|
The Story of H
Probably the most exotic looking (and beautiful) woman that I dated among my older women was H, a 34 year old daughter of refugees from Tibet. She was fairly tall, and thin, and had this incredible face with high wide cheekbones. Her eyes were slitty and raised at the outer corners. Her mouth was small, her face flat, her skin like honey. She had a narrow, flat, high nose. I met her while working as a research assistant for the summer to an Asian professor of management and business. My job was to take in paragraphs and chapters of research results, organize them according to a sort of boilerplate model, and format them in Word in preparation for the printer.
H was a graduate student with degrees in Marketing (B.S.) and Business Administration (M.B.A.), working on her doctorate (D.B.A.). Like G, she was one of those misunderstood Asian-Americans who causes people to yell to be understood, or to speak in fake accents in the hope that someone they think has an accent will understand them. When H opens her mouth, pure American idiom comes out, and she can speak either Valley Girl or Harvard-Smart or the usual imitations of New Yorkers porking their korrs or Bostonians pahking their cahs.
H was kind of shy and quiet until you got to know her. She was born in Chicago after her father, a yak broker from Lhasa, and her mother, a housewife from a mountain village, had fled the Red Chinese. Both parents had made enormous sacrifices, living first in India, then in the U.K., and finally in the U.S. By dint of hard work, H's father had earned degrees and insinuated himself in the university system, where he became indispensible as an expert on carpets and textiles. Corporations paid him handsome sums for his knowledge, which involved Iranian and Pakistani goods more than Tibetan ones.
H had been raised in Catholic schools in Chicago and Canada, and now she was a 30-something woman with a divorce and a small child of mixed Tibetan-Italian-American blood. She was a sturdy, cautious woman, and it took her a while to warm up to me, but I sensed her interest in me. She would pass in the hall, while I worked at my terminal, and I could see her looking at me with interest. Maybe she didn't realize I saw her reflection in my computer screen, and she passed more often than one would normally expect. After a while, her lovely eyes had a certain wounded or vulnerable hunger, maybe just a curiosity like a huge itch, and eventually I decided to make contact. I did this one rainy spring day, when everything was that delicate spring bud green, and the rain rattled gently outside the windows. I maneuvered myself into a place of talking with her while we waited for a coffee pot to perk. A bit of casual banter, and she agreed to lunch sometime, and later a movie. Her violent ex was pretty much out of the picture, and her baby was safe with grandma, so for the first time in years she had some freedom and breathing room to explore the world for herself. At the same time, school was putting huge demands on her, even with the fact that her parents provided a monthly stipend. I think H needed a part-time, safe playmate of the opposite sex. Someone who had no agenda, was not threatening, was nice to her, and made her feel good. I was that playmate. As always, for me it was a port in a storm. I was choosy, yes, so not any port. This port, that H offered, was exceptional.
There were the usual lunches, dates, movies, flowers, bonbons, all the things people do to charm the opposite gender. H lived in a small house in the suburbs, funded by the university because they were chronically short of housing. Somewhere in that house, whenever she had me there, was a room with baby cribs and things, but the timing was always such that baby was absent when I was there. That suited me fine, because I was nowhere near ready to be a parent. First, though, we met out of town, secretly.
Intriguingly, H made good money on the side as a model in New York. What they wanted above all was the Kachina doll beauty of her face. She was in several perfume ads and some other things. I got to suck on her cunt. That was more than the rest of the world had from her. Her beauty, when skilled photographers applied makeup and lighting, was almost other-worldly. She was a true exotica. And yet the H I personally knew was a quiet, shy, vulnerable woman who had been maimed by an angry, violent divorce.
She liked to be held. The older woman is not always the nurturer. Sometimes it is the clumsy pup who is the nurturer. She had me meet her at this friend's apartment in a nearby city one day, when we had gotten to know each other a bit and she trusted me. (She thought I was too good to be true, but admitted later she was wrong in that sad little assessment. She said she didn't know men could be so nice.) She wanted me, for a lot of reasons, but was afraid of herself, her desire, the consequences, the violence of her ex, the disapproval of her parents. That was the reason for the secret assignation.
We had this nice apartment to ourselves. "Honestly," she said while spreading her long arms over my shoulders on the balcony at dusk, "I haven't been able to sleep well thinking of how this would be."
