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Subject: {FriarDave}JDR"Jealousy 1"( MF best )[1/2]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
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========
JEALOUSY
by Friar Dave
(copyright 1995)
friar_dave@mhbbs.com
Part 1
I'd actually known Inez in a casual way for about a year before that
last afternoon. I first bumped into her -- literally -- at a farmers'
market in Union Square on a mid-October Saturday morning. I was
carrying a sizable pumpkin destined to give its all for the
furtherance of merriment and atmosphere at a Halloween party. She was
crouched low to examine some unusual apples from Upstate. She backed
into my path and stood abruptly, nearly knocking the pumpkin out of my
arms. Being not nearly as dumb as I look, I did everything I could to
prolong the conversation.
After all, Inez was one helluva sexy package and a powerful argument
for the colorblind miscegenation of her native Venezuela, with her
ochre-highlighted hair, her glowing, swarthy complexion and her lush
lips and big brown eyes. But as pretty as she was, the truth is that
it was her body that aroused my instant attention and lust. Standing
there on a mild autumn day in her spray-on jeans and a black
bodystocking, Inez's figure was testimony to her heritage and her
then-current job: personal trainer to the rich and healthy. She had
strong, curvy legs, rounded hips, a shockingly tiny waist and breasts
that were simply perfect. Her tits were bounteous, rounded mounds that
stood high and proud on her ribcage, defiantly braless and defying
gravity.
As it turned out, we did have some things in common, among them, an
appreciation for fine coffee and wines. And I happened to have an
invitation to a private wine tasting the following Friday.
I gave her my phone number without asking for hers -- no sense in
pushing it -- and told her to call if she was interested.
And so it went. We would go to wine tastings together, or visit one of
the coffee bars then springing up around Midtown like so many
mushrooms after a cloudburst. In all, we saw each other every two or
three weeks. We would chat about this and that and the other. Bit by
careful bit, she let me learn about her.
I don't want to imply that she didn't talk or tell me anything. She
readily told me what it was like growing up with her brothers and
sisters in a middle-class suburb of Caracas. She freely talked of
college (journalism, Northwestern, '88). She spoke at some length --
and with great animation, in fact -- of the difficulties of getting a
decent job in her chosen field.
But she didn't give much away (to be generous in characterization)
about her current personal life. She lived in a studio in the Village
and did the personal-training bit to cover most of her expenses in
between the rare freelance article, she liked to rent videos and read
books and listen to music, and that was just about it.
I was making no headway with her, and my condition (acute lust) was
worsening. And there was no way she didn't know the effect she had on
me.
For instance, the evening we stopped into Starbuck's near the UN. With
the wind chill, the temperature on the icy street felt like 10 below
zero. As soon as we got inside, Inez whipped off her big down-filled
parka and sat, beaming and grinning and thoroughly enjoying the fact
that I could not stop glancing at her braless, glorious tits and
wildly hardened nipples -- which were clearly displayed through the
thin white Lycra top. I asked if she wanted to borrow my sweater. Her
smile broadened, displaying all of her perfectly even, white teeth.
She glanced down at her nipples, than looked me right in the eye and
said, "Oh, no, I'm not cold anymore," as if daring me to say anything,
And then there was that February evening after a wine tasting at the
Water Club. We'd wandered up to the second floor and were looking
across the East River at Brooklyn as the sun was setting. It was that
delightful moment when darkness had already enfolded the ground, but
the sun's rays were still turning the jets over JFK and LaGuardia into
golden flecks of graceful wonder. I pointed this out to her, standing
behind her. She leaned back against me, and of course I slid my arms
around her. She covered my hands with hers at her waist and whispered,
"Oh, this feels so nice." I can still feel the warm, taut weight of
her against me, and I can still recall precisely the delicate scent
she wore: something with sandalwood in it.
But that night, as on every similar occasion, the moment of contact
was fleeting, if intense -- and clearly terminated. We almost never
touched, and any suggestions that I take her home or that she visit my
apartment were politely declined. She was civil but coolly made it
clear: It wasn't going beyond casual companionship.
And it wasn't as if I didn't know she had other activities. About half
the times when I'd suggest going somewhere, she'd decline, pleading
other commitments, usually without elaborating. On one occasion --
which promised to be a truly spectacular wine tasting -- she'd finally
told me that she also picked up a little extra by looking in on and
walking pets for neighbors who were out of town. In fact, a colleague
in the Village reported having seen her on several occasions walking
various dogs, ranging from a pair of perfectly coiffed toy poodles to
what he called a "mastiff the size of a Volkswagon."
I found it difficult not to wonder about those "other commitments."
She made it clear she lived alone and equally clear that she didn't
have a steady boyfriend. I wondered if she might be lesbian -- or if
some awful event, like an assault, had made her wary of getting too
close. To anyone.
I don't want to sound like I was pining away with unrequited lust for
Inez and never had any outlets, because that simply wasn't the case.
As a fairly successful account exec in my mid-30s, fit and civil and
not too hard to look at, I was not exactly doomed to a monastery. Not
at all. Paula stopped by twice on her way from Philadelphia to her
family's place in New Hampshire. And there was Reena, the tall,
lavishly upholstered designer from our art department, who decided to
favor me with a weekend fling before settling down with her long-time
boyfriend in his new location: Los Angeles.
