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The Story of P
I was in a local branch public library one blustery Fall afternoon, reading the epigrams of Martial in translation and testing my Latin between the translator's rendition and the original. I always felt a sense of awe when something written 2,000 years ago in a long ago and far away time and place became fresh again for modern eyes. In the midst of my concentration, I heard the cries of excited children, and heard a wondrously soothing voice.
My first glimpse of P was a noble, beautiful one. She was a dark-haired beauty, sitting regally among a roomful of children to whom she was about to read a story. She was the Queen of Story Hour, and the children huddled excitedly around her as she held up a large children's book. "Can anyone tell me what this is a picture of?" She pointed with a pale hand to a picture of several cartoon animals living in harmony in a garden.
"Lions! Tigers! Zebras!" the children cried, enumerating about half a dozen animals who were having a tea party. "That is right," P said in a careful, kindly voice with the crisp bite of authority in it (like when one bits into a fresh apple). "What are the animals doing?" She paused. "They are having a tea party."
The children laughed. I smiled, and P noticed me.
I saw the instant change, the camera flash deep in her green eyes, the interested lingering of her eyes on me even as her head, with its high full dark hairdo, already turned away. I smiled and caught her eye again a few times during the reading of her story.
When she was done, she stood and spoke with several of the children. I saw a pale, exotic woman of about 30, with Mediterranean features, pale olive skin, freckles the color of golden raisins but tiny, and that glossy dark hair done like a Greek helmet tilted back. She wore a loose dark denim dress with overalls-style top. Under that she wore black ballet tights. I saw that she was full-breasted and ripe in the hips and rear, and firm. I wandered over, holding my Loeb's Martial, and said something charming that set up a conversation.
She slipped easily into the conversation, and we soon established that she was a substitute teacher who volunteered to do story hour once a week. One of the children was her five year old son, whom she briefly introduced. He stayed with his dad, her ex, on certain days of the week. There were several afternoons when P was interested in having coffee, or going to a movie, or maybe having me along for company at the mall. Like most men, I hate shopping, so I became impatient, and she'd laugh and send me to the bookstore.
P was of mixed Italian and Brazilian extraction, with one of those wonderful Italian names that end in -ini and sound like something good to eat. She was 30, as I had guessed, and had been married several years to a fellow Italian-American who had dumped her for a blonde from the Midwest. P's father had been a businessman from stylish Milan who had moved to Rio and set up a chain of department stores. [P-senior] had married a German-Indio Brazilian model who had come starving down from Sao Paulo to find work in Rio de Janeiro and lucked out—on her first runway assignment at the department store, the owner had fallen in love with her and ended up marrying her for the rest of their lives.
They had sold their considerably holdings and moved to the United States, where P's father felt the business climate was healthier. He'd ended up losing his fortune in the stock market and retired as the manager of a small bank. P could speak English, Italian, and Portuguese. An only child, she had inherited enough money from her parents to be able to pay off a condo and live on a small monthly dividend. She worked partially because she had to, and partially because she wanted to live a purposeful life. Being careful with solid though meager resources, she was able to enjoy some leisure. Her ex was fairly good about paying child support and a small amount of alimony, so P and her child were pretty well set in the grander scheme of things.
P was still young, and her body smooth and firm. She wasn't exceptionally tall, nor would she ever be slender or skinny. Her face had that sharp, pale exotic form, and her eyes were a deep, crystal green. With her high, sculptured face, roundish cheeks and soft outlines, and dark, somewhat wanton mouth, she invited the poet in me to gaze deep and reach across the age difference. Like many Young older women, she had some gray already, but a simple rinse every month or so masked that. She seemed to have genes for good aging, and didn't show crows' feet or wrinkles yet.
