My wife had to do extensive research for a comprehensive study of the life style of a tribe of Native-Americans out west and that meant that she had to go and live in New Mexico for the best part of a year. I decided to go with her because I can work anywhere as long as I can power up my laptop and so we rented out our house in New Jersey and found a nice apartment in Gallop and we quickly adapted to the climate and we loved the magnificent landscapes and the friendly people and we almost regretted having to come back east when she’d finished her project.
Because of our long absence we found it difficult to pick up where we’d left off as far as friends were concerned but being invited to go up to Connecticut to visit her best friend – Julia, whose husband’s name is Will – didn’t present a problem because the two women had kept in touch via e-mail and had often talked on the telephone while we were away.
The drive to their place takes over two and a half hours but I don’t ever mind that in the least because I know that we’ll be going sailing after lunch and that we’ll then stay overnight up there which means that the only limit on my drinking will be the amount of vodka and bourbon that’s in their cabinet. We were, as always, taking two bottles of our house Pinot Noir with us because they tend to buy whatever is on sale at their wine store. I don’t think that they so much as look at country of origin no matter about type and vintage as long as the offering in question shows substantial savings except, as she once told us, “It has to be the right color, of course.”
They have a veranda that stretches all along two sides of their house and one side of it overlooks a creek that has a weeping willow and by feeding a family of ducks twice a day they keep them at hand most of the time which enhances the view. The veranda is not air-conditioned but it has screens on all sides and there always seems to be a cooling breeze pushing on through. Also, maybe to stay aware of the breezes, she hangs plants from the ceiling in wired pots and they’re mostly the ones that she says are called ‘Mala Madres’ – so named because seeing that their ‘off spring’ don’t get a chance to put out roots near ‘Mommy’ they simply hang way down as if abandoned. Also there are groups, or groves, of different types of small trees sitting in round, wooden planters and there are other plants on every flat surface that isn’t already taken up by the usual kinds of ornaments and bric-a-brac. The veranda is so big that in spite of all of the greenery there is room in the central part for a semi circle of four chaise lounges, each with its own little table, with plenty of clear space around them.
As always we had lunch out there and she’d made ‘canoes’ out of still warm baguettes and had lined them with lettuce and had then filled them up with strips of filet along with potato salad and sautéed onions and red and green peppers. She usually provides Bass Ale to go with lunch but there had been a sale on a German beer in her supermarket so she’d bought a case. It tasted all right, good in fact, but even so our taste buds felt somewhat cheated.
When we’d caught up as far as descriptions of our trip and their year and the welfare of our families and had covered local happenings we had to postpone getting into politics and world events because by then it was already time to leave if we were to get in four or five hours of sailing on the Sound. We carried the dirty dishes and glasses to the kitchen and she, Julia, stacked them in the dishwasher and then we all got into their station wagon and took off for the boatyard.
A large part of the pleasure that I get from going sailing with Will is watching him handle the boat. He doesn’t need any help with it, even though it’s a thirty-eight footer, because he has powered winches, and powered-whatever-else, for just about everything on board and he can raise or lower the sails, and handle them, all from where he is at the wheel. I’m aware that none of it is easy, far from it in fact, but because of long practice, combined with skill, he makes it look as if it’s effortless.
There was a fresh wind that day so the sailing was exhilarating and I was pleased about that although I have to admit that my pleasure was augmented from knowing that because of the strength of the wind the sailing part of our excursion wouldn’t last too long because Will wouldn’t want to keep fighting it single-handedly for long and we would then go swimming.
By four o’clock or so he had indeed had enough and so we headed for a favorite bathing spot of theirs that is in a picturesque, sandy cove that is nearly surrounded by pine trees.
We all demurely went below in turn to change into swimsuits and then we swam around for a while and then sat on the sand to warm up again and then we swam back to the boat.
I got to the ladder first and I climbed up so as to be able to help the women do the same and Julia came around the stern well ahead of the others. As I was pulling on her arm the wash from a passing powerboat pushed her against the rail of the ladder and the clasps of her bathing-suit top somehow got pulled apart and the fabric fell away.
She couldn’t fix the problem with her one free hand and keep on climbing up at the same time so she sensibly and resignedly left her top as it was and I had the distinct pleasure of being allowed to look at both of her comely – no, ‘lovely’ is a better word – breasts for perhaps a half minute as I was helping her to come aboard. I’d known her for years and years and although I was well aware that she was big up top I’d never suspected that her breasts were astonishingly attractive too and I have to put that down to the fact that she always wore severely restraining bras underneath all-enveloping clothes.
You can be quite sure that I didn’t let go of the arm that I was pulling on nor hurry with the task of helping her up the ladder because those seconds were quality time indeed.
When she had both feet on deck she did that lovely bending forwards thing that all women do to re-capture their breasts in their supports and then she refastened the clasps. As she was doing it she said in a low voice, “Ay Dios mio! It was Showtime for you, right Jack? Thank God the others didn’t see. Promise that you won’t tell them what happened. Please?”
I promised but only by nodding because my throat was constricted by something that might well have been my heart.
To this day I only have to close my eyes and think back and I can clearly and cleanly see every detail of the way that those lovely orbs looked that day with the sand and the salt on them glinting in the sunshine. Her nipples are rather small for a mother of three but that’s not carping by me because I’m well aware that the wonder of the whole easily swamps all criticism of the various parts. Awesome is the word that always comes to my mind even though I’ve never been able to understand why what should be – what are – utilitarian mammary glands have so much effect on we males.