And, of course, there was Julie.
Now, I am an unabashed tit man. In fact, I like to think of myself as
a connoisseur of mammaries. There's an old adage that anything more
than a mouthful is wasted, but it's not true for me. What I can't get
into my mouth is subject to my fingers, not to mention my eyes. I can
appreciate the beauty of a shapely ass, the promise of lovely legs,
but...ahhh -- tits!
Julie hardly had any tits. She was slim in the extreme, to the point
where if she ever lost weight, she'd become waifish. Julie was
Vietnamese by extraction (she'd been born and raised on the Left
Coast) and about 15 years younger than me -- but for some reason, the
first time we looked at each other, we both knew we were going to be
fucking very, very soon. Two hours after we met -- in a housewares'
store -- we were in my apartment and stripping each other as fast as
we could.
Julie was never nude with me, but she was almost always naked.
Standing five-and-a-half-feet tall, I guess she weighed about a
hundred pounds -- and it was all lean and strong and lithe. She had
very sparse, straight pubic hair, no hips and tits about the size of
ping-pong balls topped by the most incredibly tiny and sensitive
nipples I'd ever encountered.
Julie and I fucked liked bunnies almost every Sunday for the three
months while she stayed with relatives in Manhattan and took summer
courses at Columbia. She'd ring my intercom at noon, and by 12:15,
we'd be naked and sweating and having the time of our lives. She could
cum like very few women I'd ever known: incessantly and variously.
Sometimes she came just sucking me off as I toyed with her nipples.
Every now and then she would get, as she put it, "fuck crazy," and
then she'd really let go, demanding that I pinch and pull her nipples,
or use my teeth (carefully) on her clitoris or even ram my erection up
her ass. (Which was really an amazing sensation; as tight and warm as
her narrow pussy was, her ass would coat my cock like hot, newly
poured rubber. And she would cum.) Sometime between seven and eight
every Sunday night, Julie would clumsily stagger into the shower and,
after drying off, dress herself, brush her hair, give me a daffy grin
from the door of my bedroom -- where I'd usually be laying inert, too
spent to do more than wave -- and then let herself out.
To this day, I don't know exactly what the chemistry was between us,
but it was pretty powerful.
Nonetheless, the woman I craved was Inez, and I was getting nowhere
fast. In fact, I didn't even know where to find the map. But that
would change -- unfortunately.
I was in Amsterdam -- for the first time -- on business, and it was a
particularly grueling job this time. Concorde to Paris, then Airbus to
Holland, straight into five hours of meetings and presentations,
followed by negotiations over dinner, then back to the client's
offices to draw up a draft agreement. I was one of the walking wounded
when I finally got to my hotel at what was, by my internal clock,
seven in the morning. At eleven (local time) the next morning, I was
awake and restless -- You know: wired and tired -- and still had six
hours to kill before heading back to Paris and the trip home to New
York.
I figured it would be a shame to be in Amsterdam and see nothing of
it. So I went for a walk. It was a gray day, but Amsterdam was still a
lovely city for walking.
I found myself in the red-light district and decided to take a peek
inside one of the notorious sex shops. I'd heard wild stories. What I
saw within 15 minutes of browsing convinced me they were all true. You
could buy anything there -- literally. Not just gay and lesbian and
fisting and bathroom sports films; they had tapes of people puking on
each other and piercing parts of their bodies. They had films of
little kids fucking each other and being fucked by adults (and none of
the kids on the covers looked particularly enthusiastic about toiling
over the genitals of paunchy, middle-aged people).
And they had animal tapes. Men and women fucking and being fucked by
dogs, goats, sheep, pigs, snakes, horses and donkeys. Even eels.
One of them caught my eye. A lithe young woman with breasts large
enough to be squashed on the blanket-covered bale on which she lay was
clenching her fists in the cloth and her face was contorted in what
appeared to be a scream. Which was understandable, considering the
size of the donkey dong quite clearly burrowing into her from above.
But the face sent a chill through me. It could easily have been a
young Inez. I examined the box. The writing was in French, German,
Dutch and Spanish. No English. Which was fine, because my French and
Spanish were more than adequate.
"`New from South America, long out of circulation of young slut who
fucks dogs, donkeys and even a pony!'"
The store employees were very helpful. They explained the Customs
inspections and cheerfully transferred that tape and another featuring
the same Inez lookalike to NTSC videocassettes on which the first 15
minutes showed the standard boring tourist pitch about the beauties of
Holland. Lots of tulips, wooden shoes, canals and windmills.
I went back to the hotel, claimed my single suitcase and headed for
home. The Customs inspectors at JFK asked if I had anything to
declare, I pointed to the tapes and showed the receipts, and they
stamped me through in no time.
At home, on Manhattan's East Side, I showered and called the office,
leaving my boss a voicemail message. Too tired even to investigate the
blinking light on my answering machine, I fell into bed for a few
hours. When I woke, I was totally disoriented about the time. I had to
squint to see the p.m. indicator next to the "11:13" on the clock. I
couldn't get back to sleep, so I padded into the kitchen, grabbed a
bottle of Evian and wandered back into the living room. I was too
wired to sleep but too foggy to read.
