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Subject: {Morgan}JDR"My Juno"( MF )[1/1]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
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=====================
This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you
are under 18 please stop reading immediately. If you are offended by
strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, erotic fantasy or vulgar
language, what are you doing here?
Copyright (C) 1997 by Morgan Preece. All rights reserved. Permission
is hereby granted for non-commercial use of this complete and
unaltered text (including disclaimer paragraph above and this
paragraph) in electronic form such as posting to EBBS's or Newsgroups
or free access Electronic Archives. Electronic storage of unaltered
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is a violation of copyright. Additionally, no permission is given
hereby for any sort of distribution (including Email) to minors or
other persons to whom such distribution would be illegal in the
jurisdiction of distributor, recipient or intermediary. No hardcopies
may be made without written permission from the author.
=====================
My Juno
by Morgan Preece
jgerrib@gte.net
When the big brunette entered the crowded restaurant I knew right away
I wanted her. Easy to spot at five-foot-ten or more, about one hundred
forty pounds I guessed, she wore a deep rose-beige office suit that
showed off her figure and her legs. Wide-shouldered and wide-hipped, a
narrower-gauge woman could not have carried so much weight so well.
Her large breasts strained against her well-chosen clothing
discreetly. Her legs tapered in smooth nylon to sensible heels that
pushed her height close to six feet. Her voice when she spoke to the
hostess had a feminine cadence in a register even deeper than I had
expected.
With four-inch heels, I mused, she would be more than a foot taller
than me. The exciting thought almost caused me to blow the deal I had
been working on for the whole of my lunch hour. I am a pro, though,
one of the top salesmen in my field; and I closed out of sheer habit.
My mind raced with thoughts of how I could meet this Juno. I yearned
to have her sitting at the table with me. The client nattered on as I
cooled him off, still on automatic.
I noticed that she still lingered near the entrance, looking patient.
A glance around proved that all the tables in the Seventh Avenue
bistro were occupied. She paid no attention to the door, so she did
not expect anyone to join her. She only needed a table and two obvious
parties already waited ahead of her. Her nails and lips were ruby, her
eyes blue-grey with only a hint of shadow to deepen them.
I claimed the check as the client left, then signaled the waitress.
Handing her the check and several bills, I told her the change was
hers as a tip if I could keep the table for my next client. This was
my favorite table in this restaurant, the one I usually had reserved
for me when I entertained clients, or girlfriends, here. The tip
seemed large enough because she agreed and called a busboy to clean
the table. The waitress went to pay the cashier and fetch my "client,"
the lone woman I pointed out waiting by the door.
My heart raced as my Juno approached. A childhood kidney ailment had
stunted my growth and I reached puberty about the same time I reached
the four-foot mark. With medication I eventually topped out at the
lordly height of five-foot one-inch, too tall to join Billy Barty's
Little People of America and too short for pro football. But a sickly
adolescence in the company of nurses and baby-sitters half again my
height left me with an abiding longing for the charms of big women.
The busboy wiped the red vinyl tablecloth with a dubious dishrag,
pushing the condiment boat from one side of the table to the other.
The red vinyl hung to the seats of the chairs on two sides of the
table. An L-shaped bench formed the other two sides of the semi booth,
the bench being part of a structure that included benches for another
booth, planters for fake plants and a sort of side table where the
waitresses left menus and things.
I had a fantasy involving that booth and a small hook I would place
near the floor. I would screw the hook, the sort that swag lamps hang
from, into the wood of the bench near the floor. My complicit,
hopefully large, girlfriend would allow me to disappear under the
table, concealed by chairs and hanging vinyl tablecloth. While she
snacked as cover, I would pull her panties down and hook them under
the hardware. Then I would burrow under her skirts and eat her while
she ate linguini.
Alas, my Juno's business skirt would be entirely to tight to enable my
fantasy burrowing. Impractical, anyway, but fun to imagine.
She looked doubtful when the waitress showed her to my table but I
smiled hugely and stood up beside the table. My height revealed this
way derailed her thinking momentarily. Her wide cheekbones and
tip-tilted eyes spoke of a heritage not strictly European.
"I thought I'd save you a wait," I said. "We can share a table. Donna
isn't it?" implying that I had recognized her even if I had her name
wrong. Since she undoubtedly didn't recognize me I had the advantage.
Nobody polite tells a short person they haven't been noticed. Her
large faux pearl earrings complemented the colors of her lips and suit
in a paler, pinker shade.
