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JANEY'S AUGUST (FM cons, exhib, tease)
by Janey
Only diehards eat outside at Au Bon
Pain in Copley Place on a hot August day,
but hot days of any sort were going to go away real soon, so Lisa and I
put our trays
on the table and collapsed into the sauna.
"So how was Maine?" she asked.
"The usual."
"No, come on. Tell me what you
do up there while I'm sitting in the bowels of
the library trying to read records written by semi-literate medieval clerks.
I know what
you do when Jack and I go up, but what do you when it's just family, or
only normal
people for guests?"
"OK. Nothin' much. Go to
the beach. Work on the garden. Get dragged to
parties I don't want to go to. Hang around the gallery and talk to
some weird artist.
Play with kids. You know. Goof off."
"God, you're hard to talk to sometimes!
So when did you go to the beach, and
how was it?" Lisa exasperates easily.
"The beach? You know how the beach
is. Except that on Tuesday I had five
kids with me, aged six to 10. My Judy and four guest kids.
It was fun. I went in for
about ten minutes until I was numb up to my waist--the water's only 60
degrees--then
sat and read a book with one eye while I watched the kids with the other.
Yelled at
`em when they started to go too deep or began to take swings at each other.
They
don't have nerve endings, you know? They stay in the water for hours."
"Then you went home."
"Yeah. What else?"
* * *
It really was too hot. Still,
there was a breeze, and when I got really too hot I
went in the water and got knocked around by the waves until I was soaked,
and that
cooled me down. Finally, though, it was time to go home. I
was mildly curious to get
online, call up the writers' group, and see who was trashing who. Whom.
The kids were totally shot, of course--that's
the real aim of these expeditions. I
only had to threaten to break one elbow to get them all together.
I put on my nice
coverup, the long purple one with the big yellow buttons down the front,
folded up my
chair, collected my towel and book and car keys, and we all headed back
to the van.
This takes about half an hour, even
though it's only maybe a hundred yards.
The kids have to yell at each other, throw sand at each other, wrestle
a little, and so
on. They drop their baskets and shovels and have to pick them up.
Somebody wants a
popsicle, so we all buy popsicles. It's a slow process. I was just
standing there half the
time, waiting for them to calm down and walk another few steps.
I wasn't really in a
hurry, after all.
We hadn't been going more than a minute
or two, though, when I got this idea.
I stopped, leaned over, and unbuttoned the three bottom buttons of the
dress. Results
were immediate. As I started up again, fairly large portions of leg
stuck out through
the opening in the front. A guy who was scanning the area let his
gaze go right by me,
then quickly switched it back. He stared until I was past.
By the time I got to the car
I'd been ogled by at least fourteen men. I counted.
This was odd. Maybe six hundred
nearly-naked women wandering around,
and these guys look at my legs peeking out of a long skirt. My favorite
interpreter of
male behavior--he's one himself--says getting a look at what you're not
supposed to
see is much sexier than just looking at what's on display. Well,
I got a kick out of it.
Only a little kick, but what are you gonna do when you've got all these
kids in tow? A
strip tease?
* * *
"OK, if the beach wasn't exciting, tell me about the party. How was that?"
I'd known Lisa for some time, but still,
I didn't know her that well. Seemed
like she was getting awful pushy.
"Oh, it was all right. This past
Sunday the in-laws dragged us to this cocktail
party in Ogunquit. Rich people's house. Nice house,
actually. We had a few drinks
and got bored and went back to the camp."
* * *
"Hi, Janey," somebody said. I looked over and waved.
As parties go, it was only average.
Nice edibles, fairly good background
music, some clothes worth looking at, but the guests, all told, amounted
to a washout.
Could have been the Lexington High School PTA. I had already decided
not to get
drunk, which was practically the only sane thing to do other than leave,
because I had
to get up early in the morning and feel presentable. That left one
option--figure out
how to produce some excitement on my own.
The living room was full of stiffs,
male and female, discussing post-modern art,
and various wives talking about people who weren't there. Some of
the men were
doing that, too. I know all I need to know about the first, and the
second is not a
subject, since I didn't know most of the people under discussion.
