lunched on the boxed sandwich and fruit provided in out ticketed experience. I laughed at the idea that I was hanging my feet over the wall of an ancient structure that in the U.S. would have gates and cables prohibiting any such casual display of place. My friend stretched out on the grass and outlined the rest of the afternoon.
Supposedly, the trek up the mountain would only take around 90 minutes.
"Sure, if you're in shape and aware of the fact that you'd be climbing a mountain," I thought but did not speak aloud.
We checked with the Peruvian at the ticket counter to ensure that indeed we had time to make it to the top before closing. He took a moment to assess us and I guess the fact that we were both carrying a few too many pounds and definitely on the downhill side of 40 didn't bother him.
"You'll make it," he said with all the expertise a 20-something year old could muster.
The "trail" was rather narrow. Sometimes it was both narrow and damp.
When trekkers were coming down the mountain we took the opportunity to pull to the side and let them pass. (I mentioned the path was narrow, right?)
"So how much further have we got?" one of us would usually inquire.
"A ways," they would emphasize. "And you know it gets pretty wet and treacherous at the top."
The first time I heard it, I thought how sweet they were.
The second time, the 20-something athlete bounding down the mountainside added, "You may have to use the cables."
The third time, I began to reflect on what exactly it was about the two of us that was producing such caution.
Admittedly, my friend and I were red faced. We'd toured the countryside the day before on horseback, sans sunscreen.
And yes, we were post-40, with a few extra pounds and maybe not the usual climbing attire. But, my god, what was the deal?
Even the funny ones got all maternal on our asses.
"Wow, six of you, that's quite a crew," my friend offered as we stood to the side, enjoying the chance to inhale without pain.
"Yeah, there were seven of us. . . . How do you like my new watch?" the comic replied, then added, "You guys know it gets steeper near the top, right?"
I smiled.
When they'd made their way past us, i murmured to my friend in my best Scarlett impersonation, "As God as my witness, I will make it to the top of this mountain. I'll be damn if any one of these young 'uns gets to 'I told you so' me!"
He agreed and we trekked on.
The altitude was already a concern. We had been greeted with cocoa plants to drink as tea as soon as we'd arrived at the hotel. I kinda like the idea of legal drug use in drink form as an afternoon delight.
The trails was easily marked but nevertheless a tad bit treacherous at points. I especially liked having to hold on to cables to hoist myself up the next zigzag of the trail.
But finally, omigod, finally we made it to the top. The view was magnificent. I did mention that we were at Manchu Pinchu, right? But more important -- we were there in all our post-40 glory. We high fived and anything else we could come up with that in-your-faced-it to the youth that surrounded us.
The top was actually little more than a boulder and we had to squeeze our way through a crevice to make it. But we did.
At the top, we met an Australian, an Israeli and another American. I didn't realize until much later that I was one of the few women on the mountain that day.
The Aussie was, as we had noted in our previous travels, an extrovert and totally adorable! He wanted to know why we were there (because the mountain was, of course), where we'd come from (south Peru and the are-they-produced-by-Peruvians-or-aliens?-line art that you can only see by small plane tours overhead), and what we thought of the ruins (omigod, are you kidding?).
He'd been backpacking his way across the country and we laughed at the fact that he was our fifth Aussie we'd met in our South American travels doing exactly the same thing.
"Are there any of you left on your continent?" i asked with a smile. "Cause frankly, we encounter you guys everywhere we go!"
"No, pretty much we're all off traveling. No one's left to take care of things. You should go there, you could rack up in thefts!" he countered.
I liked this guy. He had hair that touched his shoulders and curled softly around his face. He took the nominal approach to backpacking with ... well ... no pack. He carried a water bottle and ... well ... that's all he carried. Wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I was able to discern that his 5 ft. 9 in frame was athletic but not muscle-bound. He obviously enjoyed his fair share of wine or good food. But he wasn't fat. He was ... simply. . . nice to behold. I especially liked the brown hair specked with blonde and the matching goatee. The blue eyes didn't hurt as well.
"Oh, baby, if you'd only come to momma," I thought.
He decided he'd take the trip back down with us. I thoroughly enjoyed the way he engaged with my buddy. While he's not a flamer, a few topics into the conversation when he's out and about from his suit and tie profession and most folks are pretty sure that we're not anything more than travel buddies.
He laughed at our jokes, our observations about Peruvian politics and the loose use of the term "strikes" (we'd suffered a few in the one week we'd been in the country and somehow managed to still find all the things we needed when we needed them) and our delightful introduction to cuy, a fried guinea pig delicacy that was nothing more than a rat with its feet in the air when it was deep fried.