One afternoon, I met her at the mall. It was maybe our fourth or fifth date. P had tested me and found me not to be a predator or otherwise distasteful. She had introduced me to a man and woman who taught school with her, and probably asked them their opinion of me. I must have gotten a passing grade from these teachers, because she kept seeing me. Of course she did not believe in crossing the line until around the fifth date or so—in short, a careful woman. From what kissing and petting we did, I knew she was very passionate. I felt full, firm breasts under her dresses, and smooth ripe thighs under bluntly rounded thighs. She had slightly larger ankles and slightly smaller feet, from what I saw of her, bare, under the loosely flowing dresses she liked to wear. From other glimpses I'd had, I saw that she liked colorful underpanties cut in that thong style below the waist elastic.
But these were fleeting glimpses, and I made quiet, patient suppositions from them. I learned much from observation, and of course whatever a man sees, the woman lets him see—there are no accidental glimpses in this world. What you see or glimpse under a woman's dress is revealed to you for a reason. Either she wants to tease you, or she wants to arouse your interest, or just wants to make you horny and punish you or keep you waiting until the pain becomes exquisite. If she pushes this agenda too far, she stands the risk of having you drift away.
On the big day, we met at the mall, as we liked to do, and walked arm in arm, window shopping. It was really nice for me to do this, and meant a lot. It was wonderful to pretend, even for an hour, that the gorgeous woman with her arm through mine really was mine. I was adrift in life, with little money and few prospects (my interest in academics good for conversation but not for finances). At some level, P sensed that I needed this perhaps more than I needed to get laid, and so she steered us onto the slow path. Whether she had another lover who was satisfying her, I will never know. I suspect not. She had plenty keeping her busy, and she spent a good part of her free time with me.
We had already done a lot of kissing and petting during our time up to then, and I had tasted the passion in her mouth, the sharp darting of her tongue, the way she moaned when I ran my hand down her waist. She controlled things pretty closely, and only allowed this when she drove me home. We'd sit outside the Maison Piano Music, in a shaded spot away from the street light, which was smothered in a tree crown, and there we would steam up the windows like a pair of high school kids. It was pretty neat, actually, to go slow and let the hunger build.
This day would be different. Everything would be different from now on. Like so many Summers balancing work, a (alternately horny and violent) ex, a small child, two sets of parents, and so forth, she had made certain slots of time for herself. Into those slots she put what she needed and wanted, and no ex or parents or other distraction was allowed. The only exception might be if her son was sick at home. Then she was off limits, though this only happened one time and I lost two days' time with her.
She had invited me up for a light dinner, which was a first. She had cleaned house in her condo, and everything sparkled. It was a pretty nice town home with three bedrooms upstairs, so it was roomy. It had a picture window overlooking a park near the University, and modern appliances. The Milanese flair for design must have come down through her genes, because the place had cohesion. She owned good, pricey things, and a lot of it was modern, abstract, sparse, with splashes of that hot Italian color: a red handle on a sleek brushed-steel kettle; a pair of gleaming black onyx candelabra; jade knobs on all the cupboards; blue stone napkin rings; a blue neon wall clock.
She had set a nice table with linen and silver, Japanese china (which sounds odd), and an electronic coffee maker that filled the cathedral ceiling with a fragrant hush. We started with a small drink in the kitchen. I volunteered to help, but she had me sit in the husband-chair with my feet up. She massaged my feet for a few minutes, kissed me, and left me to watch the news while she went into the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. We had a light, lovely meal (soup, salad, small teriyaki steaks with string beans and mashed potatoes) followed by a fairly rare, tartly sweet after dinner Eiswein. We cleaned up together, rested quietly for a bit (I let her invent all this; it was her show), and then took a walk by the nearby river park. I liked having her on my arm. She was very wifely as these things go. I would never admit such a thing, but she probably sensed that I liked it. There was an autumn hush in the air, and the Milky Way spread its river of stars over the emptying trees. I wanted to hold her, but she whispered: "Let's go back."
When we got to her home, she turned on romantic music created a soft background. She turned and opened her arms. I took her gently and kissed her. She closed her eyes, looking very pale, and said: "What do you like?"
Not entirely sure what to say, I looked quizzically down into her eyes.