That phenomenon is epitomized for me by an experience that we had when, years earlier, I was accompanying my wife in Ecuador when she was working there for a month or two to do a magazine article and we were visiting a tribe of native people. The chief could speak some Spanish and he told her about a neighboring tribe’s chief who was better able than he was to answer some of her more involved questions. She was very interested in what he’d said and was keen to go and talk with the other chief and so she pleaded with him for directions and he eventually, albeit reluctantly, gave them to her. While he was doing so his face had a rueful look on it and when he’d finished he told us that he wished that he hadn’t mentioned the other tribe because he knew that we would never come back to see him or his own tribe again after seeing them. My wife asked him why did he assume that and he said it was because of ‘him’ as he lifted his chin in my direction.
“Que pasa con el?” my wife asked him.
“The women over there go around with their breasts uncovered.”
That from a guy whose only clothing was a leather flap that was hanging in front of him and that barely concealed what he had between his legs when he was standing still and either very poorly or not at all at other times.
After that I gave up on trying to make sense of our collective obsession with breasts.
We all had some vodka when we got back to their place and then, at dinner, we drank both of the bottles of wine that I’d brought and then we had brandy with our coffee.
Julia and I were excluded from the conversation that my wife and Will were having because it was about accessing various obscure websites on the Internet that they both deal with for their work and they might as well have been speaking in Urdu as far as we two were concerned seeing that Julia would have nothing at all to do with computers except to receive and send e-mails and I use mine solely to get onto Word.
Julia was wearing a dress that had nearly zero décolletage but looking at what was showing – the merest hint of a valley between her breasts – was enough for me to easily conjure up and bring to mind the whole of what I’d seen that afternoon.
I was bursting to know if what had happened had been completely and totally inadvertent on her part or not. If not – Wow!
I had to know. Clearly, I had to know.
I didn’t get married until I was past thirty and consequently I got to be good at ‘chatting up’ women, as the Brits say, and I decided to use what had been my most successful ploy back then on Julia. It is for use only with mature women for obvious reasons, as will become evident. The idea is to find a way to get to ask more and more intriguing questions about their love lives and when they balk at giving out further revelations you come out with the fact, whether it’s a lie or not, that you’re writing a novel, or a series of short stories, and you badly need first hand information from a woman to make what you’re working on sound balanced and more authentic. You then plead for permission to ask just one more question of a very intimate kind and if they agree then you’ve got them hooked. You go on as if you’ve forgotten about promising that there’d only be one more question and before long it seems to them that you’ve been allowed to get so far into their private lives that ‘your place or mine?’ becomes a logical and accepted question. With the aid of alcohol it’s as if, to them, the two of you have been going to bed together often.
One key to getting started properly is to find out if there’s been a divorce or a separation or a loss of custody in the woman’s life, or some such, and then use that as a springboard. With Julia it was the fact that she’d recently had to stop using Prozac – becoming an empty a year or so earlier had made her depression deepen alarmingly even though she’d been looking forward to that event for years – and her only reason for giving it up was because her doctor had taken her off it so because of the recent scare about its prolonged use.
“Do you find that alcohol can take the place of the ‘dreaded drug?’ ”
“Ho! How I wish that were so. No. It doesn’t even come close.”
“Oh. Well what else have you tried?”
“Well, I bought the three completely different OTC drugs that my doctor recommended but none of them worked after a few days.”
“Perhaps that’s the key, right there. Why don’t you try buying ten different kinds and use one kind for two days and then use another kind for two days and so on and then start again at the beginning? Does that make any sense?”
“Wow, yes, I’ll try that. Sounds like it might work but I very much doubt it because with the ones I’ve tried already even on the first day they don’t even approach what I was getting from the ‘dreaded drug’ as you called it.”
“Oh. Well, what about self indulgence? Food maybe?”
“No, that won’t work because I already eat far too much but, luckily, my metabolism deals with it so well that I’ve not gained more than ten pounds since college. Anyway, even eating till I’m stuffed doesn’t help me much.”
“Puh-lease! My ankles won’t stand for it. I can’t even walk for more that ten minutes without their sending up continuous messages about quitting and finding some place to sit down.”
“Television? Books? The movies?”
“I do all of those things but we always get home from the movies at around ten o’clock and no matter how interesting the book is, or whatever I’m watching on television, I’m always ready to go to bed by around eleven every night because I’ve done that for years and I’m firmly in the habit now. You know, the big problem for me is that it’s in the first few minutes of being in bed that my irrational worries come and bother me and that means that instead of going to sleep in a few minutes, as was once usual for me, it sometimes takes what seems to be hours of reciting my mantra and applying logic and – well, all the other techniques that I use like deep breathing – before I can beat them and force them away.”
“When you go to bed, eh? Seems to me that that points to the fact that having sex at that time might ward off those ‘worries’ of yours.”
By then my wife and Will had gone into the study where the PC was located and had left us alone at the table and that was why I’d been able to step up my agenda, and as I’d asked that last question I’d poured more brandy for both of us.
“Sex? Ha! I wish! I’ve completely written that off as being of any use.”
A bit discouraging sure but I was on the right road and she’d given me an opening. Stand back.
“Are you telling me that it doesn’t work for you or that you haven’t tried it as a cure?”
“Really! What a question? Where is this going?”