We, in turn, were amused to hear of his adventures trying to make ends meet as he served as a sous chef in a resort in Chile, haggled with passport control in Venezuela, and smoked his way across Peru with a fellow herbist.
Did I mention that I liked this guy?
When we reached the bottom fo the trail, we celebrated with a group hug and invited our Aussie back to our hotel for a drink. He was rather enthusiastic in his acceptance. We discussed later that perhaps the idea of a hotel was the biggest drawing card, since he'd been camping for the last week.
One the way back to the tour bus, seating separately from our new friend, I asked my companion if he had any problems with our extending our hospitality.
"Are you kidding me?" he responded. "He's cute, into both of us, and he's got enough energy to keep us both amused."
When we arrived at Agua Caliente, the resort village making its fortune off of tourists like us, we caught up with him.
"Ok, we may be a bit off base here, but we thought maybe you hadn't had a chance to do the whole hot-shower-and-clean-sheets-thing in a while. If that's so, you need to know we have an extra bed and we'd be glad to let you bunk with us for the night."
"You're kidding, right?" he countered.
I thought perhaps he thought us totally perverted and was about to bolt.
"I'd love it! ... but I really don't have the funds to kick in," he said.
Immediately we liked him even more because he wanted to.
"No problem! The room's already paid for and your company will be plenty of payback. We're tired of our tired old stories and would love to hear yours."
We made our way from the bus stop up the hill to the hotel. We mangled our Spanish and the hotel clerk smiled as though she understood as we secured an extra key. Then we opened the door and the windows to let the sounds of the rushing river and the breeze into the room.
"I'm calling female privilege and taking the first shower," I offered. I knew they wouldn't argue and they didn't.
When I exited the steam-filled bath, I noted that my friend and the Aussie were on the same bed, engaged in a laughter-riddled conversation, and totally comfortable with the fact that they had both shed their shirts and were sans most of their clothing save their shorts.
My buddy, ever the Southern gentleman, suggested our guest take use of the bathroom next. He didn't argue.
As soon as the door closed and the fan was on, I demanded, "So???? What did you find out?"
"He's bisexual, totally into you and ... I'm just guessing by his caddy remarks ... not unfond of me!"
"You got all that from the six minutes I was in there!" I exclaimed.
"I would have gotten more if you would ever embrace the idea that you're a girl and you're supposed to take MUCH longer showers," he dissed.
"Hmmm ... " I pondered the possibilities as I put on the sundress I'd been holding out for the right moment and spritzed on the perfume I hadn't wasted on my lovable but not my lover friend.
When he took his turn, I felt slightly ill at ease and excused myself to go downstairs to the bar and wait for whatever grooming they felt was necessary.
I'd finished a Peruvian Sour -- a brandy, white of an egg, and lemon juice -- when they arrived clean-shaven and most appetizing in their squeaky-cleanness.
"Are you going native or do you just want to go plebian with your drink of choice this evening?" I offered as I indicated they should sit at the two chairs I'd reserved for them in the rapidly crowding bar.
"Oh, we must drink to the gods before we imbibe in the cervezas," my friend observed and another round of Piscos was ordered.
"I haven't felt this human in weeks," our new friend offered after he'd had his first taste of the sweet but nevertheless addictive national drink.
"Well, we're in the business of humanity," I giggled as i noted once again that this young man wore his skin well.
"I think we should celebrate a newfound friendship with a decent meal filled with lots of decent wine," my friend offered.
We were all in agreement and soon were traversing the narrow streets for the proper acknowledgement of our growing appreciation for one another.
"This is it!" i pointed to the Italian restaurant across the street blasting ABBA from its outdoor speakers. "Can anything reek of more multi-culturalism than pizza in Peru with ABBA as a soundtrack?"
They could not argue and we entered to the all-emcompassing smell of garlic and onions. The wood oven we could see in the back assured us that we had not judged wrongly.
The waiter took a liking to my friend immediately. I'm not one to snap judgements but I suspect he was definitely "family."
We ordered a bottle of the house white (I can't handle the headache the reds produce and neither of my knights were willing to abdicate their hero status by arguing). The bread with oil and spices was scrumptious. The pizza even better and the second bottle of wine was glorious.
We laughed. We argued playfully regarding "best locales" around the world. We quietly sang along with ABBA. And at that point our sense of balance won out and we noted that we still had the walk home to consider.
"Consider" we did. Go -- we did not. The perfect plan we noted as soon as we were on the streets was to check out the origin of the town's name.
Agua Caliente referenced the hot springs that the city exploited to their tourist income benefit. We made our way to the nearest public offering and soon learned that for enough cash there was a more private opportunity.