I put my hands on her fine waist and kissed her. "Listen, I've slept like a prince, thinking of what a wonderful fine woman you are and how privileged I am to have a little time with you. Do you have any idea what that means to me?"
She appeared a little dazed. "Does it mean that much to you?" Her tiny mouth hung slightly open with surprise, and her eyes signaled confusion (Tibetans' eyes don’t slant up, but tend to be narrow slits straight across).
I sat her down on a blond Dansk stool in the modern kitchen and explained the reasonable realities of life to her. We had a pan of steak, potatoes, and string beans in the oven. The skyline outside was just marvy, with stars over it, and a full moon to make us nuts. "I don't know what part of the Tibetan schema lingers in your brain," I said, "but this is America, and everyone is supposed to be free. I know we have a fascist pig for a president, and a bunch of criminal swine in Congress, but let's cling to the illusion or delusion of freedom, shall we? Baby, I demand that you be drunk with freedom."
She held a wine glass between her hands, and twirled the glass slowly on the thick glass counter. "I don't feel like much."
"Okay," I said, "the holidays are almost upon us. I have to help you feel better."
"Thank you," she said sincerely. After dinner, she said to me in a quiet moment when our heads were close together, "It means a lot to have you here, and just being nice to me."
"I feel the same way." It was the quintessential moment in my career as a lover of older women. There is a terrible truth at the heart of such relationships, which it is wise for both the woman and her blithering young stud muffin to understand. Almost every single one of these things is a fleeting moment in the great river of love that rushes unseen through the big city.
A wise Summer knows that she is but a port in a storm, and that her youthful movie star will in time settle with a girl his own age or younger. That fortunate (maybe) girl may even be less attractive. It can be the difference between having ten grand to spend on a car—do you buy a tiny new compact with rollup windows, ratty radio, and that new plastic smell? Or do you look around for a five or ten year old luxury car with electric windows, power everything, and a wrap-around sound system?
When you are a lost, broke young soul, unable to afford even a date with two beers, what a splendid thing to be taken in, pampered, fed, clothed, and sucked and fucked by a gorgeous woman. Not an inexperienced, self-centered child, but a mature woman, seasoned in her sexuality, still very young at heart, and best of all, asking nothing substantial in return—not even permanence. If she expects a lasting commitment, even marriage, she is most likely going to be deeply hurt. Unless he lies to her (which I tried never to do), she cannot claim to feel betrayed, because she refused to read her own tea leaves. When there is a reciprocal need, as there was between me and H, a lot of pleasure and fun can be had.
H just happened to be a tallish, thin woman who struck most men (and women) as aloof and hard. With her narrow eyes and high cheek bones, she may have seemed chilly—but she was shy and hurt inside. I read all that early on, when I saw her looking my way. It took a bit to break through the defensive walls, but when a woman longs to be rescued from her own defenses. H was truly a beautiful woman, which put many men (and women) off also. She was so gorgeous that I found myself torn by serious feelings for her, but the ten year difference loomed just over the horizon. I wasn't dealing with the issue, and she never let on if she was. I tried bringing it up in a tender moment, when I worried about hurting her, but she quickly put a fingertip on my lips and shook her head.
Thanksgiving rolled around—gray, cold, barren. H had me drive her car to a place up north, where we had dinner with some college friends of hers. They were even older, three couples in their late thirties, early forties. One was a Swedish engineer and his blonde (graying) butter-churn of a wife, who regarded me and H with a certain disdainful sorrow in moments when she thought nobody was looking. Then there was a New York philosophy professor with a bald, gleaming pate and a nut-brown ring of hair, and his loud, heavy Italian wife, both of them extremely kind and thoughtful.
Finally there was a quiet, insular Chinese man with wide cheekbones and a bony face on a bony body, who came and left with a leggy, long-haired woman of mixed Native American-French Canadian extraction—she was the most youthful and fun of the bunch, with her long black hair and saucy mouth. She and the Chinese man left right after dinner, and H explained to me that she had been shocked to see the Chinese man show up—he was a cousin of a man she had dumped after being engaged for years; what stories he would tell; what telegrams and messages she could expect to get. We decided, instead of going home that night, to drive up to Montreal. It was a long drive yet, five hours, but we took turns driving, listening to music, talking. "I feel so free with you," H said as she drove, and passing highway lights made the surfaces of her face flicker brighter, darker in hypnotic rhythm. I put my arm around her and whispered in her ear: "I want you to be my Christmas stocking stuffer."