“Well, what I’m getting at is this. If you are having sex in the mornings or in the afternoons at present why don’t you change the time that you do it and make it happen at night when you go to bed and see if that helps you to stymie your – uh – your problem? It’s a well-known remedy so why don’t you try it?”
“Ha! We haven’t had sex for years so – hey! Wait a minute. I don’t want to answer any more questions like that so stop right now.”
“Oh, dear. I didn’t want to offend you but, well, let me level with you. The thing of it is that I’ve written dozens of short stories over the years – they’re all about relationships between men and women, of course, because what else is there? – but I can never get enough information from the woman’s point of view to be able to close the gender gap and write authentically about the numberless differences between us and the things we get up to as we try to get around them. You know? That’s understandable, right?”
“Well then. Let me ask you this last question and please answer because it’s important for me – when you were having sex regularly did you have orgasms every time or just sometimes and when you did have them were they satisfying and did they always live up to your expectations?”
I held my breath then, well knowing that if she answered those questions it would show that she was interested in pursuing the subject. And, although I knew that it couldn’t ever be ‘your place or mine?’ there might be a chance of my being able to suggest, ‘I know a motel that’s halfway between our homes. Can we meet up there sometime so that I can ask you some more of these intimate questions in private.’
“Well,” she said, “that’s interesting and I’ll tell you how – uh – what you just mentioned affected me because it might help you with your – uh – research: I didn’t have any orgasms to speak of the first year we got married but then I learned about how to – uh – bring myself along beforehand so as to have one of them while Will was – uh – working away to get his and it was a good thing to know because once I’d mastered it instead of hating the fact that he wanted to get at me day and night I actually began to look forward to his asking ‘Come upstairs for a quickie, dear’ or ‘How about a little loving, Babe?’
“Ah! The good old days,” she went on after reminiscing for a while. “Not any more though, I’m sorry to say.”
I’d gradually let my breath out as she spoke and I could practically feel those lovely breasts of hers in the palms of my hands.
“Where did you find out about ‘bringing yourself along?’ Was it from a magazine or a book or did friends tell you?”
“Oh! From a magazine of course. I would have died before I could have brought myself to discuss my love life with friends. Back then none of us did.”
“Did you do it with your fingers or did you buy a vibrator?”
“Oh well now, that’s easy to answer too. For the same reason as not asking my friends about anything to do with – uh – sex it had to be with my fingers because I wouldn’t have dared go into a store where they sell such things. Nor would I risk get one mailed to me. Think about what could happen!”
“Do you have one of them now?”
“No. Still don’t.”
I backed off from that line of questioning – ‘self-help’ – because I sensed the danger in that if I was overly helpful in that regard I might well render any ‘outside help’ with her problem – meaning me of course – unneeded.
“When you used your fingers prior to having intercourse did you go into the bathroom to do it or while he was with you?”
“Oh! In the bathroom of course. How could I have touched myself in front of him? Ha! You know, it just came back to me – uh, it’s funny looking back on it now but it certainly wasn’t funny at the time – I remember that he never got used to having to wait a few minutes for me to join him and he used to shout raunchy things through the door.”
“Well – uh – he’d say that if I didn’t hurry he was going to break down the door and that I should guess what he was going to use for a battering ram! Oh, and – ‘Do you hear me knocking on the door, babe? Believe it when I tell you that I’m not doing it with a baseball bat!”
“How long did it take for you to get ready for him?”
“Not long. Less than five minutes because when I was doing it I’d concentrate on the fact that I was soon going to have a – have his – uh – thing inside me and although, normally, for me that prospect never ceased to be a curious thing to have happen it somehow became a positive turn on after I’d – uh – gotten into it. Also it was cumulative in that the closer I got to – uh – being ready for him the more sensitive I got and the more I wanted to – uh – to do it. Also, of course, as I got to be more expert at doing it I needed less time.”
I kept leading her along and sometimes she looked a little uncomfortable with where I was going and so I’d back off but eventually, by asking the right questions at the right pace, I managed to bring her to the point where she could answer really intimate questions about her love life on a scientific level without thinking of them as being overly personal. For instance, when I asked her if she knew where her G-spot was she said, “Oh, I’ve read about that but I also read that not all women have one and I’m one of those.”
We got so far along that I could, and did, ask her, “Did you ever try oral sex?”
“Oh yes, sure. He used to do it to me for a few minutes when we were getting started every time, ‘to get really ready’ as he’d say, but I never did it for him in return. No way! Ha! You want to know something? Although penises are necessary, I suppose, I think that they are nasty and ugly beyond belief and smelly into the bargain.”
That almost made me pause for regrouping but I knew that I had to keep on asking questions on the same level or we’d lose the flow.
“What about anal sex?”
“Madre de Dios! – What a question! Certainly not. The very idea!”
“Don’t you think that everybody should try everything at least once?”
“I certainly do not. Some things are out of the question. Completely out of the question and that is very definitely one of them.”
“Did you ever try spanking or tying each other up?”
“Not those either. I’ve never understood how that can be pleasurable.”
“Well, now I’m guessing that you don’t know what ‘frottage’ is nor what ‘making a fire’ for him is nor what – – – ” I had to stop talking then because we heard the others come out of the study and I knew that it was time to spring the all important question so I leaned towards her and I held her hand to keep her attention and I whispered that I had a half dozen more questions but they were so intimate that they could best be asked in a motel room somewhere and would she consider it?