She had kicked off her shoes, and stood looking up at me from a six inch disadvantage. It was a look I had not yet had from here, but one I had dreamed would come. Her green eyes were frank as they met my gaze, and her face turned up to me in an offer of surrender. She put her hands up on my shoulders and had this look—she was letting me look into her heart for the first time, and I saw that her cautions were now to the wind. "What do you like?"
"I like you."
She seemed pleased, and acknowledged by a faint, shadowy smile. "Be gentle."
"I promise."
"Do whatever you like."
I bent to kiss her, and found her surging up at me on tiptoes. There was a new hunger in her mouth that I had not yet been privy to. This was a wonderful moment, because she had held out and done all the right ceremonies (candles, dinner, saying no all this time), and I wanted it to be special in a sensual way. "What I like..."
"Yes?" She was a bit breathless, and eager. One hand stole around my neck and under the back of my head. "Yes?"
I was slowing it down now. "What I like," I said as I embraced her, as I rocked her gently in my arms and pulled her face against my chest, "what I have been wanting to do is to play with your dress—I mean, hold you, hold it, lift it, peek, drop it, run a finger up your leg, kiss your nipples."
"We have all night," she whispered. "I hope you are staying."
"I have eagerly awaited such an invitation."
"Tonight's the night." Her eyes were big, her mouth slightly open.
I sat down in a chrome-rimmed canvas chair and pulled her toward me. She was compliant. "Do what you like," she urged again.
I put my hands on the back of her legs. I almost didn't want to raise her dress, which I really wanted to do, for the sake of preserving and stretching this moment as long as possible. She put her arms around my ears and kissed me on the forehead. "Do with me whatever you like," she said.
I hugged her to me in her dress, inhaling the fragrance of her bush under the dress and under her panties. Oops, I now noticed that she was not wearing panties. I felt around her good full ass cheeks in vein for the telltale little elastic lines. "I took them off," she said, resting her cheek on my head as if I were a work of art and she were creating me.
"I like when you tell me to do what I like," I said as I palmed her buttocks through the dress.
"We have all night, and you can take your time. Do whatever you want, and take me when you are ready."
I pulled her to me and stuck my nose against the material so I could smell her bush and feel my nose pressing into the hair. "I smell your bush."
She stroked my head, running her fingers like a comb through my rich, long waves. "Do you like it?"
"I like it very much. I think it likes me too."
She giggled in her solemnity. We were happening like a poem together, and neither of us wanted to chance its stately pace. "I think it likes you too."
I hugged her to me so that my arms were around her full bottom and my cheek rested on the hard curve of her abdomen.
She grew impatient, took my hand, and put it under her dress so that my fingers touched her hair. "Does it feel wet, Peter?"
I put my finger in the crease and she lifted one thigh slightly to help. My middle finger slipped into a wetness that felt like a slimy rock under water in a forest stream, only warm instead of chilly. She tightened her rich thighs around my hand and forearm. "It feels very, very wet," I said.
"It's waiting for you. Take your time and do whatever you want to me. Take me when you are ready. I can wait a long time, even if I am dripping wet."
"In a little while," I said, "I am going to lick your pussy." I wiggled my finger in her. "I am going to put my tongue here, rolled up like a drinking straw, and I am going to suck you like a cola bottle."
"I can make all the cola you want." She stroked my hair steadily, as if it too could become aroused.
"I am going to want a lot of juice," I said.
"I can make a lot of juice," she intoned.
I put my hands on her dress, outside, on her hips, and had her turn slowly. As she did, I started lifting that loose dress in which her shape had been enticingly moving around since that day in the library. Now, at last, I was getting under there.
"Do whatever you like."
"This is what I like." I lifted the dress slowly, fondling her ankles, her calves, her thighs. They looked pale. She was richly shaped and pale in this light, though her skin was really a very soft honey color. "I watched you and saw the shadows of you under your dress." When I had the dress up, and her two cheeks stared at me, I stopped her. I laid my cheek against one warm buttock, then turned my head and laid my other cheek on her other ass cheek.
