Loading...I watched my fingers creep slowly down the slope of my belly, edge into the wispy brown forest covering my mound and disappear into my wet and waiting hole. Then I snuggled deep into my warm bed, turning slightly into my pillow and reached out to Jane Carter.
In the past few weeks my fantasy had become increasingly familiar. I would meet Jane accidentally at a grocery store, Jane would ask me to dinner and there would begin the exquisitely slow revelation that we loved each other. The fantasy would start with subtle words, move to even subtler touches which would lead to the torrid love-making I had never had. But the story was a huge stretch to my imagination because I didn’t think of myself as gay and I suspected Jane didn’t think of herself as … anything.
My name is Sally Parsons and I’ve been laid eight times in the past 12 months, each time by a different guy who was invariably drunk and who inevitably fled. On my 29th birthday, spent entirely alone, I came to the conclusion that I will never get my man, simply because I will never settle for any man I can get.
When I thought about this, and I often did, it didn’t depress me, not at all. I’m plain and plump and had accepted my physical limitations all the way through high school and college — and now in the working world. I once wished I’d grown up thin and pretty and popular, but that was a long time ago. Not any more. Now, I fully accept myself, with all my blemishes, and I’m successfully building a life I thoroughly enjoy.
But there is a slight flaw. It isn’t my job, which I like: a financial administrator for a federal government department. And it isn’t my lifestyle; I’m essentially a passive spectator surrounded by movies, TV programs, trashy novels and gossip mags. No, I rather like my life and don’t mind at all that I’m not forced to cook and clean for a guy who would be as plain and homely as myself. No, my problem is that I really like sex; like to think about sex, read about it, write about it and like to engage in it. Most of all, I like the feeling of sex, particularly feeling a warm body coming alive beneath me.
And that’s what I am thinking about as I lay on my bed with my hand between my legs and my face pressed into in my pillow: the warm body beneath me: Jane Carter.
I don’t know Jane Carter, don’t really know much about her. Jane is director of public affairs in my branch but because I’m tucked away in finances I don’t have much chance to see her, just a brief glimpse now and again. I’ve asked about her of course, but no one seemed to know very much. All I’ve been able to learn is Jane Carter is in her mid-forties, very good at her job, has never married and is, by all accounts, polite but cool and aloof, if stylishly so: she’s always immaculately turned out.
I like to play with my pussy after I cum. I like the wetness, the smell, the taste and, recently, I like to imagine Jane’s grey, intelligent eyes watching my fingers nibble at the edges of my pussy. In the past few days I do something else, too: after I cum I strategize and plan because I’ve decided to try to make my fantasy with Jane Carter come true.
————-
“Jane?”
Jane Carter looked up from the pyramid of mellon, “Yes?”
“I’m Sally Parsons … from work.”
“Oh, yes, Sally, hello. Finance, isn’t it?”
I was so surprised she knew anything about me I stammered, “Public Affairs,” then realizing my stupidity, I added with a laugh, “You’re Public Affairs, I’m Finance.”
Jane smiled, “Right,” and returned to the mellon.
I hadn’t actually planned to talk to Jane tonight. I had chosen this night, Friday night, to stake her out because to me Fridays are the most adventurous night of the week and therefore would probably offer the greatest insight into Jane’s world. I had taken a cab and followed her bus. When she got out, so did I and I followed her into the grocery store. As I said, I didn’t plan on confronting her. Really, I just intended to watch her for the evening, see where she went, where she lived and what she did, but bravado, and perhaps a little desire, pushed me into the introduction but because I hadn’t got this far in my planning, once done I didn’t know what to say. I settled for, “A relaxing way to spend Friday night.”
Jane looked up from the melons again. “Relaxing?”
“Well …,” I shrugged, then, realising it was a stupid thing to say, I said the first thing that jumped into my head, “I’d ask you over to my place for supper but it’s so small …,” I shrugged again.
She seemed flustered. “Oh, no, no. That isn’t necessary.”