She made a sound that was between a snort and a gasp and she pulled her hand away from mine and then started talking loudly – far too loudly I thought but no alarm showed up on Will’s face that I could see – about a movie that she’d seen the week before.
Nothing much happened over the rest of that weekend that was out of the ordinary – we got nicely drunk on fiery brandy after dinner on Sunday but that was usual for us – and we left at about one o’clock the next day after brunch. When I’d kissed Julia goodbye, on her cheek, I took a second to look into her eyes but they gave nothing back that was special. I saw no reason for any hope as regards my proposal but there was no cold and disdainful dismissal out of hand either so that was something at least.
She was wearing one of those wrap around dresses and she didn’t have a bra on and I had been sneaking glances at her all morning, whenever she was moving, and her breasts wobbled nicely every time and I’d note how they bounced and then I’d close my eyes and see them do it again, naked in the open air with the sun making the water droplets and the salt and sand granules on them glint.
I hoped that she’d left off her bra, not a regular practice of hers as I’ve said, to put on a subtle show for me but I’ve been very wrong about such things before.
Julia called my wife several times in the next week to chat, in the evenings, and I knew that she couldn’t possibly send me a surreptitious message through her but I always stayed ready to spring up and run over if my wife called out, “Julia wants to ask you something.”
I couldn’t call her at her home because Will worked there most days.
When the mailman came on the Thursday of the next week he left a package that was wrapped in plain brown paper and my heart jumped and I felt warm all over when I saw that the sender’s name was Julia Wyeth. Not ‘Will and Julia Wyeth’ – just ‘Julia Wyeth.’
I could hardly bring myself to open it. I wanted to cherish it in its unmolested state but that idiocy didn’t last long and when I did open it I found that it was a hardcover book on one of my favorite subjects, Naval History, but I barely registered that fact because I wanted to find the message that had to be in it.
First I shook it while holding it ‘loose leafed’ – nothing fell out.
Then I checked the frontispiece pages one by one and then the back pages – nothing.
I took off the dust jacket and used a magnifying glass to check every inch of it, inside and out, for a message – again, nothing.
I then turned my attention to the brown paper wrapper and I checked it out too with the glass – nothing.
That left the stickers. There were three of them: the printed paper stamp – I didn’t bother with that because obviously it had been put on by the Post Office clerk – and the sender’s stick-on label and the return address label.
I carefully eased off the label that had my address typed on it by lifting all four corners and then using a razor blade on the center part so as to not rip it, and again – nothing.
I started to do the same with the return address label and I found that I didn’t have to be as careful because I found that a little piece of Scotch tape had been placed at its center so as to protect the message that was underneath it.
Written in a tiny hand was the name of a motel along with an exit number of the Merritt Parkway and following that was ‘noon’ and then came a date that was for the Wednesday of the next week.
I really suffered until that blessed Wednesday came around. My poor wife had had to put up with some heavy pounding from me because knowing that those breasts and much more were going to be available to me soon made me nearly constantly horny. I forced myself to leave her alone from Monday morning on – there was no way that I was going to give up on having our usual long-drawn-out session on the thick sheepskin mat in front of the fireplace in the living room that we do after lunch on Sundays whether the fire has to be lit or not – to let my reservoirs fill up, but it sure was difficult. I felt like a sixteen year old with raging hormones who was being forced to wear boxing gloves at all times and to keep his hands outside the covers when he was in bed.
On the magic Wednesday I had to stop for a traffic light just before I could get onto the highway north and I took out my map and I saw from it that the motel that she’d picked was nowhere near halfway between our two houses but then I acknowledged to myself that if she’d picked the Chateau Frontenac in Quebec I’d be on a plane right then with never a complaint.
I got up there, more that a quarter of an hour early, and I saw, to my relief, that there was a notice outside that said quite clearly that there were ‘Short Stay’ rates available so I paid for four hours and hoped that Julia wouldn’t notice the sign and then I realized that she wasn’t programmed to even guess at what ‘Short Stay’ signified and that if she did read the notice she’d assume that it referred to regular business meetings or the like.
When I saw her car pull into a parking space I was torn between going out to greet her – and then escort her in as if we were a married couple – and waiting in the reception area and I decided that it would be best to stay where I was so as to give her time to compose herself as she walked to the entrance. Anyway, I thought, why would I want to even try to fool a clerk who works in a motel that rents out rooms by the hour? Why would he care?
When we got into the room she’d obviously rehearsed in her mind what she was going to do when she got there – perhaps as many times as I had? – and she immediately began to undress although she didn’t take her eyes up off the carpet the whole time.
I followed suit but my eyes never left her.
When those marvelous breasts got out into the air I stopped still and gawked and when her panties dropped to the floor I saw that her belly swelled charmingly just so and that her bottom was taut and very attractive too.
I closed with her right then and we did some deep kissing and even with the urgent need we both felt to get down to the fundamentals it was then that we found out that for both of us kissing like that satisfied something deep inside, which, in my limited experience at least, is rare in adults. When I eventually lowered her onto the bed and was about to join her she laughed and told me that maybe it would be best if I took my pants off first and, “while you’re at it, why not take your shoes and socks off too?”
When I’d done that I went back to the bed and by then she’d thrown the cover to the floor and had folded the top sheet away, and was lying on her back in the middle of the mattress. Her legs were closed and I saw that her pubic hair was black and dense and was trimmed into forming a perfect triangle. I felt a little disappointed when I saw that because with the drawn curtains and with only the one dim light on it looked as if she was wearing a bikini bottom and, of course, I’d expected to see something fundamental and intriguing.