Somedays it pays to be over 40 and middle income.
We made our way to the private "club" by simply trusting in our newfound guide who seemed to know where he was going. When we entered the plush foyer complete with dark covered woods, slatted wooden chaise lounges, and the sounds of Peruvian instrumentals over the sound system, we smiled.
Soon -- after paying a nominal fee which my friend and I split between us -- we made our way to the changing rooms and covered ourselves in plush terry cloth robes. We then met at the tubs where steam was rising. We noted that few folks were sharing our surroundings and those that were we're into their own conversations/worlds.
We smiled.
Bi-lingual notices in the dressing rooms assured us that swimsuits were not required and each of us had gone with the idea.
As soon as we removed the robes we chuckled and entered the deliciously heated water and a collective "ahhh" was voiced.
Within minutes a non-English-speaking waiter had a tray of glasses tubside. We decided to go for it -- knowing that if there were a cost, we weren't heading to the poor house with the prices we'd encountered thus far.
The liquid was cool, fresh and definitely alcoholic but what it was we never deciphered.
Between the heat of the pool and the drinks we were loose all too soon.
"So . . . " I tried to connect cognitive thoughts to express myself. "You've been on the road for a while, huh?" I asked.
The Aussie smiled the almost drunken smile of youth and nodded, "Yep! I'm no longer the virgin traveler. I have embraced my road-hard-and-put-up-wet status!"
"You've been around a Texan or two!" my friend beamed.
"I read alot," the Aussie practically glowed with his culturally appropriate reference.
"And now ... " I moved closer to him in the tub . . ."you're around a delicious two, aren't you?"
"Indeed I am."
"Enough said," I thought. "Let's get this show on the road."
I looked to my friend whom I had not yet "shared" in any way save my love for his sense of adventure and loyalty to me. He smiled and nodded.
I moved closer toward our Aussie. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I began to massage deeply.
"Ooo la la, a professional!" he noted.
"Not quite, but i love the pleasure it brings, don't you?"
"Mmmm . . . give me a few minutes to reflect and I'll let you know. But ... uh ... don't stop until I make my final pronouncement, ok?"
"You call it," I smiled.
Now both hands were kneading not only his shoulders and upper arms as the heated water continued to swirl around us, but soon enough I was making my way down his lower back and clasping both ass cheeks in each hand with squeezes that were intended to both release tension and produce pleasure.
My friend moved in closer. "So our no-longer-a-virgin-traveler, how far are you willing to release any sign of virginity?"
"Oh you over estimate me, my friends. Three ways were an introduction long ago and far away. I was ready to say yes to that when I saw you make it to the top of the mountain!"
We laughed.
Then my friend took care of his front side, while concentrated on the back side. I heard murmurs and witnessed the licking of lips and expressions of satisfaction but i was focused on anal pleasure and discovered new ways to finger his hole while simultaneously diving beneath the water to take a lick or two.
Our "guest" took on the passive role for about 20 minutes before coming into his own. At one point, he savagely kissed my buddy for what seemed like minutes and then abuptly turned to face me. He held my friend's cock in his hand and continued the massage with his left hand while grabbing my breast with his right.
Squeezing tightly he kissed me. The kiss was flavored with the liqueurs of the evening and hard, yet soft. His tongue explored my mouth as an anthropologist digs into his chosen culture. I thought about breathing but nixed the idea.
I grabbed his cock and my friend's ass and squeezed us all together into a tight unit. We bobbed in the water as we continued to apply pressure, release and squeeze.
Kisses were becoming undefinable. The drink and the heat had released me of any care of what my friend might wonder in the morning and we were tied together by tongues and hugs and fingers placed in all the right places.
I can't remember who suggested we either had to finish this here or move back to the hotel. No vote was taken but soon enough we were out of the tub and back into our clothes, locked in each other's arms and walking back to the hotel.
Language wasn't necessary as our clerk watched us climb the stairs. I half suspected by his look of longing that we might receive a knock at the door with a request to join us.
We pulled back the covers on the larger bed and simultaneously fell on the fresh sheets with the fan vibrating overhead.
I propped myself on my elbow and examined my possibilities. The Aussie's dick looked the most inviting from my vantage point.
I tasted. I sucked. I licked. I swallowed. I massaged. I tasted some more.
He was impressed.
Meanwhile, my friend was exploring backstage. He rubbed his cock between the Aussie's cheeks and when he faced no resistance, he lubricated and entered.
The Aussie even moaned with an accent.
I had control of the cock and picked up the rhythm that my friend had established. Up and down, in and out, teasing and pleasing.