She laughed. "You want me to pop out of a stocking? That would be a big stocking."
I nuzzled her ear lobe. "I just want you to pop out of your stockings that you wear."
"Oh, I see." Her eyes began plotting clever and sexy surprises. You see, when a young woman and her younger man are together, they are like children. There is no tomorrow or yesterday—just now, this moment, this day, all the fun we can have before we have to go inside and eat our vegetables. This interlude is youth's last playtime. For both it is the Indian Summer of being truly young. For her, it is a brief, light moment between marriages and huge, heavy years full of responsibilities; for him, the last random flight of the arrow before his heavy years arrive. "I will be glad to be your stocking stuffer. I am also glad that we are planning that far ahead."
"A whole four weeks," I said. Was she thinking that I might run out on her between now and then? Not a chance. Even I could plan that far ahead.
Love making with me, for her, was still in that scared, stiff phase. I wondered if I could help her stop being scared. Sometimes, like in the hotel room in Montreal, she actually trembled as I helped her undress. I was tired of asking her what was the matter. I knew—guilt. She felt guilty about our not being married, about not feeling she could present me to her parents, who lived not far away in Trois Rivieres. She felt guilty about wanting more in our sex than she could readily ask for. I was waiting for the dam to break, for the walls to tumble, for the real H to come out.
The first time we made love, she warmed a little bit, which gave me reason to expect more. There was much slow, hesitant undressing, and much looking—she grasped my dong and looked at it as if it were a telephone receiver she wasn't sure she wanted to pick up. I was patient, emptying my mind of expectations and being thankful for whatever I did get. She had a long, thin body. Not ribby or emaciated. Just long and thin, with soft padding in the right places. Her breasts were small and tilted, with brown nipples that rose up like chocolate chips. "What do you like?" she whispered self-consciously. She sat like a statue, wanting me to show her. She held one slender hand over her pubic area. "Let's kiss," I suggested. Even that we had not done much so far. We lay nakedly side by side and kissed. She liked my tongue in her mouth, and pulled me closer to stick her tongue in mine better. Her breathing grew fast and heavy, and I knew there was a tiger in there waiting to come out. She guided my hand to her breasts and signaled for me to play with them. She still looked a bit embarrassed and maybe felt silly asking me in words what she thought should happen in gestures and looks. "It's okay to talk," I said. She laughed. "Instruct me, then, because I am very inexperienced. I was engaged to a man who was rather cold, and I didn't want him touching me, so I spent years pretending to be frigid."
"We have to thaw you out then."
"Okay." She laughed. "I have something nice."
"I'll bet you do."
"Want to see, or want to wait?"
"Can I look, and then we wait?" "Okay. Look." She moved her gaze so I should follow it down the length of her body.
Puzzled, I let my lips guide me, from her dry little lips, down her bony jaw and chin, down her long neck, over the foothills of her dove-like breasts—whose nipples became longer when they grew erect—down the downy furrow of her belly, bouncing over her outie belly button, down a dip and then up over her hairy Venus mound. "See?" I still didn't, but pushed her long thin thighs apart—enjoying seeing the tender meat inside quiver as her thighs moved—and studied what she wanted me to see. I saw pert little buttocks and a pretty brown pucker down below. Above that was a generous region of genitals. She had a brownie, outie cuntie.
"Take a look," she urged. I liked her labia, which were stuck together like hands in prayer. With the tip of my tongue, I shook them and unglued them. I parted them by moving my head up and down. As they unfolded, I saw the loose flesh in the slightly open hole of her cunt. I saw the pinkish hole that she squirted pee with.
"I see it," I said. "Oh God, how wonderful." She had a marvelous clitoris. It was wide, with a massive hood that spread like the clouds over a Himalayan mountain top. Folds of yellowish brown skin formed a generous hood over this prodigious button about the size of my fingertip looking head-on. That's big. It was about the size of a slightly worn, rounded pencil eraser. I kissed it, and had to force myself to stop. I smelled its moisture, its slightly salty body fluids amid the dampness emanating from her open vagina onto my almost-touching face. I was going to work my way down there to that reward, taking my time, as long as I could stand it.