When I’d progressed to the point of wanting to open her legs she resisted and then put both of her hands onto her thighs as if to be ready to cover herself with them if necessary.
Before I could remonstrate she said, quietly but urgently, “Jack, I think it’s best if you don’t look. It’s very ugly, and – uh – exposed because each baby made it open up more and it has stayed that way.”
I said reassuringly – and honestly, as all men will surely agree – “What nonsense! It might be ugly to you but for men there’s never been such a thing as an ugly cunt since the first one evolved.”
When the crude word hit her it made her flinch but she forced herself to push aside her disgust at hearing it spoken in order to say, bitterly, “I know one man who wouldn’t agree with you there.”
I couldn’t touch that statement, of course, but I could and did take advantage of her moment of mental distraction to move her hands up to her belly and then she kind of stoically gave in and she relaxed her legs and then moved her hands on up until they were covering her face. I took that opportunity to move over to the other side of the bed and I switched that lamp on too.
When I’d moved back to her I fondled her for a few seconds to get her to relax some more and then I parted her legs and bent her knees to form a cradle and that, of course, made her legs open wider, and then I looked.
‘Open’ was the word that she’d used and it was a good one if only one word was allowed but I much preferred the phrase that jumped to my mind – ‘A predominantly pink, very busy, wonderfully cluttered gash.’
“Wow,” escaped me, and then, “Magnificent!” eased out and then I closed my brain to anything other than the wonder of it.
“Ay Dios mio, Jack, you’ll never know how relieved I am to see you doing that nor can you possibly guess how petrified I’ve been – ever since I made myself send that message with the book – that, after one look at it, you might not want to have anything more to do with me. You’re a darling, darling man and I really do want to thank you for it.”
I managed to get out a “Mmmnnnph.” for an answer and then I went back to my task but as I did so I was pleased to know that what I was doing was evidently also important relief work on a social level.
No matter how much I was loving what I was doing for her I didn’t spend all that long a time down there – in fact only until I’d given her an orgasm to reassure her – because I’d had a half-hard on ever since I’d crossed the NY/CON border and a three-quarter one ever since she’d walked into the Lobby and one that was as hard as steel ever since she’d gotten undressed. So, well before I was even close to being replete, lingually-speaking as you might put it but probably wouldn’t, I had to quit and I barely paused to mouth at her breasts on my way up and then I drove into her like a madman.
Afterwards she held me firmly against her and when I’d partially recovered we did some lovely deep-kissing and then we rested for a half hour or so and then my long-term training kicked in and told me that I should get started on pleasing her again.
Because it was our first time together I decided to keep everything more or less regular.
I gave her another straight forward orgasm with my tongue and when she could speak again what she said next showed that she was clearly in awe of me because she revealed that ‘in her heart’ she’d never really believed that it was possible to have more than one of them in any one session. That prompted me to give her another one and she liked it even more.
When she came back, from her far-away world, we did some more kissing and touching and, all too soon, it got to be time for us to leave but to show me how grateful she was she asked me to keep still and then gave me a long heartfelt kiss of the kind that women only give to a man who has done something very, very special for her or hers. It was the kind that you’d best not receive if you’re standing up and I could still feel its effects on me when I was only a few miles away from home.
As we were dressing she kept breaking off to come over and give me long kisses with mumbled endearments and I let her get on with it each time. I guessed what would come next and sure enough, when we were both fully dressed, she made me sit down on the side of the bed so that she could sit next to me and lament over how much pleasure she’d been missing out on all of her life by not having been introduced to cunnilingus until now and when I could get a word in I told her that I know four ways to give multiple orgasms with my tongue and that I’d only showed her one of them so far but would be happy to show her a second one, ‘the Accumulative method,’ the next time that we met up. (Those last few words were uttered with a silent, fervent prayer.)
She didn’t give me the confirmation that I was praying for until we’d gone down to the parking lot and I’d closed her car door for her. She wound the window down and asked, “Jack, por favor mi amor, can we start a bit earlier next week? Now that I know how wonderful being with you is the long wait after breakfast will be agonizing for me.”
I got to the motel at eleven o’clock the next week and she was sitting in her car waiting for me.
We walked up to our room hand in hand and a second after I’d closed and locked the door we lost little time in getting naked and even less before getting together.
We came out of the Mother Nature induced detent afterwards by doing some kissing and it worked up in intensity and then eased off – because I was slow to respond properly due to the extraordinary amount of satisfaction that I’d been given – and so we were able to talk about the strange amount of pleasure that we both got out of kissing and which we’d never come close to experiencing with anyone else. We did some more of it to prove the point and we stay lip-locked for a long period to experience the warm contentment that had built up in our brains and had slowly seeped down until our entire bodies were saturated with it. One of us would occasionally break away to use lips to pull at the other’s, like you see actors on big and small screens doing a lot of lately, or we’d wrestle tongues and the like but soon we’d quit that and go back to basics to allow the warm feeling to build up again. If one of our heads was above the other’s then that one would use gravity to let his/her tongue loll down – the muscles of the tongue don’t ache so much that way – and it could then go on and on and it always gave us both a wonderful feeling of closeness and of sharing.