Soon the moans became louder. And the Aussie was reciprocating as best he could. His fingers had found my crotch and began exploring. I signaled my pleasure by offering deep throats.
Coming simultaneously might have been more to ask for than we were allowed by tourist standards, but we did.
My friend shouted a few "omigods". The Aussie affirmed with a series of "yes, yes, yes!" And I encouraged, waiting for the waves of pleasure that would overtake me as sson as the Aussie's juices were released inside me.
"Thank God for the mountain," i exclaimed as my body shudder with the release. "Thank God."
"I really wanted to climb that thing but my husband said no," she pouted.
I turned ... so ignorant of my surroundings that I hadn't realized one of the more famous mountains in the world towered behind me.
"Oh, we are!" said my travel companion, a gay man I have loved for years and who had recently become my travel partner.
"We're what?" I queried.
"We're climbing the mountain. As soon as the tour is over," he replied.
"Might have been nice if you'd mentioned mountain climbing in all the preparation for this trip!" I tried sounding incredulous but it was useless. He knew I was up for anything he thought we could pull off.
"I'm climbing a mountain," I muttered to myself and any angel of mercy that might have been tuning in at the time.
We finished the step-by-step exploration of one of the true wonders of the world. I loved the way the stories of class were evident in architecture. I loved the mystical element that laid around each corner, especially the section of the structure that allowed you to be heard yards away even if you were simply whispering. The idea of such a majestic structure hidden beneath jungle for years inspired me. Hidden mysteries often fascinate me.
We lunched on the boxed sandwich and fruit provided in out ticketed experience. I laughed at the idea that I was hanging my feet over the wall of an ancient structure that in the U.S. would have gates and cables prohibiting any such casual display of place. My friend stretched out on the grass and outlined the rest of the afternoon.
Supposedly, the trek up the mountain would only take around 90 minutes.
"Sure, if you're in shape and aware of the fact that you'd be climbing a mountain," I thought but did not speak aloud.
We checked with the Peruvian at the ticket counter to ensure that indeed we had time to make it to the top before closing. He took a moment to assess us and I guess the fact that we were both carrying a few too many pounds and definitely on the downhill side of 40 didn't bother him.
"You'll make it," he said with all the expertise a 20-something year old could muster.
The "trail" was rather narrow. Sometimes it was both narrow and damp.
When trekkers were coming down the mountain we took the opportunity to pull to the side and let them pass. (I mentioned the path was narrow, right?)
"So how much further have we got?" one of us would usually inquire.
"A ways," they would emphasize. "And you know it gets pretty wet and treacherous at the top."
The first time I heard it, I thought how sweet they were.
The second time, the 20-something athlete bounding down the mountainside added, "You may have to use the cables."
The third time, I began to reflect on what exactly it was about the two of us that was producing such caution.
Admittedly, my friend and I were red faced. We'd toured the countryside the day before on horseback, sans sunscreen.
And yes, we were post-40, with a few extra pounds and maybe not the usual climbing attire. But, my god, what was the deal?
Even the funny ones got all maternal on our asses.
"Wow, six of you, that's quite a crew," my friend offered as we stood to the side, enjoying the chance to inhale without pain.
"Yeah, there were seven of us. . . . How do you like my new watch?" the comic replied, then added, "You guys know it gets steeper near the top, right?"
I smiled.
When they'd made their way past us, i murmured to my friend in my best Scarlett impersonation, "As God as my witness, I will make it to the top of this mountain. I'll be damn if any one of these young 'uns gets to 'I told you so' me!"
He agreed and we trekked on.
The altitude was already a concern. We had been greeted with cocoa plants to drink as tea as soon as we'd arrived at the hotel. I kinda like the idea of legal drug use in drink form as an afternoon delight.
The trails was easily marked but nevertheless a tad bit treacherous at points. I especially liked having to hold on to cables to hoist myself up the next zigzag of the trail.
But finally, omigod, finally we made it to the top. The view was magnificent. I did mention that we were at Manchu Pinchu, right? But more important -- we were there in all our post-40 glory. We high fived and anything else we could come up with that in-your-faced-it to the youth that surrounded us.
The top was actually little more than a boulder and we had to squeeze our way through a crevice to make it. But we did.
At the top, we met an Australian, an Israeli and another American. I didn't realize until much later that I was one of the few women on the mountain that day.
The Aussie was, as we had noted in our previous travels, an extrovert and totally adorable! He wanted to know why we were there (because the mountain was, of course), where we'd come from (south Peru and the are-they-produced-by-Peruvians-or-aliens?-line art that you can only see by small plane tours overhead), and what we thought of the ruins (omigod, are you kidding?).