So I walked through
the French doors onto the Bartrams' patio and looked across the Marginal
Way at the
ocean. Given that I was wearing a backless cocktail dress (calf length,
of course, with
no bra), I figured I'd be cold, but the sun was still up and the breeze
had died down, so
it wasn't too bad--just a little cool. Unusual for August.
Ideal.
Glancing around, I could see that four
or five other bored souls had fled the
field before I did. Gerry Bartram had put a bowl of punch on a glass-topped
table
with some hors d'oeuvres and few bottles of wine and whiskey and some mixers.
I
saw Nate Greenberg off to one side with a blonde I didn't know.
He winked at me and
went on talking earnestly with her. Silently, I wished him luck.
Then I felt somebody put a hand on my
bare back and found myself looking
very closely at a guy I'd never seen before.
"I'm ever so pleased to meet you," I said.
"The pleasure's all mine," he answered. "I'm Jake Barnes."
You can't exactly shake hands when a
guy has his hand in the middle of your
back and you're standing there holding a wine glass and looking for escape
routes, so I
decided to await developments. He asked if we hadn't met somewhere
before. I was
struck immediately by his originality and intellect. So I told him
I didn't think so,
which was designed to show him that I possessed the same virtues.
Meanwhile, the hand was still on my
back. Even without the breeze, I still
wasn't exactly warm, so the hand felt pretty good. When it started
moving, slowly, but
clearly with purpose, from the back toward the front, I gave him credit
for chutzpah
and wondered just how foolhardy he was.
Foreign fingertips had just managed
to creep between my skin and my really
nice cocktail dress when I remembered something I'd been told by one of
my e-mail
friends who likes to talk dirty. I decided my quest for excitement
was well under way.
"Excuse me," I said, turning suddenly
to my right. This little maneuver
effectively shoved his hand right under my dress and on top of a nicely
rounded, if
small, right breast. I stopped dead, just long enough for him to
register what had
happened. Then I turned back to my left, and just as effectively pulled
the guilty hand
around to its former position, the middle of my back. I smiled innocently.
"Oh, my!" I said. "What did you say your name was?"
"Jake Barnes," he said. He had just the tiniest hint of pink in his complexion.
"Oh, yes. I'm Jane. My husband
is somewhere in there." I gestured vaguely in
the direction of the doors.
"I'm glad to hear that," he said.
"On the whole, I'm glad he didn't see that cute
stunt you just pulled."
"Me?" I said, looking shocked. I do shocked quite well.
"Yep. You," he said. "Not me. You." He gave me an evil smirk.
What could I do? My clever friend
had said I was supposed to say something
like, "Watch it, Buster!" right after I did that little trick, but
I'd forgotten to do that,
and now this amiable-looking man was accusing me of some kind of twisted
exhibitionism.
"Couldn't have been my fault.
It was *your* hand." I was looking very
serious. I do that even better than shocked.
Smiling, he said, "I reckon you're right--it
was definitely my hand. If I hadn't
had my hand in the middle of your back, where it is right now, by the way,
it couldn't
have happened. So it was my fault."
"Exactly. All I did was turn just
a little bit, like this--" I repeated the
maneuver, with the same result as before. I really liked that hand
a lot, right where it
was. But I turned back, and the hand slid away. "I just innocently
turned to look at
somebody, and there you were, groping me good. It's terribly embarrassing."
I
smiled.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm embarrassed, too.
I've got an idea--come over here to
the table a minute." His hand pressed gently on my back, as if we
were dancing, and
propelled me toward the table. Once there, he let go of me, picked up a
wineglass, and
filled it from one of the bottles next to the punchbowl. "Here,"
he said, handing me
the glass.
"But I already have a drink!" There I was, standing with a glass in each hand.
"Yep, you do, one in each hand."
He moved around behind me and stood on
my right, with his left hand on my back. I looked at him, puzzled.
He pointed off to my left. "Look over there, " he said.
I did. Suddenly another hand was
on another breast, only this time it was
moving, gently, and I was getting a feeling that doesn't come from two-fisted
drinking.
How do these things happen to me? But this one had, so I thought
I might as well
enjoy it. I stood there for at least thirty seconds before I turned
back toward him,
automatically removing the intruding hand.