"You like it?" she asked as she touched my cheek and I returned to start kissing her. I nodded. "You have a treasure there."
"The treasure is yours," she said. I knew she meant it, and that was the dark side of Spring/Summer. She was glorious, but the nagging thought of our future kept gnawing at my soul. I suppressed it, just as she had pressed a finger on my lips. She was a woman who fell hard when she fell in love, and she was trying not to fall in love with me. If she had not been so breathtakingly beautiful, I would have run from her just to avoid that.
Maybe I was in love with her in my own broken and incomplete manner. Perhaps the fact that I didn't want to hurt her meant that I genuinely felt something for her. I had never been truly in love yet, so I had nothing to gauge by. Looking back I think some of those passionate affairs are really tragic love stories. What is worse, the dark sense of pain and the anticipation of loss adds beauty, adventure, even high artfulness to the passion the two lovers shower on each other.
Again looking back from far away, I think I understood more clearly than I would admit, amid all my denials—that I was truly in love with her, in moments when the age difference and the inevitable tearing asunder were not in my conscious thoughts. When you are making love, your event horizon shrinks down to the extent of your two bodies. Your time horizon is minutes and seconds, at most an hour or two. She was not ready to let herself fall into that velvet, shadowy room of the soul where clocks do not tick, where the sun does not move in the drawn shades, where no new flower petals drop from the vase to join those already scattered around the base.
That room, which is like a painting by a Dutch master, reminds me of what the poet Thomas Carew (the British Cavalier poet born in 1595) wrote:
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars 'light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
Even in Montreal, to jump forward, she was still aloof, though I understood her deepest hesitation and could not argue with it. So I was slow to continue seducing her, knowing that her slide into sexuality would also mean her slide into love, and I was entirely, sickeningly uncertain how I would handle myself there, if at all. Was it cowardice on my part? Some will think so. Nevertheless, this was a fire that warmed, and it was a flame that was meant to burn. Some great bonfires are ill-starred to be lit on an exceedingly windy night, and that probably best describes my love affair with H.
I wasn't earning much, but she was feeding me and my expenses were minimal, so I saved up a nice chunk of change. I was going to do something really nice for her for Christmas. I made the arrangements by phone from the yellow pages and some research footwork. "Honey," I told H, "I want to help you understand how beautiful you are, so I have a surprise for you."
"Oh really?" From her laugh, I suspected that she was more amused than surprised, and I realized that most women do really realize it if they are beautiful. Knowing you are beautiful, and accepting it, welcoming it, are two different things. If a woman is not happy with herself, it will actually anger her that men look at her in a certain way. If she doesn't like herself, she won't like men who are gentle with her, because they must be bigger losers than she feels herself to be. Such a woman seeks out rough, strong, and sometimes violent men who pay her the treatment she feels she deserves.
I unfortunately was always seen as one of the losers in those situations, and I learned to steer clear of women with such a lack of self-esteem. H was not like that, but she was severely wounded somewhere inside. So I drove her down to Manhattan on dry, chilly day. I had already made all the preparations and confirmed everything by phone. We bore wore nice clothes. "I have never seen you in a suit," she said with a mystified air. I told her in the car as I drove: "I'm giving you your Christmas present early."
She seemed delighted, like a girl. "I can't wait. Peter, what have you cooked up?"
I took her to a special place in Midtown, where they specialize in makeovers. Moreover, the deal is for a princely hunk of money, they take you in to a backroom and let you pick out clothing from a selection of thousands of suits and dresses. You can pick out a costume if you want, be Robin Hood or Caesar or Napoleon. I directed H to a section of movie star dresses. I have never seen a woman gasp so many times. For a woman who is generally very easy to please, she seemed overwhelmed. "Don't cry," I told her, "because we have a photo shoot coming up, and we can't have your eyes all swollen."
She got a light and very professional makeover that made her look like a Himalayan princess. Her small, even teeth glittered like sugar. She really looked royal that day, more so than her usual regal good looks. In another section of the building, she had a full range of portraits taken in the outfit she had chosen—a long white sheath with a black poufy shawl thing had looked like it was full of air as it floated over her bare shoulders.