"Do you like them?" she asked.
"Yes." I kissed each one.
Her hands pulled them apart an inch or two, and she bent forward. "Do you like it?"
I touched it with my finger, pushing lightly against the brown flower in its beige concavity. "I like it very much."
"Is it pretty?" ("Yes.") "Is it what you like?" ("Yes.") "When you are ready, you can play with it." ("Wonderful.") "You can do whatever you like." ("Thank you for being so generous.") "I am not only generous, I am hungry for you." ("I have been stretching it out and taking it slow to let you enjoy being hungry.") "Promise me that you will do what you like." ("I promise I will do what I like.") "That you will do everything. Everything you like." ("I promise, and I think you will like it too.") Her groan of anticipation was almost a sob, shuddering intake of breath as she massaged her breasts with her hands and rolled her head back. "I know I will."
I turned her around so that my face was in her bush. She held up her dress for me. I embraced her bare legs and pulled them toward me so that my mouth was in the mouth of her river delta. "Lift your dress high." She lifted it to just under her breasts. "Lift it higher. Take it off." She struggled with it for a moment, but I stood and helped her take it off. She puffed. "I am so hot—it's time I got naked. I am so hot for you."
"I wanted to stop and look at your titties."
"Oh, yes, here they are, waiting for you." She held them in her hands. They were full and a little limp, with big brown nipples. I kissed her navel—an innie—and then her titties—they were beige and had great almost sorrowfully shaped nipples the color of chestnuts. As she held her titties for me to bite, she moaned softly and her aureoles rose in a garden all around the nipple stems. "These are long nipples," I said. I sucked on them, licked them, pushed them this way and that with my tongue. They folded over and snapped back. She twirled each nipple between thumb and side of hand. "I'll make them longer for you. Watch." They became engorged and almost doubled in length.
She giggled. "They're like Tootsie Rolls, huh?"
"Oh yes. You know what?"
"What?" She suddenly felt an ardor and pulled my face to her and kissed me passionately. Her tongue invaded my mouth (the way she wanted me to do anything) and poked this way and that. "What?" she said, letting go. She held my cheeks in her palms and looked at my lips as if eager to kiss more.
"I didn't dare dream when I saw you, P, looking so beautiful and regal and elegant and magnificent in that library, that I would ever get under that dress and kiss everything you have under there."
"I saw you looking at me."
"Did you think I would get under your dress?"
"I wasn't sure I would let you. I didn't know what kind of guy you are, but now I know you're very nice. I wasn't sure you would turn me on so much. But I did look at the bulge in your pants."
"Did you want to touch it?"
"I wanted to suck it." She looked down shyly. Then she gave me that frank look again. "I'm almost ready to start exploring you while you explore me."
"I'm ready any time you are. What I was going to say was—do anything you want with me."
"Honest?"
"Yes."
She looked a bit squirmy as if she wasn't sure. Or maybe this wasn't the time yet. There are two points of realization in a love affair, as regards sex. The first is when the woman first opens the gate. The man comes in and looks at the flowers in her yard. Their conversation is conventional. The second point of discovery is when they exhaust their formalities, and their hunger overcomes their caution. Then he reveals to her, and she reveals to him, what really turns them on. The first element of discovery had come when she let me under her dress. Were we rushing it now to reach the point where she was going to reveal her closest secrets, her most intimate fantasies and desires, to me?
"You mean anything?" She had her palms on my nipples.
"Anything. That's our deal."