Because, on the first time that we’d met in that same room, neither of us had given a thought about anything as mundane as wanting to eat we hadn’t thought to bring food with us the second time either but the intensity had, inevitably, eased off a little by then and so our stomachs forcefully brought the fact that it was lunchtime to our attention, at around one o’clock, and we both realized that we couldn’t live on love alone, although we tried hard, and so I got dressed and found a sandwich machine and a soda one too. The sandwiches were, as usual, close to being inedible and we resolved that from then on she’d stop at a deli on the way down and I’d buy a six pack of Boston Ale on the way up.
When it got to be time to turn our full attention to each other again we got serious and after I’d gone through a few of my favorite routines I told her that it was time for me to show her the second one of the four ways that I know to give a woman multiple orgasms.
I peaked her interest no end when I told her that all three of the next ones call for the woman to stay in charge and because of that she can not only decide on the number of them that she wants but, after a little practice, she can make them meld together into being close to continuous.
“Wow! That’s wonderful but – uh – I can’t remember what you called the way that we did it last week. Does it have a name?”
“Well, it was just one after the other, with pauses in between, until you’d had enough, right? Remember? So it’s called ‘Sequential.’ Well, anyway, this next one is called ‘Accumulative’ and this is what you have to do – – – – – ”
She soon got to be proficient at it and she needed a full half-hour, after she’d become satiated, to gather up enough strength to be able to get dressed.
When I’d escorted her to her car, that second time, she got in and then opened the window and said, “Whew! That was ‘Accumulative’ right? What are the next two called?”
“ ‘Consecutive’ and ‘Explosive.’ ”
“Ooooh! I can hardly wait. Uh, you know something, Jack? All last week I went to sleep the minute that my head touched the pillow! Those demons knew that they didn’t stand a chance against a master. Well, goodbye, maestro. Oh! – Uh, Jack. Can we meet here even earlier next week? Please?”
The next Wednesday I arrived in the parking lot at ten o’clock and she’d gotten there before me again and was waiting in her car.
When we were in the room, instead of undressing, she sat on the bed and indicated that I was to sit next to her. When I’d done so she took my right hand and put it squarely on her left breast, outside her blouse, and then she said that she wanted us to kiss ‘nicely’ for a while and that my hand had to stay where it was already and I was to take a long time to get any further with her and the reason for all that was that ever since the last Wednesday she’d felt that she’d somehow reverted to being young again and she’d found that that clearly wasn’t a sensible position to take up because her friends, and Will, had noticed a big change in her and couldn’t understand what was going on and were beginning to treat her warily. She was scared that if she didn’t find a way to disguise her newly found delight with life immediately, “Dire results might come from it.”
She told me that she’d thought and hard about it and had come up with something and it would please her immensely if I’d go along with it.
Her idea was that if we pretended that we’d just met, and were on our first date and were sitting in the last row of a movie house, we could neck for a while and she’d resist my every move until she was overcome with need and if we then got down on the floor and I did it to her that would maybe fool her psyche and jolt it into acknowledging that, because of what she’d done, from then on being frivolous and gay was totally inappropriate behavior seeing that she’d just allowed a guy to go all the way with her on their first date.
I thought that that was the most convoluted piece of thinking that I’d ever heard but, of course, I knew enough to oblige her.
She took her theory so seriously that at first she allowed no tongue at all although she kept the kissing up until our lips were sore and then, after one of her more steamy kisses, I took my hand off her breast and eased it down inside her blouse and we progressed from that – using all the stops along the way that every teenager knows all too well – until we ended up on the carpet and after I’d obliged her, like a raw youth who’d had zero consideration for her feelings, I helped her up and was relieved to hear her say, “Thank you, Jack. I think that that has probably done the job. Shame has already made me feel my own age again. Uh, mentally that is, physically – wow! – I’m more horny that I ever remember so let’s get all of our clothes off.”
As we were doing that I told her that perhaps next time it would be better if she took the part of a whore and me the part of a john and then, before we got started, we could negotiate, back and fore, a price for what I wanted us to do. She said that that wouldn’t work because although she could manage the role of a teenager, having been one – “not a promiscuous one,” she added quickly – but she had no idea what whores do and didn’t even want to think about it nor about any extra things that they did for money. Nor, she told me, could she bring herself to ponder on how they could possibly live with themselves before, during and after.
She lay still for me to get in some exploring and when I asked her if she was ready to learn that week’s lesson she sat up and said, “Wait a minute and listen to me, please. Do you know what I’ve been thinking about ever since last Wednesday night when I went to bed at home? Well it’s this. I’ve slept like a baby every night since our first time so I want to do the ‘Accumulative’ way again and you can show me the ‘Consecutive’ way next week. OK?”
I told her that I’d do anything that she wanted but, “I think that it’s best if we do the new one now so that you’ll be able to pick and choose better next week. It’s up to you. Which?”
She took a while to ponder on it and then she said, “Well, you’re the maestro and you’ve been right every time up to now so, OK. ‘Consecutive’ here we come.”
I got her take up the correct position at the side of the bed and I took up mine and then I explained what she had to do to make her orgasms meld into each other.
I made her repeat the instructions and when I was sure that she understood the sequences properly we got on with it.
When it got to be time for us to leave, around three hours later and with many forced breaks in that time, I had to half carry her down to her car and we had to sit in it for at least a half hour, without touching and without talking much, until she felt up to driving home.
When she’d lifted her head and had told me that she thought she could manage I got out of the car and walked around to her side and she wound down the widow and thanked me again and then she added that she hoped that the ‘Explosive’ method wasn’t nearly as good as the last ones had been because she doubted if she’d survive it but, just in case, could we start even earlier next time?