I remembered the tapes. My curiosity overcame my reluctance, and I
popped the first into the VCR. I fast-forwarded past the fake tourist
pitch and cut to the chase.
One thing was clear: This was no high-budget production. It was
obvious the feature had been shot on videotape. Even so, not much time
had been wasted on outtakes. Or plot. The titles flashed by -- "Animal
Slut!" -- and then I saw a few quick shots of a big luxury car
entering a ranch. A Rich Man climbed out of the back as the chauffeur
opened his door. Then came the girl. She was wearing a schoolgirl's
outfit -- plaid skirt, white blouse, knee-socks -- and her hair was in
pigtails around that un-madeup face. Except for the fullness of the
blouse, she might have passed for a freshman or sophomore. She made a
great show of being shy and polite. Then there was a single, brief
closeup on her face.
It was Inez.
I watched, slightly stunned, as two of the helping hands from the
ranch greeted them and led the trio of guests inside. Very quickly,
Inez was being fondled and stroked and stripped. In a matter of
seconds, it seemed, her compactly furred snatch was being expertly
licked by the chauffeur while the two helpers attended to her
wonderful tits and she sucked the Rich Man's cock. When the Rich Man
mounted her, she quickly overcame the affected pain of defloration and
soon was begging for --
"Mas! Mas! Yo quiero MAS!"
The chauffeur gave her mas and then both of the helping hands. She
wasn't satisfied.
That's when the chauffeur brought in the dog. He sniffed at her soaked
pussy and began licking it. She jerked and moaned. The helpers bent
her over a glass coffee table on which a pillow had been placed. The
dog, a big mixed breed that appeared to have a lot of collie in him,
obviously knew his business. In seconds, he was over her and his furry
loins were thrusting. The perspective abruptly cut to beneath them,
because there were plenty of good closeups from beneath of that dog
cock pumping in and out of her lightly furred pussy.
Suddenly, the dog hunched forward and seemed to vibrate against her.
The base of his cock began to swell inside her pussy. And kept
swelling. And swelling. I'd read about that knot, but never imagined
they got so big. It had to be at least three inches across.
The perspective shifted, and there was Inez, screaming and writhing as
the dog caught a tie with her. She screamed about being split, about
him scalding her pussy, about cumming too much to breathe. I doubted
she was acting. Al the time, the dog was holding on to her with his
front paws, his head was lolling on her shoulder, his mouth was open
and his tongue was hanging out.
There was an obvious cut in the action, because then the screen showed
the dog pulling out of her and licking between her all but inert
thighs before sitting and licking his own cock clean. The closing shot
was a slow zoom between her trembling legs. There, beneath the twin
quivering bumps of her perfect, tight ass, her cunt was clearly
draining -- and just as clearly still distended.
After that, the camera followed her into the barn where she took on a
ram, and then the biggest damned Great Dane I'd ever seen. For this
one, she was on her back on a bale of hay. When the dog came in her,
Inez's feet -- wrapped high around his haunches -- twisted and her
toes curled. Her orgasms were anything but faked on this one, too.
At this point, I was staring at the screen, my mouth open and my cock
rock-hard. By the time the film ended, I knew I was going to be
choking the chicken. I was right, but it didn't provide the needed
relief.
Eventually, I did fall asleep, but I had dreams that were quite
clearly influenced by the tape. With the same effect.
As I dressed for work, I knew Inez and I were going to have to talk
about this.
It was the first time she'd ever been to my apartment. Maybe she felt
more at ease about it because it was the middle of the afternoon.
Maybe it was my tone of voice in telling her that I really wanted her
to come over for a little talk. There was a brief interlude of chit-
chat while I uncorked and poured some wine: How was your flight? How
was the weather? Are you over your jet lag?
They don't call it "small talk" for nothing.
I told her I'd bought some videotapes while I was there -- the kind of
tapes that are difficult to find here.
Her expression never changed. She took a sip from her wine glass and
put it on the end table. Her big, dark eyes dropped, then her gaze was
back in place, meeting mine.
"You saw my films?"
I nodded. "Two of them."
She took a deep breath. Inez was maybe a shade over five-five and had
a small frame. She had disproportionately large breasts, probably a C
cup or larger (by my expert judgment) when she deigned to wear a bra.
Inez taking a deep breath would be enough to distract a man in any
case. Inez braless and taking a deep breath in a burgundy leotard was
mind-boggling. Especially for a tit man.
"I was promised..." She shook her head. "It makes no difference. You
have questions."
I nodded. "When?"
===============================================================
This is an original story from a caller to The Abbey, part of
MHBBS (212-683-1448). Feel free to repost it as is, without
editing or changing anything in it, including this tag. For
information about The Abbey, a spam-free place for writers and
readers of adult material to gather, email Friar_Dave@mhbbs.com
or call MHBBS at 212-683-1448 and leave a note for the Sysop or
me.
================================================================
========
JEALOUSY
by Friar Dave
Part 1
-30-
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