"Okay, well, I am so horny now that I want you to just fuck me straight out, missionary, and then we'll rest a while. Maybe we'll try a few other things." I had been dribbling ejaculate without realizing it, until she pointed it out to me in her master bedroom upstairs. On the bed, while I lay on my back, she licked the head of my dick, while I caressed her thigh. Wasting no more time, she lay back and spread her knees. With her small, blunt fingers, she parted her labia and I crawled closer to the golden gate. She had an innie brownie. A layer of baby fat under hard skin made her pussy look like a girl's hairless slit, even as her Venus mound was a thicket of heavy hair. As her fingertips pulled apart the fleshy cleft, I saw small brown labia hidden in the valley, and deeper down, the pink cave my finger had earlier visited. She had brown freckles around the pee hole opening of her urethra, and a brownish clit under a tight little hood. I know it has been hard for you since we first kissed this evening. Now you get in there, quick. I want to feel you inside of me. Oh, look at the size of that thing. Come, here, Peter."
I was in, not a second too soon. Through the gate, which resisted for a second before opening wide, and into the tunnel I went. P let out one of those deeply, deeply affected moans again and pulled me toward her by my elbows, then by hands around my ribs. We wailed together, and she slapped my buttocks repeatedly, making me come even harder. This wasn't the night for the second revelation, but next time would do the trick.
We saw each other several times a week, and each time we enjoyed the long, slow buildup. She liked to tell me "Do whatever you like," and I loved telling her "I want to have you." We'd build up slowly. I always liked her to wear one of those loose dresses. She would ask me on the phone: "Want them on or off?" It was secret code for, did I want her to wear panties and a bra or not. I changed the answer regularly, to have the best of both worlds. Sometimes I liked to fuck her as she wore her dress. Sometimes I liked to fuck her as she wore both her dress and her panties, and at those times I liked to pull her panties bottom aside to slide my dong inside.
What came next now got me even more hot for her. After we made love, and lay resting, she got that silver dildo out. "I want you to warm this up by putting it in your mouth."
I shrugged and stuck the tip in my mouth. She watched me avidly, while putting a hand behind her. When I looked quizzical, she turned partially around so I could see she was putting her index finger in her butt hole. I didn't ask, because I figured out what she wanted, and she didn't explain. She took the dildo from me and rubbed a lot of petroleum jelly on it. She reached behind herself and started massaging the rim of her asshole. The silver tip had a vibrator in it, which sounded like a little buzzer.
She closed her eyes and rocked her body gently as she became aroused. I kissed her and pulled on the hem of her dress to make it ride up over her titties. While she was masturbating her asshole, I held her titties and kissed them. I sucked on her nipples and made her moan. By now she showed me, holding two fingers up, she had two fingers in there. She kissed me avidly on the mouth, and I couldn't resist—my cock was hard again and I slipped it into her cuntie. But she wouldn't let me stroke her hard. She had another plan in mind. She took her fingers out and put the dildo back in. Finally, she pulled my dick out of her, tossed the dildo aside, and turned around to show me her asshole. It was open and relaxed about a half inch or more. "It's nice and ready now," she said. "Slip inside me, honey."
Careful not to tear anything or hurt her, I slipped my head through and got my shaft into her rectum. Her sphincter was tight around my shaft. It took another three or four minutes, and generous amounts of petroleum jelly, to get that tight sphincter of hers loose around me. I fucked her long and slowly, going in and out while she encouraged me and fluttered her fingers over her clitoris. We came together with great timing.
Then I turned her over and put my tongue into her innie. I was after that little pickle that had pointed so insolently at me. She watched me while she kneaded her breasts. Her nipples were huge. I saw her glazed, aroused eyes staring down over her bush as I sucked on her pickle and pushed her thighs back.
Afterward, we lay quietly together in the lights that glowed in the park outside her condo window. During the night, she must have had a little dream. Her cry woke me, and I held her. She sighed with satisfaction. I slipped my penis into her asshole again, which was still packed with petroleum jelly, and I whacked away, in and out, while she reached behind her and held one of my buttocks. "That is very nice," she said. "Do me again in the morning, okay?"
In the morning I woke up with a hard-on. She had gotten up to pee but came back under the covers and fell back to sleep. I scooted down a bit, bent her over, and slipped into her wet vagina. Her cunt was still wet with pee, and her bush had pee on it like dew. "I didn't dab myself, on purpose," she whispered. "Do to me whatever you want."
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