She shook her head but sat down when I did, swinging those long legs
under the same table as mine. With a lift and a scoot she settled into
the booth seat. The movement tested the adequacy of her hidden bra to
restrain the movement of her breasts. "Juliette, but..." she began. I
knew she would take the booth seat, no Juno could sit comfortably in
chairs designed by men who can quote Bette Midler lyrics so
extensively.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I interrupted. "Juliette, of course. I'm Tim." My
smile could get no wider. You have to do this sincerely or it doesn't
work but I had just saved her the embarrassment of asking my name.
Like most people, she felt grateful for the unacknowlegeable kindness.
Sincerity is the salesman's true talent. If you don't have it or can't
fake it convincingly, you will never make a living selling.
I never actually eat when I lunch with a client so I had room for some
real food. "Try the pasta al olio," I suggested, unfolding the menu.
"Or do you eat here often enough to have your own favorites?" She sat
erect, just as she had stood and walked, shoulders back, those large
breasts proudly pushed against the ice pink cotton of her broadcloth
blouse. I wondered if she had modeled, (BBW, of course) or done stage
work, not too unlikely here in New York.
"Too much garlic," she protested, "although I do love it. I'll have
the primavera and a salad." She closed the menu decisively and thanked
the busboy who placed glasses of water in front of us. Taking a sip,
she left carmine lip prints on the rim of the envied tumbler.
When the waitress came back, I ordered the primavera also and we
talked like long-time acquaintances. I noticed that Juno-Juliette kept
her nails medium-long, she did not type for a living nor work as a
nurse. An executive perhaps or might my first guess, model or actress,
have been correct? No, the suit said office worker, at least today.
Her only ring she wore on the pinkie of her left hand, a thin gold
band with a tiny peridot.
Our small talk turned to sports. She claimed to be a baseball fan but
hated the Yankees and felt indifferent to the Mets. She favored the
Indians "because they win by playing well" and the Dodgers "because of
all their young talent." Her eyes were darker than I had supposed, not
blue-grey but a changeable hazel with glints, now blue, now gold, now
green.
I teased her that basketball was my favorite game and claimed to have
"lettered in college." I didn't bother to keep my face straight. She
tried to stifle a giggle but failed. Her lower eyelids crinkled and
the parentheses of good humor appeared beside her nose. I revised my
estimate of her age upward five years; she had laughed a lot, my Juno.
"Actually," I confessed, "I was the mascot of the women's team." When
she laughed out loud she showed her teeth. Commercially whitened but
the lower ones slightly crooked, more evidence of mixed heritage but
also of middle-class or lower upbringing. Orthodontia is the privilege
of the upper classes in America. I loved every maloccluded incisor,
endearingly imperfect as they were. She probably had not modeled then,
with those teeth.
When the food came, she ate well and seemed to enjoy it all. Salad,
breadsticks and pasta disappeared between sips of white wine as we
talked trivia. She knew when to talk and how to listen, she laughed in
the right spots and smiled at me frequently. I tried not to look too
much like a middle-school dropout on a date with teacher.
Her laughter seemed sweet to me so I played the comic. I told her that
I had psychic powers. "Really," she said, smiling, playing along with
the gag. Her hair, merely brunette from across the room, had proved at
closer range to be dark chestnut with red and gold highlights dancing
in it. She wore it off the shoulder with a turned-under curl and
teased bangs, a sort of sexy librarian look.
"You're not a native New Yorker," I said, smiling back. "Your parents
are from the South, or maybe Texas or Oklahoma but you were raised in
Southern California. You're part Indian, Chickasaw or Cherokee,
perhaps? You've never been married, you went to college but you don't
have a four-year degree. Your birthday is August 12th." I paused to
see her reaction.
"August 10th," she said, surprised. "But, how...." She moved suddenly
but minutely, more than a tremble, less than a start. Her heavy
breasts swayed ever-so slightly.
I waggled my fingers at her.
"You do know me, don't you?" She frowned with her eyes and smiled with
her mouth. "Or have you been looking at my personnel files." Suspicion
sharpened her looks into a warning, my Juno could be fierce if she
felt the need.
"A magician never tells but I will if you'll answer some other
questions for me," I offered. A broad smile took any sting off that. I
know I look like a pixie and I'm not afraid to use it.
Smiling with eyes and mouth this time, she agreed. "OK, how?" Her eyes
crinkled up when she smiled with them.
"You have a slight accent, you say 'tin' for 'ten' and 'putt' for
'put' among other things. You don't drawl like a real Southerner so
you probably learned it from your parents. You have an Indian look to
your eyes, the tribes were guesses but they both run tall. The only
ring you wear is a birthstone, August, the date was another guess." I
watched her smile grow somewhat ruefully. "You're educated, obviously,
but if you had an MBA you'd be wearing real pearls, your Leo vanity
would demand it." I grinned again.
She shook her head. "You're amazing, what don't you know about me?"