Then he was behind me, and *both* hands
had somehow found their ways to
my chest. I just had to lean back on him for a minute while I swiveled
my eyes around
to see if anybody was watching this disgraceful attack. Nobody was,
so I leaned back
a while longer. Then I straightened up regretfully, and pirouetted
out of range.
"Look, Jake," I said, putting the extra
glass on the table, but keeping the full
one, of course. "Why don't we sit over there on that bench and just consider
this whole
thing a little, huh?"
"Fine with me," he said. "I
like considering whole things." So we went over
and sat on the bench. I put at least ten inches between us.
"Do you always introduce yourself by inspecting boobs?" I asked.
"Only to lovely women," he said.
"And then only if they facilitate the
inspection."
"Forget the lovely," I said. "Facilitate, huh?"
"Yeah, facilitate." He smiled
that very nice smile again. He was wearing a
wrinkled white linen jacket and dark blue trousers with a red and blue
striped shirt.
About forty-five, I figured. Or maybe forty and well-travelled.
"OK, let's forget facilitate for a while," I said. "Just who the hell are you?"
"I'm a friend of Gerry's from a long
time ago," he said. "I work in the oil fields
out in South Dakota, but I come to Maine whenever I can."
"Married, of course."
"More or less."
"What a coincidence!" I said. "Me, too. I mean, more."
"I think that's a facilitating circumstance,"
he said thoughtfully. "Like, right
now, I'm less married, since my wife is in Boston. What would make
you less
married?"
"Oh," I said, thoughtfully. "Well,
actually, the fact that my husband is in there
flirting with a dear friend of mine sort of makes me less married."
"Very foolish man. I feel myself
getting so less married I'm hardly married at
all." He got up from the bench and walked over to the table, where
he poured himself
about two fingers of Scotch. Then he came back and sat down again.
"I've noticed that if I drink certain
magic potions that makes me even *more*
less married."
"Funny, a couple of glasses of wine
seems to have the same effect on me." I
smiled and sipped.
"Have you been here before? Know the layout?"
"This is my first time," I said.
"We've known the Bartrams from the art shows
for quite a while--they're really my in-laws' friends. This is the first
time they've asked
us to a party."
"Let me show you the guest house, then. I'm the current guest."
"By all means. I wouldn't want to miss the opportunity to examine the decor."
He stood and offered me his hand, which
I took, then he led me through the
French doors into the living room, then back through the kitchen.
Naturally I let go of
the hand as soon as I stood up--wouldn't do to parade through the dinosaur
museum
holding hands with a stranger. I noticed that the conversation hadn't
changed much. I
didn't see Bob, my husband. Nor my friend Nicole. Maybe they'd
found something
exciting somewhere, like in the library. This was a nice, big house
that probably hadn't
cost the Bartrams a dime over two million. I noticed that they bought
the local artists'
pictures, but they also had a couple of modest Picassos and a Chagall
hanging in
places where they wouldn't get missed. I thought it might be nice
to be rich.
We went out the back door and down a
tree-shaded path about twenty feet to
an adorable little stuccoed cottage. Jake opened the door and we
stepped in.
"Oh, my!" I looked around. "This is really nice!"
"Yeah. I think they built it for
their fancy friends, but Gerry makes an
exception for me. Come on, I'll show you the rest of the place."
But I just stood there
gawking at the antique furniture and the modern sculptures tastefully
stuck here and
there.
"You're not a fancy friend?"
"As long as you can fill your tank for
twenty dollars, I am very not fancy.
More like poor. And they keep on discovering more oil in these cheap
places and I get
less and less fancy. I'm lucky to have a job."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a divisional v-p, which means I
get to go out in the field and bug the guys
who really work." Then he smiled. "But right now I'm just a
guy trying to make
friends with a tall, lovely woman."
How nice! I love to make new friends.
"Is there anything to eat in that kitchen?"
"Sure. Cheese, bread, I don't
know. Are you hungry?" He managed not to
look too disappointed.
"Well, yes. Let me check the fridge."
So we went into the kitchen, and I
found some chips and dip and some little plates to put them on.
"This'll do," I said,
heading back for the living room. I put the food on a coffee table
and sat down on the
couch.
Jake went back toward the kitchen, saying,
"I'll bring the booze." He
reappeared in a couple of minutes carrying two glasses.
"Red wine for you, seltzer for me."