He'd been backpacking his way across the country and we laughed at the fact that he was our fifth Aussie we'd met in our South American travels doing exactly the same thing.
"Are there any of you left on your continent?" i asked with a smile. "Cause frankly, we encounter you guys everywhere we go!"
"No, pretty much we're all off traveling. No one's left to take care of things. You should go there, you could rack up in thefts!" he countered.
I liked this guy. He had hair that touched his shoulders and curled softly around his face. He took the nominal approach to backpacking with ... well ... no pack. He carried a water bottle and ... well ... that's all he carried. Wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I was able to discern that his 5 ft. 9 in frame was athletic but not muscle-bound. He obviously enjoyed his fair share of wine or good food. But he wasn't fat. He was ... simply. . . nice to behold. I especially liked the brown hair specked with blonde and the matching goatee. The blue eyes didn't hurt as well.
"Oh, baby, if you'd only come to momma," I thought.
He decided he'd take the trip back down with us. I thoroughly enjoyed the way he engaged with my buddy. While he's not a flamer, a few topics into the conversation when he's out and about from his suit and tie profession and most folks are pretty sure that we're not anything more than travel buddies.
He laughed at our jokes, our observations about Peruvian politics and the loose use of the term "strikes" (we'd suffered a few in the one week we'd been in the country and somehow managed to still find all the things we needed when we needed them) and our delightful introduction to cuy, a fried guinea pig delicacy that was nothing more than a rat with its feet in the air when it was deep fried.
We, in turn, were amused to hear of his adventures trying to make ends meet as he served as a sous chef in a resort in Chile, haggled with passport control in Venezuela, and smoked his way across Peru with a fellow herbist.
Did I mention that I liked this guy?
When we reached the bottom fo the trail, we celebrated with a group hug and invited our Aussie back to our hotel for a drink. He was rather enthusiastic in his acceptance. We discussed later that perhaps the idea of a hotel was the biggest drawing card, since he'd been camping for the last week.
One the way back to the tour bus, seating separately from our new friend, I asked my companion if he had any problems with our extending our hospitality.
"Are you kidding me?" he responded. "He's cute, into both of us, and he's got enough energy to keep us both amused."
When we arrived at Agua Caliente, the resort village making its fortune off of tourists like us, we caught up with him.
"Ok, we may be a bit off base here, but we thought maybe you hadn't had a chance to do the whole hot-shower-and-clean-sheets-thing in a while. If that's so, you need to know we have an extra bed and we'd be glad to let you bunk with us for the night."
"You're kidding, right?" he countered.
I thought perhaps he thought us totally perverted and was about to bolt.
"I'd love it! ... but I really don't have the funds to kick in," he said.
Immediately we liked him even more because he wanted to.
"No problem! The room's already paid for and your company will be plenty of payback. We're tired of our tired old stories and would love to hear yours."
We made our way from the bus stop up the hill to the hotel. We mangled our Spanish and the hotel clerk smiled as though she understood as we secured an extra key. Then we opened the door and the windows to let the sounds of the rushing river and the breeze into the room.
"I'm calling female privilege and taking the first shower," I offered. I knew they wouldn't argue and they didn't.
When I exited the steam-filled bath, I noted that my friend and the Aussie were on the same bed, engaged in a laughter-riddled conversation, and totally comfortable with the fact that they had both shed their shirts and were sans most of their clothing save their shorts.
My buddy, ever the Southern gentleman, suggested our guest take use of the bathroom next. He didn't argue.
As soon as the door closed and the fan was on, I demanded, "So???? What did you find out?"
"He's bisexual, totally into you and ... I'm just guessing by his caddy remarks ... not unfond of me!"
"You got all that from the six minutes I was in there!" I exclaimed.
"I would have gotten more if you would ever embrace the idea that you're a girl and you're supposed to take MUCH longer showers," he dissed.
"Hmmm ... " I pondered the possibilities as I put on the sundress I'd been holding out for the right moment and spritzed on the perfume I hadn't wasted on my lovable but not my lover friend.
When he took his turn, I felt slightly ill at ease and excused myself to go downstairs to the bar and wait for whatever grooming they felt was necessary.
I'd finished a Peruvian Sour -- a brandy, white of an egg, and lemon juice -- when they arrived clean-shaven and most appetizing in their squeaky-cleanness.
"Are you going native or do you just want to go plebian with your drink of choice this evening?" I offered as I indicated they should sit at the two chairs I'd reserved for them in the rapidly crowding bar.
"Oh, we must drink to the gods before we imbibe in the cervezas," my friend observed and another round of Piscos was ordered.