She had costume jewelry and a matching purse, and her own high heels. They gave us each a glass of champagne, which made her chiseled cheeks glow. She had dimples by her smile that I had not noticed before. A gaggle of gay men came from several makeup rooms to admire her and fuss over her. Nobody had seen a beauty like her in a long time. She choked down her embarrassment and took it all in stride. The best part was yet to come. I draped a cape over her, that the costume lady had chosen, and handed her a bouquet. Two gay men brought a small tiara with glittering rhinestones that they placed on her head. One of them, holding ribbon in his teeth and laboring mightily, tied a white ribbon from the base of her skull in back to the noble crown of her forehead, which pulled in her long glossy black hair and emphasized the gorgeous curve of her skull. The other placed the tiara on top as the finishing touch. His companion handed me a large black umbrella just in case.
I walked her down six blocks of Midtown Manhattan, and thousands of people must have stopped to stare. I took her to a nice restaurant for a light lunch in elegant settings, and then to see a flustered and bemused little old lady named Mrs. Weinstein who had a little office full of stacked papers, photos, and posters. Mrs. Weinstein smoked incessantly, left red lipstick on her faux cork filters, and also reddened the rims of her paper tea cups. She had a deep burry voice and exclaimed, while examining the first proofs from the makeup place, "I think we can place you in some cosmetics ads. I have a job coming up next week. I'll send your pictures along."
H gasped, and clasped her hands together. Some photographer snapped us, and our picture appeared inside The Daily News with the tongue-in-cheek caption 'unknown princess with escort—arrival a state secret.' A month later, her picture arrived in a department store infold inside the daily newspaper, and I showed it to her. That was when she actually did cry, and kiss me, and said thanks once more.
By Christmas, when she probably felt a bit lonely, I was living more at her place than mine. We slept together at night, and made our brief but juicy sex each evening and morning. She made oatmeal with peaches and milk each morning, along with black coffee and a fat vitamin pill. I gained a few pounds in that period, because she complimented me and told me "you no longer look so gaunt and hungry." She bought me new jeans, a size larger though still skinny in the waist. She rubbed my behind and then patted it. "Nice!"
She was actually Buddhist, and had a wall altar dedicated to her Tibetan religion. She liked Catholicism, too, and had a Bible and some other Christian symbols. She felt that the pictures of both religions seemed alike in many ways, except that the people had different eyes. "Do you mind my eyes?" she once asked me in a hushed tone. "I love your eyes," I said sincerely, kissing each beaded lid. I had a hard time saying "I love you," but I had no trouble telling her how much I loved every one of her body parts.
Christmas Eve, while seasonal choral music played softly in the background, she gave me a few presents of clothing. "I want to see you in those." We had put up a midsize tree, and her features looked like stained glass as she regarded me in them. We sat under the tree sipping hot glogg and munching crunchy cookies from a tin. "You are a sexy man," she said. "Stay here." She left the room, and came back in a few minutes later ringing a sort of cow bell. I jumped, and then gasped in surprise before laughing delightedly. She had donned a red Santa suit with big baggy legs, a pillow belly under a red jacket trimmed in white, and a floppy red cone-hat with a white pompom on the end. She was about half a foot taller—this Santa had very high heels. "I couldn’t find enough cotton balls to make a beard," she said. I started to rise because I wanted to hug her, but she put up a hand for me to stay. First she changed the music to something more bumpy and grindy. Then she did a slow striptease. One by one, she peeled off the Santa layers, and I applauded and whistled with gusto. Finally, she was down to these two green and red knitted wool stockings that extended to mid calf. "You want to take them off for me?"
"I'd love to."
As she pranced slowly over to me on six inch high heels, I waited on my knees. Her face looked different, more animated. It was as if a veil had been lifted. "I made a decision," she said, "to let go and love you." She arrived before me, so close that her bare snatch was almost on my nose. "I have let myself fall in love with you, even if you walk out on me tomorrow." She raised her hands and laughed, dropping them so they fell down with a carefree slap against her thighs. "I figured it out! I'm so busy trying to prevent the shoe from dropping that I never get to let myself take the walk!"
She laughed loudly like someone who has thrown all her money off the bridge and plans henceforth to be poor but happy. "I may get hurt, but the best part is that I'm no longer afraid!" With that, she pushed me so I fell backward onto my hands and buttocks. Still in those heels, she advanced on me. Through the bush, I saw that marvelous hood spreading like a snowy hillside, and protruding under it the still flaccid nubbin of her clitoris. "Lick me," she commanded.