Then he sat down next to me and leaned
back. I started in on the dip. "I hate to mention this," he
said, "but you got me feeling
awfully less married back there, and now you're acting more married again."
"I noticed that," I said. "When
your hands were inside my dress I felt less
married, but then I made you take them out, and I felt more married again."
"Have you ever thought that women are a little odd?"
I was busy chewing on a chip full of
some kind of semi-liquid cheese, but I
turned to look at him.
"Odd?" I thought a minute. "No,
I don't think so. For instance, it seems
reasonable to me to feel less married when some nice man has his hand on
my bare
boob. Doesn't that seem reasonable to you?" I filled up a chip
with goo and stuck it
in my mouth. Then I took another one, stuck it in the dip and then
leaned over and
held it in front of him. "Want some?" I believe in sharing.
"Sure," he said. "Feed it to me."
He leaned forward and opened his mouth
like a little bird. So I fed the little bird the loaded chip.
He chewed thoughtfully. I
just took a quick glance at his crotch and wondered what was in there.
Food
sometimes has that effect on me.
"Why are you so tall?" he said, just as if he were making sense.
"Because it says I'm five feet eleven
on my passport. They don't seem to like
fractions."
"And how much do you weigh?"
"It depends on who I'm talking to,"
I said, reaching for a piece of celery that
time. If you eat corn chips, then eat a piece of celery, you probably
won't get fat.
"Very few people have the nerve to ask outright."
"I just asked. So how much do you weigh?"
"Twelve stone. About. How about you?"
''Eighty-nine kilos. Know any more word games?"
I was furiously trying to multiply 89
by 2.2 in my head, which normally
wouldn't have taken a nanosecond, and having difficulty. I suspect
that was owing
entirely to the consumption of about six ounces of red wine. I gave
up, noticing that
however much it was, it was nicely distributed through his shoulders and
chest,
anyhow. "Sure. Tu parles français?"
"Nein. Sprichst du Deutsch?"
"Gar nichts." I left him to wonder.
"But I'm dying to learn Italian. Can you
teach me Italian?"
"Ciao, Bella," he said.
"That's all I've ever needed. Hey, I do know some
French! Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?"
"I don't think so, especially since
you're so formal." I took another little sip of
my wine, just to see how it would affect my marriage. "Did you learn
that in school?"
"Yep. Seventh grade. A friend
of mine told me to say it to some girl and it
would have amazing results. So I said it to Marie Fournier and she
slapped me. I was
amazed."
"Smart girl," I said. "You're
supposed to say a lot of other things and spend a
lot of money on her first, then learn to say it right."
"I'm willing to learn the words. How
much money would I have to spend on,
say, you?"
"I'm not in the market right now.
Pity." I ate another chip. "Still, it's a nice
offer, and I like to file those away, just in case."
"I used to get away with stealing kisses
when I was in the seventh grade." He
looked a little wistful.
"You didn't steal them--somebody just
left them around for you and you only
thought you were stealing."
Then he reached over, took my hand and
pulled me toward him. He didn't
look like he wanted another chip, somehow. He just kept on pulling
until my face was
about an inch and a half from his--I was kind of twisted around by that
time--then he
leaned forward two inches and kissed me. Imagine my surprise!
I recovered quickly,
straightened myself out a bit, reached around his neck and kissed him back.
Thoroughly. For maybe thirty seconds. Meanwhile, his hand was
on my back, which
was still bare.
Marie Fournier would have slapped him
silly. Probably. But then she'd be
grown up now, and maybe she'd act differently. I did.
"My, my!" I said, pulling away just
a bit. "I must have left that one around
without even thinking about it!"
"That happens. Sometimes you just
drop things and don't realize it. Then
somebody comes up and says, 'Hey, you dropped this kiss!'" Somehow
his hand had
stayed on my back, even though I had removed my lips from his. He
used it to push
me toward him and kissed me again. "I found another one!"
Oh, my! For some reason, I started feeling more married.
"Uh, yeah, you did. You're so
good at finding things that I think maybe I'd
better get back to the party."
"But there are some really nice artifacts
you haven't seen yet. Wouldn't you
like to look around a little more?"
"In the bedroom, I expect."
"Well, yes, in the hall, and in the bedroom."