"I haven't felt this human in weeks," our new friend offered after he'd had his first taste of the sweet but nevertheless addictive national drink.
"Well, we're in the business of humanity," I giggled as i noted once again that this young man wore his skin well.
"I think we should celebrate a newfound friendship with a decent meal filled with lots of decent wine," my friend offered.
We were all in agreement and soon were traversing the narrow streets for the proper acknowledgement of our growing appreciation for one another.
"This is it!" i pointed to the Italian restaurant across the street blasting ABBA from its outdoor speakers. "Can anything reek of more multi-culturalism than pizza in Peru with ABBA as a soundtrack?"
They could not argue and we entered to the all-emcompassing smell of garlic and onions. The wood oven we could see in the back assured us that we had not judged wrongly.
The waiter took a liking to my friend immediately. I'm not one to snap judgements but I suspect he was definitely "family."
We ordered a bottle of the house white (I can't handle the headache the reds produce and neither of my knights were willing to abdicate their hero status by arguing). The bread with oil and spices was scrumptious. The pizza even better and the second bottle of wine was glorious.
We laughed. We argued playfully regarding "best locales" around the world. We quietly sang along with ABBA. And at that point our sense of balance won out and we noted that we still had the walk home to consider.
"Consider" we did. Go -- we did not. The perfect plan we noted as soon as we were on the streets was to check out the origin of the town's name.
Agua Caliente referenced the hot springs that the city exploited to their tourist income benefit. We made our way to the nearest public offering and soon learned that for enough cash there was a more private opportunity.
Somedays it pays to be over 40 and middle income.
We made our way to the private "club" by simply trusting in our newfound guide who seemed to know where he was going. When we entered the plush foyer complete with dark covered woods, slatted wooden chaise lounges, and the sounds of Peruvian instrumentals over the sound system, we smiled.
Soon -- after paying a nominal fee which my friend and I split between us -- we made our way to the changing rooms and covered ourselves in plush terry cloth robes. We then met at the tubs where steam was rising. We noted that few folks were sharing our surroundings and those that were we're into their own conversations/worlds.
We smiled.
Bi-lingual notices in the dressing rooms assured us that swimsuits were not required and each of us had gone with the idea.
As soon as we removed the robes we chuckled and entered the deliciously heated water and a collective "ahhh" was voiced.
Within minutes a non-English-speaking waiter had a tray of glasses tubside. We decided to go for it -- knowing that if there were a cost, we weren't heading to the poor house with the prices we'd encountered thus far.
The liquid was cool, fresh and definitely alcoholic but what it was we never deciphered.
Between the heat of the pool and the drinks we were loose all too soon.
"So . . . " I tried to connect cognitive thoughts to express myself. "You've been on the road for a while, huh?" I asked.
The Aussie smiled the almost drunken smile of youth and nodded, "Yep! I'm no longer the virgin traveler. I have embraced my road-hard-and-put-up-wet status!"
"You've been around a Texan or two!" my friend beamed.
"I read alot," the Aussie practically glowed with his culturally appropriate reference.
"And now ... " I moved closer to him in the tub . . ."you're around a delicious two, aren't you?"
"Indeed I am."
"Enough said," I thought. "Let's get this show on the road."
I looked to my friend whom I had not yet "shared" in any way save my love for his sense of adventure and loyalty to me. He smiled and nodded.
I moved closer toward our Aussie. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I began to massage deeply.
"Ooo la la, a professional!" he noted.
"Not quite, but i love the pleasure it brings, don't you?"
"Mmmm . . . give me a few minutes to reflect and I'll let you know. But ... uh ... don't stop until I make my final pronouncement, ok?"
"You call it," I smiled.
Now both hands were kneading not only his shoulders and upper arms as the heated water continued to swirl around us, but soon enough I was making my way down his lower back and clasping both ass cheeks in each hand with squeezes that were intended to both release tension and produce pleasure.
My friend moved in closer. "So our no-longer-a-virgin-traveler, how far are you willing to release any sign of virginity?"
"Oh you over estimate me, my friends. Three ways were an introduction long ago and far away. I was ready to say yes to that when I saw you make it to the top of the mountain!"
We laughed.
Then my friend took care of his front side, while concentrated on the back side. I heard murmurs and witnessed the licking of lips and expressions of satisfaction but i was focused on anal pleasure and discovered new ways to finger his hole while simultaneously diving beneath the water to take a lick or two.
Our "guest" took on the passive role for about 20 minutes before coming into his own. At one point, he savagely kissed my buddy for what seemed like minutes and then abuptly turned to face me. He held my friend's cock in his hand and continued the massage with his left hand while grabbing my breast with his right.