Her reaction surprised me and somehow gave me more confidence, “But I’d like to get to know you.” Then the idea struck me. Why not? “Hey, maybe I could buy the food and cook it at your place?”
It was next to impossible to suppress my giddiness. I was stunned by how easy it had been; shocked that I was walking down the street with Jane Carter — and we were heading for her place!
Earlier in the day, alone at my desk, with my hand under my skirt, stroking my pussy, I had no thoughts that I’d ever get this far, this soon; at the time, my excitement was only that I was about to try. So my success was a little unbelievable, and a little frightening, too because I hadn’t a clue what I was gong to do next.
Nothing about her apartment surprised me. It was stylishly, with big rooms and cathedral ceilings and it was immaculately furnished. And nothing about the place offered up any clue about her, either; it was soulless: the rooms seemed almost photographs from an up-scale magazine, attractive but without emotion, like the owner. If there was a hint of passion anywhere, I couldn’t see it.
All this occurred to me while I waited on the couch where I concluded that Jane lived in the very centre of a very small world and she wasn’t going to let the inconvenience of a visitor disturb her routine. After we’d put the groceries on the kitchen counter she had walked away and only when she reached her bedroom door did she look over her shoulder and explain, “I’m going to change.”
But she could cook: that was obvious, not only in the efficiency of preparation but with the results. Right from the first bite the complexities of tastes of the stir fry were exquisite, the problem was, there were just so few bites. She might eat well, but she ate like a sparrow.
Two people, with absolutely nothing in common, can have a tough time communicating, particularly when the host is indifferent to the presence of her guest. We settled on bios.
One of the beauties of being 29 is that when someone asks me about my life I can pretty much cover it off in a few minutes. But 45, as Jane revealed herself to be, requires a lot more time and is usually a lot more interesting.
Not in Jane Carter’s case. She was raised on a farm in the Mid West, got her communications degree at the state college and for 20 years had risen through the ranks of the federal service. She was an only child to parents now deceased and had never married. That seemed be about it!
Hard to believe because she appeared to have it all. She is attractive, in a fragile, elegant kind of way, tall and thin, small boned, with a long patrician face framed with lustrous brown hair and dominated by intelligent eyes, aquiline nose and rounded chin. And she is toned, clearly, she is toned: the only perceptible fat on her are her large breasts that press against an expensive grey blouse.
After the brief supper I helped her clear the plates then sat back at the dining room table waiting for her to make coffee. As far as I could see her environment was as severe as her personality. She had no reason to be happy about her life and there appeared no evidence she was. This excited me, this was what I had hoped for. If Jane’s world had shown any form of joy, pictures, hobbies, the flashing light on her answering machine, a stack of personal mail, an inbox stuffed with friends, I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance. But looking around the antiseptic rooms, her world appeared absolutely sterile, absolutely joyless and this was what I was banking on: I could be Jane’s joy! It was just a matter of finding out how. But first, I had to find a way to keep our relationship going.
Jane provided the solution when she disclosed that every Saturday and most Sundays, she went hiking in one of the state parks surrounding the city. I didn’t hesitate, I jumped at the opportunity, “Oh, wow,” I blurted, “I’d love to join you. I’ve always wanted to get in shape like you.”
Jane’s reaction was indifference. She said she planned to be at the Bear Paw trail head north of the city at 8:30 tomorrow. I was welcome to join her.
When I got home I ate a large bowl of Sugar Pops, took a long bath and was in bed by 11 with my fingers slowly caressing my pussy and Jane’s panties pressed against my nose. I wasn’t going to take them from her hamper, I was just going to feel them, sniff them and try them on, but after I did, I knew I had to have them. But I knew it was a risk, too. Jane seemed the type who would keep track of things, and her panties, like all her clothes, were expensive. Should I risk it? I knew I shouldn’t but then I thought, even if she did notice they were gone she would never think I would lust after them, that I would steal them, and if I was wrong, and she did figure it out, well, that couldn’t help but advance my cause, or end it.