I backed off and looked him in the eye.
"I think I ought to let you know:
I'm really not going to bed with you, in any
language. It wouldn't be proper. Besides, we might be missed.
But I liked the
kisses."
"So I guess I just follow you around until you change your mind."
This guy really knew what words to say,
at least in English. I didn't know
people in oil fields knew any words except the Marine vocabulary.
I've led a sheltered
life. But I'm not stupid. I arose from the couch, offered
him my hand, which he
shook, said a nice goodbye, and went back to the party. It was still
dull, but Bob was
back, and so was Nicole, so I guess I did the right thing. I think.
* * *
"OK, you went to a dull party. That was Sunday. Then what?"
"Well, I worked in the garden most of
Monday. Hauled 40-pound sacks of
manure and 20-pound sacks of mulch around. That actually was fun--great
workout.
I exercised muscles I'd forgotten I had. Somebody took the kids to
the beach or
somewhere, so I got to work at it all day. It's a new garden, and
it's coming along
nicely."
"Then you went to the beach on Tuesday.
And what happened on
Wednesday?"
God, the woman was curious. Just
everyday stuff, and she wanted to know all
about it. Typical scholar type--worse than the FBI.
"Bob came back up on Wednesday afternoon.
Usually he's only around up
there on the weekends--spends his time down here in the library or on some
committee
figuring out new ways to torture graduate students. So I was really
glad to see him.
We went swimming in the dinky little pool and splashed each other and had
a great
time. Then we went out to dinner and came home. I lead a wild
life, right?"
"What do you do when you don't go out at night?"
"I usually get online if the crappy
server will let me, and Bob reads. Or we
both read. Or we play with the kids. Card games."
"Wow! I don't see how you stand the excitement!"
* * *
When we drove into Perkins Cove we found
a parking place right in front of
Jackie's. That was a sure enough miracle. So we decided right
then to eat at Jackie's,
even though it was still a little early.
Sitting outdoors at a nice table and
looking at the ocean is not a bad way to eat
supper, and Jackie serves very good food. Our waiter was a good-looking,
skinny kid
about six feet tall. Maybe sixteen, but I doubted it. He came
loping over and took our
orders.
I was wearing one of my favorite sun
dresses. I wore it on the bus once in
Boston and found, to my surprise, that guys standing in the aisle kept
jostling each
other and looking down at the top of my head. This went on for about
half a mile,
until I got off at the art museum. I'd walked halfway around to the
big entrance when
it suddenly dawned on me what had been going on. So I sat right down
on one of the
retaining walls in front of the museum and experimented. That was
difficult, because
there was no way I could get an overhead view. Still, I could see
that if I sat just right
anybody up there could look straight down into my collar and see my boobs.
Since I
don't usually wear a bra with that dress, it must have been really nice
for them.
Shocking! Bunch of voyeurs!
Well, when this kid hovered over me
waiting for me to tell him I wanted
"Jackie's Favorite" I just scrunched a little and set up the view.
I thought of myself as
performing a public service. He took the orders and zipped off to
the kitchen. Bob
told me all about the fiendish new rules they'd cooked up at the university
and I
brought him up to date on the state of the plumbing in his parents' big
old cottage,
which, as usual, left a good deal to be desired.
Then the kid came back. He served
me first, then started to move over to
Bob's side of the table and tripped.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Almost had the
floor covered with fried clams, but he caught
himself and managed to plop them down in front of Bob. All the while
he was looking
everywhere but at me. Then he sidled back behind me and started
asking Bob if
everything was OK, would we like some more tea, and a lot of stuff I didn't
think he
normally asked people. I couldn't see him, of course.
After he finally left, Bob looked over at me.
"Weird kid."
"Yeah. There's a labor shortage."
I went to work on the scallops and we both
concentrated on eating.
Pretty soon we were finished and the kid was back again.
"How about dessert, guys?"
I thought this habit of waiters addressing
their customers as "guys" was a little
uppity, but what the hell, that's what all the kid waiters do now in Ogunquit.
You go
with the flow or you don't eat. This time he was standing not directly
behind me, but a
little to one side, glancing down every ten seconds while Bob pored over
the menu. I
turned just a tiny bit to improve the view. I could feel my nipples
hardening, just a
little. Bob ordered, and so did I. The kid was off.