Squeezing tightly he kissed me. The kiss was flavored with the liqueurs of the evening and hard, yet soft. His tongue explored my mouth as an anthropologist digs into his chosen culture. I thought about breathing but nixed the idea.
I grabbed his cock and my friend's ass and squeezed us all together into a tight unit. We bobbed in the water as we continued to apply pressure, release and squeeze.
Kisses were becoming undefinable. The drink and the heat had released me of any care of what my friend might wonder in the morning and we were tied together by tongues and hugs and fingers placed in all the right places.
I can't remember who suggested we either had to finish this here or move back to the hotel. No vote was taken but soon enough we were out of the tub and back into our clothes, locked in each other's arms and walking back to the hotel.
Language wasn't necessary as our clerk watched us climb the stairs. I half suspected by his look of longing that we might receive a knock at the door with a request to join us.
We pulled back the covers on the larger bed and simultaneously fell on the fresh sheets with the fan vibrating overhead.
I propped myself on my elbow and examined my possibilities. The Aussie's dick looked the most inviting from my vantage point.
I tasted. I sucked. I licked. I swallowed. I massaged. I tasted some more.
He was impressed.
Meanwhile, my friend was exploring backstage. He rubbed his cock between the Aussie's cheeks and when he faced no resistance, he lubricated and entered.
The Aussie even moaned with an accent.
I had control of the cock and picked up the rhythm that my friend had established. Up and down, in and out, teasing and pleasing.
Soon the moans became louder. And the Aussie was reciprocating as best he could. His fingers had found my crotch and began exploring. I signaled my pleasure by offering deep throats.
Coming simultaneously might have been more to ask for than we were allowed by tourist standards, but we did.
My friend shouted a few "omigods". The Aussie affirmed with a series of "yes, yes, yes!" And I encouraged, waiting for the waves of pleasure that would overtake me as sson as the Aussie's juices were released inside me.
"Thank God for the mountain," i exclaimed as my body shudder with the release. "Thank God."
Imagine
This is me . . . imagining you . . . imagining me.
I don't know if you're in your office today but I imagine you are. I can almost hear the phones ringing faintly behind your closed door, see the blue glow eminating from your computer screen, and feel the cool leather of your chair as I conjure you.
I wonder if you ever pause in the hallway we made into a bed one evening when the rest of your crew was gone for the night. I wonder if you remember how I came first with the cold tiles at my back, you towering over me and the smell of cardboard boxes stacked nearby in my nostrils. I wonder if you also recall how violent your orgasm seemed as you held tightly to me, practically crushing a rib and shooting your juices into me in rapid-fire bursts.
Today . . . I imagine a different approach. I imagine knocking on your door without warning or invitation, entering in silence, and carefully removing the papers you scatter so seemingly haphazardly across your desk. You might try and speak but my ass in your face in what is obviously a skirt sans panties will quiet you soon enough. Having locked the door, I will position myself to face you, legs spread so that your view is unfiltered. I'll wait.
You'll bury your head in my clean shaven pussy, feeling the soft tissue against your cheeks, smelling not only the wetness that is beginning to drench your lips but the splash of lavender spray I added before arriving at your door. You'll smile but I won't see because your tongue will now be firmly planted on my clit, tickling the folds, then sucking -- first softly and then with more urgency. I'll want you to stick your finger or something hard and firm inside me but I'm not going to use words. I moan. I thrust. You know what I want but suddenly the power you hold becomes real to you. I'm not the orchestrater any longer. The show is yours.
You raise your head and watch me as I writhe in my intensifying desire. You see the gavel you got years ago for speaking to some community group. You grab it. And pressing my knees to the edge of the the desk you beging to rub the wood up and down my hairless pussy. The pressure mounts as you become more aroused. You press hard and long on my clit. My response is to burst forth with an agonizing groan. You press harder. I cum for the first time.
In the rush of my orgasmic waves you plunge the handle inside me. The pain is either from the thrust or the total ignoring of the sensitivity I'm now experiencing. I want to cry out but can't. I'm shocked at my own reaction. I want nothing more than to submit to your every whim. At this moment, my pleasure is totally wrapped in yours.
You thrust again and then rise. Your hard cock is almost protruding out of your pants. I try to reach for the belt and you push me away. You unleash yourself with somewhat of a dramatic flair and within seconds you're inside me. No teasing. No softness. The pounding has me off balance. I fall back slightly and you grab me by the neck. I'm with me and yet somewhere else. The space between us doesn't exist. We are connected by pleasure, pain and power.