Her chestnut mane flashed red-gold lights at me.
"I don't know your shoe size. I don't know what you like
for breakfast or what you wear to bed. I don't know your phone number
or whether you date short men."
She laughed again, not bells but oboes and French horns. "You're
serious?"
"Um, hmm."
"Ten, anything but eggs, nothing but panties, it's unlisted for a
reason and maybe." Her eyes brightened the "maybe" into an "ask me."
I asked. "How about dinner tonight, maybe a show. A friend of mine has
a play running in the Village, we can get seats practically on-stage."
She laughed. "Just like LA, only there everybody's friend has a
'script in turnaround' or 'a video being shot out at The Rocks.' I'd
love to ... see your friend's play." She made the pause meaningful.
***
That night, Juliette-Juno and I made love in her Westside apartment
with the lights on. Outside, night in the City That Never Sleeps
howled with sirens and flashed with gunfire. Inside, we made our own
alarums and struck passionate sparks off each other.
We undressed each other while we sat on her couch. Somewhere, leaking
through the windows, the gap-toothed voice of David Letterman counted
backwards, wrenching laughter from inanity.
She had changed for our evening into a long periwinkle evening dress
that made her eyes seem blue and her hair, black. The dress fastened
at one shoulder with an oversize brooch, an abstract cat lacquered red
and navy with gold trim. "My totem," she whispered. "The Cat Who Walks
Where It Will." Her lips, nails, and belt had matched the red in the
cat, her navy shoes and purse had red accents.
The top of the dress fell away. The nude demi-bra she wore did little
to conceal her large pale breasts. Rose and blue highlights on the
spheres invited me to touch them and I did. Reaching into the bra I
played with her nipples while she caressed my head. The bra fastened
in front but I did not release it yet. Her hands found my earlobes and
squeezed gently.
I had already shed my coat and tie. Now I undid her belt while she did
the same for mine. We stood briefly, stepping out of our shoes and
letting our garments fall on the discarded footwear. A half slip
concealed her modesty and the long starched shirt hid me nearly to my
knees. She bent to kiss me on the lips, marking me with the come-away
carmine I had seen her renew several times in the evening.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of her slip and pulled it down
for her to step out of it. She stood barefoot in panties, garter belt,
hose and bra, nearly a head taller than me, nearly a goddess. I turned
while she held my shirt, stripping it from my shoulders, discarding it
to lie on the floor with my trousers.
I wear jockeys -- what else? -- and I knew that I looked like a child
beside my Juno. But I don't spend much time thinking about what I look
like when I'm making love. She let me start pulling down her panties
while still standing, then she lay back on the couch so I could
finish.
The skin of her thighs felt smooth above the hose. The muscles
underneath her womanly layer of cushion tensed then softened as she
adjusted her position. I toed off my own socks and stepped between her
legs. Kneeling between the columns, I kissed the clean flesh above her
dark, curly bush. She reached a hand to the back of my head, pulling
my face closer, pushing it downward.
I licked gently, nuzzled softly, nibbled delicately until she moaned
and squirmed then I increased the pressure and frequency until I smelt
and tasted her ready wetness. I stood then and she sat forward and we
embraced. She folded me into the hollow between her breasts as we
kissed.
Now I undid her bra and the large globes fell into my hands, warm
where the bra had confined them. The heavy flesh felt soft as her mane
of chestnut hair. The nipples found my fingers, large firm seeds in
the big soft melons. "Play with them again, Tim," she whispered.
I used my mouth on the right, leaving it sticky with a mixture of our
juices. Then her lips found mine again and we kissed deeply.
After she pulled my jockeys off we used pillows to get the angles
right and I penetrated her standing up while she lay propped on the
couch. I drove my Juno hard but she's a big girl and I knew she could
take it. When I came, she closed those big legs around me in a nether
hug. I'd still be there if she hadn't let go.
We finished on the floor with cushions stolen from the couch to lie
on. I ate her again, this time tasting my own cum mixed with her pussy
juice. Her cumming featured grunts and writhings and another nether
hug, this time on my head. I held my breath and kept her cumming till
she let go or I blacked out, I don't know which.
***
I bought coffee, bagels and non-fat cream cheese with herbs for our
breakfast from the shop on Ninth Avenue. Then she dressed and went to
work and I rushed to catch my plane for Atlanta.
I came back to New York in a week -- it's where I live -- but her
phone was disconnected, her apartment rented to someone else. She had
said, "Good-bye, Tim, it's been very special," when we parted. I
didn't know she meant good-bye and I didn't realize how special.
I never saw my chestnut-haired, Dodger-loving, hazel-eyed Juno again.
The end.
=====================
My Juno
by Morgan Preece
-30-
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