Back he came in a hurry, taking up his post again.
"I forgot to tell you about the ice cream. And the pecan pie."
We stuck with our original orders despite this oversight.
"How about some more tea?" At that rate we were going to be there all night.
"How about you rush off and bring us
our dessert?" I said. He turned pink,
then vamoosed.
"Let's eat up and get out of here.
Maybe we can catch the sunset back at the
camp." Bob reached for his wallet, hauled out a credit card and put
it on the table.
Our boy was back in seconds, reaching all the way across the table to take
the card.
Then he left again.
He didn't get much mileage out of collecting
the credit card slip, but while we
got ourselves together he stood there, hovering.
"Bye, now! You guys come back, will you?"
I looked back at him and smiled.
And winked. He was gone like a submarine
crash-diving, his face as red as a swamp maple leaf in the Fall.
An hour later we were at home.
We looked at the sunset a few minutes, then
went inside. The folks had taken the kids to a movie, there were
no guests for a
change, and we had the cavernous living room to ourselves. I stretched
out on the
couch barefooted with my little laptop lying on my stomach and my head
on a pillow
and started answering e-mail offline. I'd send it later. Bob
had brought half of
somebody's thesis to read. It was homey, and really nice.
Now and then we
exchanged a comment or two, but mostly we were just together, doing our
own
things.
"Hey, Janey."
"Uh-huh?"
"Do me a favor, will you? I've
been thinking about your legs. How about
pulling up your dress a little?"
Well, now, that was a nice thing to
say, so naturally I didn't bother to answer,
just stayed stretched out and hiked up the skirt so it was a little above
my knees. And
kept on typing. I did wonder a little how thinking about my legs
fit in with the price of
eggs in Ghent during the 1330s, but I didn't let on that I'd done anything
but more or
less unconsciously pull up the skirt.
Bob got up in a little bit and walked
off to the kitchen for a drink of water or
something. He came back and sat right down on the coffee table next
to the couch. I
played possum--just kept on typing. Pretty soon I felt this hand
sort of creeping up
underneath my skirt. I kept on typing and making those faces everybody
makes when
they're sitting in front of a computer screen.
The skirt slid up a little bit, and
the hand moved to the inside of my thigh.
Notice? Like hell I would. I typed and scowled.
Pretty soon the skirt was nearly up
around my waist and the hand was getting
close to the fuzzy places. It was difficult, but I managed to keep
on typing. It was
difficult because my temperature was rising fast and I had to struggle
not to wiggle
just a little bit, not to mention my typing was getting worse than usual.
Then the hand just about covered my
mons and my, my, I liked that. I typed
some more. I could feel a finger begin to move around a little,
questing. Nylon
panties began to slide out of the way. Quest completed, treasure
located. The finger
entered gently into the dark place. I typed faster and worse.
Two fingers. Room for more, I told
myself. Don't let's give an inch. Another
finger entered, the third, resting quietly just inside the door.
Then some little
movements. Not much--just a little, very smooth. Bigger movements,
like stroking,
you could say. I typed yet faster. Then he hit it.
"Goddam!" I yelled. I jumped up, slammed
the computer shut, and laid it on
the lamp table carefully. Then I turned around and started pulling that
nice dress off as
if it were on fire. Got a look at Bob shedding his polo shirt and
pulled the panties
down and kicked them away. I grabbed him while he still had one leg
in his khakis and
flopped down on the couch, dragging him after me. It was a fairly
tight fit, not like the
king-sized bed we slept in, but we managed to lie tightly pressed up against
each
other. I found a big old penis waving in the air and grabbed it.
"Imagine that! I didn't even know you were here!"
"I'm here, all right. Let go and I'll go down there."
That's the kind of offer I can't resist.
Bob slid off the couch, I grabbed a pillow
and stuffed it under my behind, spread my legs and got ready to enjoy the
feast of the
century. Didn't have to wait long. Bob's cheeks pressed up
against my thighs felt
wonderful. His tongue beginning to continue what his fingers had
started was even
better. I put my hand lightly on his head and began to get used to
the little shots of
electricity that kept right up with every movement of that tongue.