As she stood over me, I raised my face to admire the curvature of her buttocks, the longer, subtly curving line of her thigh, and the brownie outtie that awaited me in all of its glory. The prayer-hand labia were dry and slightly parted. A woman making a dramatic and perhaps scary announcement will not have moist labia or a wet cunt (unless she has peed her pants). Rather, she will be bone dry from shock. I was there to help her with that problem. I held her legs and felt the tension in them. Her whole body trembled faintly, and I pressed my hands on the tops of her feet to steady her on the high heels lest she fall. But she braced herself on furniture and looked downward. She noticed a large mirror on a vanity nearby, and took it down and put it near us so she could watch me. I nipped and licked lightly at her labia, which fluttered like fruit peels as my tongue nudged them. "I'm not licking them yet," I said. "I'm waiting for you to send juice down and make them wet." In her excitement, she did squirt a little, but it was pee. I wiped the warm, salty liquid from my nose and upper lip. "Gotta go?"
"No. Keep doing..."
I ran my fingertip along the crack of her butt, along the creases where each cheek tucked a corner into the thigh below it. I traced the ridge between her asshole and her cunt hole. Meanwhile, I ran my tongue back and forth, left and right, over the curve of her hood. Almost before I could miss it, dew sprang up on her labia. Her entire cunt area grew damp, then wet, as in a sudden forest rain shower. I slicked my finger back and forth in the hole, and heard the splash of wetness. "I am so wet," she said. "Oh God."
"What's the matter?" I asked.
She stepped off her heels. "I really do have to pee now. I can't hold it any longer." She took me by the hand and towed me along into the bathroom. She sat on the ring, sucking my fingers while pouring out a flood into the water. When she was done peeing, she dabbed herself with a tissue, dropped that in, closed the lid, and flushed. Then she led me out to the bedroom. We peeled off her stockings. "You are the best stocking stuffer a guy could ever have," I said.
She hugged and kissed me as I lay on top of her, both of us naked. She put her arms around my neck and pulled my head close for a long kiss while her legs wrapped around my thighs so that the head of my swollen cock lay heavily on top of her clitoris. "I love you," she said, "and I want you to know that."
"I love you too," I said.
She smiled wistfully and bravely. "It's nice that you say that. Are you lying, or do you really love me? Oh, I get it." She touched my nose with her fingertip. "You love me this moment. Well, that's something. And you made me into a queen for a day. That was spectacular. I'll never forget that." She laughed. "You rove me. That's special."
I kissed her dove-like breasts with their chocolate chip nipples, and she held her breasts for me to bite, although they were not big. She just wanted to help—sort of an underline or an italic, emphasizing how sincerely she wanted to give herself to me and help me enjoy her.
I liked looking at her long, thin body. Her skin was smooth as a girl's. She had just this little bit of bush atop her Venus mound, and a few curly hairs between her legs below, between the holes. Her knees were up, and she drew her ankles back and partly apart to show me what she offered me. Her genital apparatus looked up at me like a beseeching face.
I fondled her thighs, her buttocks, my fingers working their way toward her labia. "Go down," she murmured in a husky tone. I took my time, brushing her belly with my palm, again and again, like someone feeling a bolt of fine silk. Her hands moved to her groin, and her long, slender fingers with their neat little fingertips parted her labia slightly. It was like holding a door open, welcoming someone in.
I reached down, grabbed her ankles, and swung her legs up onto my shoulders. She slipped a moment, patted the sheets to right herself, and then reached down to part her labia again. The head of my cock thudded against her pee hole. With her middle finger, she nudged the head down so that it plopped into the brownie ring of her hole. The pink, palpitating interior waited for me full of cunt soup. Big as it was, the head rumbled easily over that wet, ready doorway and into that clutching, cloying tube that swirled around it.
I closed my eyes with the delirious pleasure of it, and groaned loudly. I heard her too. When I opened my eyes, I saw that her face pointed to one side. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was slightly open, as if she were in ecstasy.
She had her hands down there to assist. One set of fingers held one labia open, while the other fingertips oscillated over her clitoris and its hood. The labia fingers slid forward and she rubbed her pee hole. She slid it further, down into the brownie ring where my cock was sloshing back and forth like a pump. From there, she repeatedly picked up dripping juice on her fingertips and transported it up to water her hillside. With her legs sprawling up my torso, and her ankle bones brushing my cheeks, I could look straight down and see those fingernails blur as the soft pads of her fingertips worked the hill and the button it contained.