Your thrusting takes moments but the desire for your juices inside me and the subsequent spasms of your cock against my g-spot have me wanting you to cum as soon as possible. I try to reach for you again and again my efforts are deterred.
You realize what I want and you pull out. You will yourself back to a calm. You bend to tickle my nipple with your tongue and then quickly take a small bite out of my breast. You bite, you suck, you squeeze. I swallow my screams.
Sweating from the tortuous desire that has all but consumed me, I plead with you with my eyes. You ignore me and grab me by the ass. You insert all your fingers inside me and spread me before turning me to thrust again. Your hands are pressing each cheek into the desk. I feel the edge against my shaven self. I squirm. You press harder and continue thrusting. I consider the possibility that I may soon be unconscious.
You gasp. You explode. I stuff my hand inside my mouth to stifle the noises I fear will have crowds gathering at your door.
Silence.
I find it difficult to turn, but do. I straighten a non-existent fold as I stand. You clear your throat but I don't look up. I move to the door. Back to my role as writer/director, I exit.
This is me . . . imagining you . . . imagining me.
I don't know if you're in your office today but I imagine you are. I can almost hear the phones ringing faintly behind your closed door, see the blue glow eminating from your computer screen, and feel the cool leather of your chair as I conjure you.
I wonder if you ever pause in the hallway we made into a bed one evening when the rest of your crew was gone for the night. I wonder if you remember how I came first with the cold tiles at my back, you towering over me and the smell of cardboard boxes stacked nearby in my nostrils. I wonder if you also recall how violent your orgasm seemed as you held tightly to me, practically crushing a rib and shooting your juices into me in rapid-fire bursts.
Today . . . I imagine a different approach. I imagine knocking on your door without warning or invitation, entering in silence, and carefully removing the papers you scatter so seemingly haphazardly across your desk. You might try and speak but my ass in your face in what is obviously a skirt sans panties will quiet you soon enough. Having locked the door, I will position myself to face you, legs spread so that your view is unfiltered. I'll wait.
You'll bury your head in my clean shaven pussy, feeling the soft tissue against your cheeks, smelling not only the wetness that is beginning to drench your lips but the splash of lavender spray I added before arriving at your door. You'll smile but I won't see because your tongue will now be firmly planted on my clit, tickling the folds, then sucking -- first softly and then with more urgency. I'll want you to stick your finger or something hard and firm inside me but I'm not going to use words. I moan. I thrust. You know what I want but suddenly the power you hold becomes real to you. I'm not the orchestrater any longer. The show is yours.
You raise your head and watch me as I writhe in my intensifying desire. You see the gavel you got years ago for speaking to some community group. You grab it. And pressing my knees to the edge of the the desk you beging to rub the wood up and down my hairless pussy. The pressure mounts as you become more aroused. You press hard and long on my clit. My response is to burst forth with an agonizing groan. You press harder. I cum for the first time.
In the rush of my orgasmic waves you plunge the handle inside me. The pain is either from the thrust or the total ignoring of the sensitivity I'm now experiencing. I want to cry out but can't. I'm shocked at my own reaction. I want nothing more than to submit to your every whim. At this moment, my pleasure is totally wrapped in yours.
You thrust again and then rise. Your hard cock is almost protruding out of your pants. I try to reach for the belt and you push me away. You unleash yourself with somewhat of a dramatic flair and within seconds you're inside me. No teasing. No softness. The pounding has me off balance. I fall back slightly and you grab me by the neck. I'm with me and yet somewhere else. The space between us doesn't exist. We are connected by pleasure, pain and power.
Your thrusting takes moments but the desire for your juices inside me and the subsequent spasms of your cock against my g-spot have me wanting you to cum as soon as possible. I try to reach for you again and again my efforts are deterred.
You realize what I want and you pull out. You will yourself back to a calm. You bend to tickle my nipple with your tongue and then quickly take a small bite out of my breast. You bite, you suck, you squeeze. I swallow my screams.
Sweating from the tortuous desire that has all but consumed me, I plead with you with my eyes. You ignore me and grab me by the ass. You insert all your fingers inside me and spread me before turning me to thrust again. Your hands are pressing each cheek into the desk. I feel the edge against my shaven self. I squirm. You press harder and continue thrusting. I consider the possibility that I may soon be unconscious.
You gasp. You explode. I stuff my hand inside my mouth to stifle the noises I fear will have crowds gathering at your door.
Silence.
I find it difficult to turn, but do. I straighten a non-existent fold as I stand. You clear your throat but I don't look up. I move to the door. Back to my role as writer/director, I exit.
This is me . . . imagining you . . . imagining me.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
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