Getting to the Bear Paw trail head next morning took two buses and a cab and I arrived ten minutes late. Shit, I thought, as I looked around the parking lot, entirely empty but for three cars. My instinct was to tell the cabbie to turn around, but it was a nice morning and, well, what the hell, I was here so I got out, walked past the signboard and headed down the trail — and almost fell over when I looked up and saw Jane waiting for me on a bench, by the river.
—-
It was too much. I could feel it in every bone, every joint in my body — I hadn’t walked so far in years, maybe never, and my pain was obvious to Jane, too. “You’ll feel better after a long bath,” she said.
“Maybe, but I only have a shower,” I lied. Even through my pain I was thinking.
She hesitated for just a moment, “Come on then,” she unlocked her car, “I’ll take you home. You can use mine.”
Last night, during my bath at home and even while masturbating with Jane’s panties, I’d been troubled. Working myself into Jane’s world had been exciting, sure, but what I had found there was so empty, so antiseptic, so uninteresting that I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend any more time with her: she seemed utterly boring, hardly alive; it was as if she was sleep-walking through life. But she sure was alive on that hiking trail. The exercise seemed to energize her, invigorate her. She talked almost constantly, pointing out the beauty in every flower, plant and tree, always with an eagerness and enthusiasm that astonished me.
At her place, I felt better the moment I entered the hot, soapy water. It felt magnificent, my aches and pain seemed to melt away and what’s more, the fatigue from the walk transported me to my favourite place, the drowsy moments before sleep.
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
I had almost drifted off. “Oh, yes, please. I’d love a glass, thank you.” And while I waited, I giggled when the thought occurred to me. I sat up in the tube and wiped the soapy bubbles from my chest and listen for her. This would tell me something. Surely, this would tell me something.
When Jane knocked on the door and entered, I turned a little in the tub to face her, wanting to read her eyes. And I didn’t put my hand out for the glass either; I wanted her to come to me, to walk all the way across the bathroom. And I wanted her to look at me, I desperately wanted her to look at me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the glass from her hand. “This is wonderful.”
When the door closed, I slipped under the water, my heart beating like a jazz drum, my face contorted in a grin. She had looked! She had looked at my tits and it had shaken her! It was obvious and I knew there was a chance!
When I got home I was so stiff when I got into bed I didn’t bother masturbating. I just put Jane’s panties on my pillow, rested my face on them and drifted off imagining my arms around her.
Next day, I could barely move: my legs, even my arms had stiffened painfully into rigid pegs, and I was only marginally better on Monday when I struggled to the phone to book off work: I didn’t think I could have made it to my desk if it was the only payday of the year.
I was in the bath when the phone rang at 9:30. “Are you all right?”
It took me a moment to interpret the voice, I was too busy suffering and toweling off, “Jane?”
“I phoned down to see how you’d recovered and they told me you’d called in sick. Are you all right?” Her voice had an unusual urgency to it, as if she was concerned.
I laughed, “I’m getting there, but God, I think I need to spend a few hours with a masseuse.”
She hesitated awkwardly and I didn’t understand why until I replayed my own words. It was as if I had asked her to give me a massage: that’s the way she must have taken it — and in her hesitation she seemed to be considering it! I pressed a little harder, “But, jeez, I don’t think I could even make it to the massage table.” I held my breath.
The phone line was dead air but I was determined to wait her out. Then she spoke, “I could come by after work.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.”
Her offer seemed to have embolden her, “No, no, I will. I bring you something to cheer you up.” She asked me for directions and said she’d see me after 5.
If I needed a little exercise to loosen me up, I got it — by cleaning my apartment, every nook and cranny of it. If she was going to get a glimpse of my world, it was going to be as spotless as hers. Easier said than done: it took my aching body until 4:30 to tidy up three years of neglect. But I was glad I did it because once it was done I had only a half hour to fret over my plan of attack and what I’d wear.
When I opened the door, she had a fruit basket in one hand, a small white plastic bag in the other and a nervous smile on her face. I was feeling much more limber and loose from all my exercise so I exaggerated my discomfort on my way to the couch.