He tells me he likes
to do that--something about the slippery insides he tastes. I tried
to keep still, but I
didn't succeed, just humping a little as he licked around the smooth walls
of my vagina.
He's an expert, knows just what I like. He took a tentative lick
at my little man and I
got hotter and hotter, until I thought couldn't stand it anymore.
He finally rasped his
tongue right over it and I almost screamed while the shock waves built
up.
"Please, please, come up here!
I want a hug, I want a lot of kisses, I want to
feel the muscles in your back, I want to GET FUCKED!"
He looked up at me. "Sure you wouldn't rather get back to the e-mail?"
I barely had time to stick my tongue
out at him when he was all over me. I
took hold of that penis again and shoved it right in where it belonged.
He leaned
down and started licking around the areola on my left breast, refusing
to move his rear
end and make my rockets go off. Well, that was all right.
I was very happy just to
feel that hard stick fill me up, it didn't have to move for a while.
He came up and
kissed me, just like I wanted, and I could taste myself on his lips, which
turned me on
even more I thought, but I didn't think much about anything and I ran my
hands down
his back and up again, feeling those muscles I loved so much moving as
he put a hand
on my breast and just stroked my nipple with his palm.
Then he reared back a little and smiled at me.
"I know what you were doing to that
waiter," he said. "I watched you. You're
an artist at titillating people, aren't you?"
"Me? I was just sitting there minding my own business!"
"Sure. And I was just sitting
there thinking, 'Little boy, you are going to go
home and pull your pud, and I am going home and fuck the bejesus out of
that big
tease.' That's what I was thinking, and getting hard just watching
him stare down your
front. 'Look, don't touch,' I thought. 'I'm the one who is
going to touch! I'm going to
put my hands and my mouth all over those little titties and I'm going to
ram my dick in
so far she'll see stars.'"
All this time I'm lying there, soaking
up the feelings, with this great weapon
just oh-so-comfortably filling me up, waiting for the action to start,
liking to hear him
talk about fucking me while he was actually there doing it, feeling all
that skin, those
hard bones, oh, my! Getting older has its virtues--I can just lie
there and enjoy
without having to go screaming after six more orgasms. But I can
only wait so
long--I'm not that old.
"I'm not seeing stars yet, but I better
be soon or the folks will come home and
catch us."
He smiled. "What do you think they'd do?"
"The kids would point and yell, 'Look!
They're fucking!' Your mom would
smile sweetly the way she always does, and your old man would ask if he
could have
seconds. Get to it!"
So he leaned forward again and kissed
me, his tongue running around my
teeth, mine insisting on the right of way, and then, very slowly, he began
to pull out,
slowly, slowly. Then he came down hard and fast and banged into my pelvis
and I
could feel the fire again and he pulled out again slowly, came in again,
while I felt
every stroke, those delicious feelings running all through me, feeling
the streaks of joy
moving up into my breasts, even into my lips, holding him, pushing back,
losing my
mind as my body took over and did everything on its own, feeling more and
more
electricity, knowing it was building in my vagina, holding him, pushing
back, feeling it
build, feeling him begin to shiver just a tiny bit, reveling in his pleasure
as well my
own, and my eyes closed and I really did see stars and then the rockets
lit off and I was
grasping him for dear life and moaning low, just existing in a cocoon
of stupendous
joy as I pushed hard into him, took his penis as deep as it would go, made
him mine
and lost my wits as I moved into an orgasm that threatened to shatter
me, while he
kept on, push, pull, and I was doing it again just quietly going mad, and
then he
stiffened, gave a little shout, and fell on me. I could feel his
seed filling me, and I
rejoiced.
* * *
"Janey, face it, you must be getting old!" Sometimes Lisa is a little blunt.
"Maybe. But I have a pretty good
time up there one way or another. What do
you do at night down here, go to the movies?"
"Sometimes. By the way, have you
seen An Ideal Husband? I'm told it's for
grownups."
-----The End-----
NOTE: My thanks go to Daphne Xu, who made a remark that inspired
me to write
this story and then made useful suggesions; to my friend Lisa, who didn't
mind playing
straight man at all; to Old Rotorhead, who also made suggestions; and to
Miles
Naismith, who helps me every time.
Copyright 1999 by Jane Urquhart. The author is a member of the
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