I had to make up an excuse for my wife the following Wednesday seeing that I had to leave the house before she did for once and I pulled into the parking lot of the motel just after nine o’clock and found that Julia had again arrived before me.
She looked to be full of beans and when I told her so, up in ‘our’ room, she curtsied and said, “Thank you, kind sir. Everybody that I know says something to that effect and because of it I’ve taken to telling them that my doctor has given me an experimental drug. Ha! But listen Jack – about last week’s nonsense with our being in the back row of the movies and all that stuff – well, it was nonsense, of course, but – it worked like a charm! By that I mean that nobody looks at me strangely anymore so that tells me that I’m no longer behaving like a giddy teenager.”
When we’d undressed we followed our established custom of getting on with our favorite routines and then I took time to pledge allegiance to her lovely breasts and then I did a whole lot of playing until she stirred enough to reciprocate and then, when were both properly primed, she looked at me hopefully and asked, “Now?”
“It’s the ‘Explosive’ one, right?”
I got her to sit on the edge of the bed with me at her side and then I put her nearest arm up onto my shoulder and I put one of my arms around her back and then I located and massaged, ever so gently, her ‘I’m one of the unlucky women who doesn’t have a G-spot’ G-spot.
Once again I had to support her on the walk to her car and she said that she’d have to tell everybody that she’d strained her ankle but not badly enough to have to go and see a doctor about it.
When she was ready to drive home I got out of her car and then she, sensibly, asked me if we could revert to having an eleven o’clock meeting the next Wednesday because, “That way neither of us will have to think up lies for leaving the house so early,” and I readily agreed because I didn’t like having to do that either and so why not avoid the possible aggravation?
We kept meeting every Wednesday and over time she learned to appreciate more and more the object that was not only maintaining her mental balance – far more effectively than drugs had ever done – but was also giving her a great deal of pleasure and so her attitude towards it changed radically from thinking of it as a penis ‘that was necessary I suppose but nasty and ugly beyond belief and smelly too’ to having reverence for it and she gradually took over deciding on its exact employment every time that it showed up for duty and especially if it had been her extra-curriculum efforts that had induced it to ‘stop sleeping and get big again.’ She got to be an expert at using it to frottage herself and, when that became a close to normal routine for her, she tossed all of her taboos and inhibitions aside and she introduced it into all of her orifices and to all the parts of her body that could be made to offer up the required amount of friction. One time she explained her new MO to me, after succeeding with a particularly difficult undertaking that she categorically refused to repeat ‘ever,’ by saying that she wanted to be ‘sure positive that I don’t have any more undiscovered erogenous zones.’
Because she was so beautiful and because the sex was always great I kept looking forwards to Wednesdays but, inevitably, as with everything else it regressed into being merely a nice habit to keep up and so I wasn’t much put out when, as I was kissing her goodbye one time, she told me that there was a family gathering that she had to attend the next Wednesday and so we’d have to wait for two weeks before we could see each other again. She’d had the grace to look unhappy about it but I’d sensed for some time by then that her inner guilt was piling up and was making the gilt fall off the lily, as it were, and I guessed that it would almost certainly progress to the point where the lily would shrivel up altogether and so I steeled myself against disappointment and, sure enough, when we did meet up again even though the sex was especially good, as is understandable, afterwards, as we were leaving the room, she demurely asked if we could meet every other Wednesday from then on.
A few months after that she asked if I’d be agreeable to cutting our liaisons down to the first Wednesday of each month and what could I do but agree? The reason was obvious and it was that when we first started seeing each other I’d brought with me a ratio of 20/80 as to guilt and lust but she had more like 30/70 and because of that she got up to 50/50 before I did and I guess that that is the tipping point.
The new once-a-month schedule made the sex get to be red hot every time and that on its own extended the number of our get-togethers but about one week before what turned out to be the penultimate one I too began to think that the long drive – I guess that my own guilt/lust ratio had built up to being nearly balanced by then too – was close to not being worth the candle, as you might say, and I decided that it would be best all around to end it.
I knew that she wouldn’t be much put out when I told her my thoughts about our breaking up but then, just before I’d decided to do so, the reason why our get-togethers had gotten started in the first place came back to me and I had to think long and hard about how to best deal with her mental health problem which would surely come back in the not too distant future when she’d stopped having deep-reaching therapeutic love sessions from me.
Thinking about how to solve that very real problem made me realize that she had probably continued to see me once a month, of late, mostly because I was her lifeline to good health. That thought didn’t help my ego much and it made me wonder how long she’d been using me but I soon came to my senses and acknowledged that up until recently I’d have wanted to keep on seeing her even if she’d told me to my face that she was still showing up solely for therapy.
When I’d focused on the problem for long enough, and had narrowed down the probabilities, I realized that my computer was well equipped to help me find a solution and after some floundering around in various sites like, ‘Medical Appliances’ I was able to click onto a link that took me to ‘Sex Toys’ and from there another link let me read up on ‘Vibrators’ and I eventually found the one that I guessed would be most suitable and it was – surprise! – also the most expensive.
The illustration showed that it was made of shiny glass and could be mistaken, at first glance, for a sculpture. It had a knob affair, which was designed to titillate the G-spot, about seven-eighths of the way down from the tip and it had a two-inch hook kind of thing at the near end that was positioned to penetrate the anus and there was a smaller knob at the front that was there to manipulate the clitoris. Some print underneath the picture promised that the various ‘appurtenances could all be employed at the same time if, or when, desired.’