I caught glimpse of its pinkness. The hood was brownie, the clit brownie on top but pinkie underneath. I bumped against her in steady rhythm, and heard the slap of her thighs against mine. I listened to the waters in her pussy.
She began to arch her back. Tremors fled across her stomach. She writhed and whimpered, then moaned and sobbed. She rubbed her clit faster now, and I fucked her as furiously as I could. Suddenly, she doubled over and rolled away, holding her fingers to her cunt. She jerked her shoulders this way and that as she came. She rubbed her hands between her legs as if she were furiously cleaning something with a brush—continuing the frenzy of her climax until the contractions abated and she lay limply before me. Not for long. I still had plenty of pepper in the pot. Seeing her buttock cocked up at me, I walked on my knees and slipped my cock into her cunt from behind. One of the neat and unique features of H's build was that her cunt hole and asshole were close together, and her behind was small, so I could fuck her cunt with equal easy from the front or the rear. The only slight inconvenience about the rear approach was that she'd get excited and squirm, and somehow her heel would knock into my nuts, sending a testicle rather uncomfortably up into my body.
Then we'd have to stop and wait a few minutes, while I made swallowing motions, and she looked shocked and concerned as she rubbed my back and said she was sorry...and inevitably, the testicle would drop back out into its scrotal sack. She would then spend much time fervently kissing it until both nuts ached, but I enjoyed the kisses on my ball sac. She liked playing with it too, with both hands, gently toying with it, one palm below and the other above. "It's like a little mouse," she said. Still palming my nuts, she would take my cock full in her mouth and warm it, wet it, embrace it with her gums.
I took my Christmas Buddhist from behind, and rode her like the surf. She was like a swimmer, herself, arms forward and chin on the sheets as she cried out for me to take her hard. I fondled her buttocks and her long back as I rapidly slapped against her rear. My cock slipped in and out of her moist cunt with a sloshing noise. I straddled her, making gorilla fists on the bed, while she stretched her long legs out around the outsides of my knees and pumping thighs. When I felt myself going, I cupped my hands under her hips and pulled her buttocks up tight against my abdomen. She slapped her hands on the sheet and sprang backward to help, pushing her butt against my stomach. I was starting to groan deeply, feeling the ejaculation muscles kick in. I glimpsed the brown flower of a slightly open asshole, and wanted to put my fingertip in, but I was overcome with my orgasm. The sight of her flower added to the passion in my climax, and I collapsed on her sobbing with my exertions.
That is how I like to remember us—that, and her prodigious clitoris. Within a few months, H had begun to become more and more needy as my own flight became imminent. We started to argue and spend time apart. She still called every day, and I sat there in my dilemma trying to decide if I must cut it off. If the decision was to either commit for life or cut it off, the stark choice was obvious. Something remarkable happened, though. Because of her new modeling contacts in New York, she became interested in a very wealthy and handsome young Canadian Chinese of Hong Kong wealth, a billionaire with a private jet. The last time I saw H , she had me over to her modest apartment for tea. We never made it to the bedroom. She started crying and explained that she still loved me, and would stay with me if I wished, but that her heart was torn over this other man. I saw the opportunity then, and knew what I must do. My only regret was that I could not tell her I loved her, which I did, because it was meaningless. Not meaningless in the moment, but meaningless in the world in which clocks ticked and trains rushed on their tracks and airplanes thundered up in to the sky. I had a long, dark road ahead, unknown and fraught with uncertainties, and I could not pull her into that. I rose and took her hand.
We looked into each other's eyes. Hers read the truth in mine, and her eyes glittered with tears. Killing the love in her for me, I kissed the back of her hand, inhaled one last time the pinkness and the gentleness there, turned, and walked out the door never to look back. As far as I know, she is married to that man to this day (he is actually a few years younger than she! Is it somehow symbolic that his age is exactly halfway between mine and hers?). They have several children and live in a great mansion overlooking the sea near the city of Victoria on Vancouver Island. If by some chance she reads this book, and recognizes herself, I hope she will not contact me, but know that I did love her in my broken way, and still do. I did not know it then, but I recognize it now—a truth lives forever.
|