When I’d assured the site that I was really serious I was told that there was a list of measurements that were required because, as they pointed out emphatically, ‘Exact measurements are essential’ to let them customize each one for a perfect fit, which would, ‘improve the model’s overall performance by a large factor.’
When we were in bed the next time I waited until she was close to being comatose – which didn’t take long because a full month’s hiatus always made her, initially, have an intense reaction to every stimulant of mine no matter how brief – and I used the ruler that I’d brought with me to measure the distance between her clitoris and the upper side of the finger that I’d pushed into her vagina and then the distance between her anus and the bottom of the same finger. The other measurements that were asked for I already knew because I’d decided to use my own measurements seeing that I fitted her perfectly as far as thickness was concerned and, knowing that if I pushed into her a little further than normal I could feel a barrier inside her, I figured that she shouldn’t try to handle anything that was longer.
The next morning I sent in the details and I got the instrument in the mail in plenty of time to take it with me on what was going to be our final rendezvous.
When that time came and we were in our room I mounted her at once as was our custom and then, when I got the necessary motivation back again, I made her get into position for sequential orgasms and later for consecutive ones and I liberally sprinkled explosive ones throughout.
After using her for the last time I got her to lie on top of me and I smoothed her lovely, ever-responsive bottom for a while and then I asked the question.
“Julia, if I told you that I know a way to solve your health problem forever without your having to come all the way down here to be with me what would you say?”
“Oh dear,” she said, “you’ve guessed have you? I did try to be just as loving as always so how did you fin – wait a minute! Did you just say what I think you said?”
I told her my theory and what I’d bought for her and then I moved her off me and I showed it to her and although she immediately approved of it, aesthetically speaking, she was understandably skeptical of its power but she agreed to try it.
She moved onto her back and pushed it into herself and was delighted with the length and the girth of it and when she’d pushed it in all the way the two inch rear ‘hook’ came into play and she let out a gasp of wonder and she didn’t want to give it up.
When I could get it back again I wiped it and then showed her the G-spot knob and she tried to employ it but there was no way that she could get it to work. That didn’t surprise me much because even my finger, its pioneering discoverer, couldn’t find it unless she was sitting just so.
I got her to sit on the edge of the bed and she tried again but she got the same result so then I got her to squat on the carpet before pushing it in and we kept experimenting until we found that if she spread her feet apart two hand’s widths – with her fingers and thumbs extended as far as they’d go – plus an extra inch on either side, and if she allowed the instrument’s base – which was, of course, the two balls – to rest on the carpet and if she moved it just so and ‘did this’ with it, then – “Wow! Oooh!”
When she’d practiced enough and had shouted her approval a half dozen times, or so, I helped her up and she took the thing out and she handled it with reverence and she was one beaming, delighted woman. She said that I was a genius and that she’d love me forever and that she’d cherish my gift forever too and then, “Uh, where did you buy it just in case something happens to this one?”
We spent the rest of the session lying next to each other touching and caressing so that we’d both be able to bring the feel and the heft of each other’s equipment to mind more easily whenever we wanted to, or needed to, in the future.
We parted in the parking lot with one final kiss and she said through her tears that it wasn’t as if we weren’t going to see each other ever again was it? We’d be spending the coming New Year’s Eve together at her place, for instance.
When I closed her car door she didn’t wind the window down and when I drove away I saw that she was still there, leaning forwards onto the steering wheel, weeping.
As I was jostling with traffic to get on the ramp up to the freeway I realized that I’d never asked her if she’d arranged for her swimsuit top to come undone that time on the boat.
We continue to visit each other’s houses three or four times a year and, when we’re staying the night at their place and I pass by her room late at night for some reason, it is strange indeed to see her there in her bed – she always leaves her door open so that her cats can enter and leave at will and also to get the benefit of the heat, or the cooled air, of the main body of the house – and know that her ability to put her heart into her kisses and that her magnificent breasts and her lovely, responsive bottom and, yes, her terrific cunt are all right there not ten feet away from me and are never being used nor touched, nor even looked at, by any man alive but even so I’m obliged to go on past and join my wife in the guest room.
There’s got to be a better way.
A kinder way.
A way in which a man and a woman who discover a mutual, sensual interest at a dinner party or in a bar or at a cocktail party, or wherever, can openly arrange to meet somewhere at a date and time convenient to them both to indulge themselves without commitment and without shame or guilt.
Julia and my wife remain best friends and they regularly e-mail each other in addition to talking on the phone once or twice every week.
She always closes her e-mails to my wife with, “Saludos to Jack.”
Now listen to this – Julia and my wife and I all know that ‘saludos’ comes from the verb ‘saludar’ which means ‘to greet’ or ‘to salute’ and also that the word ‘salud’ translates to ‘health’ but only Julia and I know that the ‘health’ part has vast significance for her and is of great interest to me.
Not to mention pride.
NOTE BY AUTHOR – This story was – and still is in my ‘Docs’ – twice as long as the one that appears here. The four ‘methods’ that Jack uses in it are only given labels here but they are explained in detail in the original version and I’ve edited that out not because of the raunchiness but because if it’s left in the main story line gets smothered and in danger of being side-tracked and over-looked.
If you want to read the whole thing you can e-mail me at the address shown in my first Home Page and I’ll send it along.