She was uncomfortable, there was no doubt about it, and I was too, I wanted the lines I had rehersed to work. “I’m sorry about this, Jane. I really am. I hope this doesn’t mean I can’t go walking with you again. I really enjoyed it. It was fantastic. The best time I ever had and I can’t wait to do it again. I hope I can go again on Saturday, if you’ll ask me. I hope by then I’ll recover.”
Her smile was disappointingly motherly but her response was great. “I’d love to have you come next week, maybe this will help.” She opened the bag in her hand and showed me a small jar of massage oil.
“Oh, God, really, a massage, that would be just so fantastic.”
“I feel a bit guilty. Maybe we went a little too far.”
“No,” I protested, “I absolutely enjoyed every inch of that trail; I enjoyed everything about that day. In fact, I’ve promised myself to get in shape so we can go as far as you want.”
Jane smiled and for the first time looked around. I took the hint, “Maybe I could lay down on my bed.”
When we got up, I led the way. “It’s my legs. They’re just killing me.”
This part I had planned. When I approached the bed, I didn’t hestitate, I just took off my rather ratty robe and climbed onto the bed and lay on the spread with my head on my folded arms. All I had on was a pair of pink panties, the best pair I owned. “Is this alright?”
She didn’t answer and didn’t move: the air seemed perfectly still for a full minute then I felt the bed sag as she sat down and in a moment I felt her hands on my feet, kneading the oil deep into my skin.
“Oh, God that feels so good,” I signed. And it did. With her touch the pain in my arches seemed to float away, and with it all my anxiety.
But my anxiety quickly returned. Her touch on my callused feet was one thing; her touch on my legs was something else again. And her fingers weren’t massage deep into my muscles, either, they were touching, feeling — exploring, nervously, hesitantly, moving upwards agonisingly slowly, and it was really getting to me.
When I moaned, her fingers froze. I didn’t mean to moan, that was the last thing I wanted to do, it just escaped, like the fluid was escaping my pussy. I held my breath and forced my mouth against my arm. She must know. Surely she must know that with her fingers on my legs, even lightly, she was turning me on, that I was hovering on the edge of an explosion. She had to know that. SHe had to smell it.
And I think she did because her fingers were hesitant now, barely touching me and then I heard it. It sounded like a sob and it scared me so I quickly turned over to look at her. She was hunched over, she seemed almost in a trance, slack jawed, her eyes moving slowly up my body, looking first at the pink covering of my pussy, slowly moving up my stomach to rest on my breasts. I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t, couldn’t breath. She looked so confused, so disoriented, it was as if she had just discovered a troubling secret. It scared me and I guess it scared her, too, because all of a sudden she got up from the bed and almost ran from the room and the apartment.
I didn’t move. I waited — for a half hour than I got up and called her home. When she answered I said, “It will take me over an hour in a bus to get to your place. It will take you ten minutes to drive to mine.” I could hear her on the line, her breathing was shallow. “I just want to hold you, Jane.”
The line went dead.
It was the longest 30 minutes of my life and the knock on my door was the loudest. When I let her in I took her hand and walked her into my bedroom where I took off my robe and lay down on my back and reached my hand up to her.
But she didn’t take it. She stood absolutely still, two meters from the bed. “What do you want of me?”
“I want to hold you.” No, I wanted more than that, but this was no time for that.
She didn’t seem to hear me, “Do you have any idea how lonely I am?”
The words were almost a whimper but they thundered in my ears, I tried to be encouraging, “I’m lonely, too, Jane. When we’re lonely together, we won’t be lonely.”
“Do you want to be together?” The thought seemed incredible to her.
I looked intently into her eyes, trying to convey an absolute truth, “Yes.”
This seemed to shock her, “But why?”
Here it was. “I want to go to sleep with you, wake up with you, cook with you, walk with you. I want to put my fingers on you, my lips on you.” And then I said something that was at the very heart of my feelings. “I want to make you happy, Jane. I want to be your very own angel of joy.”
“Angel of joy?” The words sounded silly, childish, but that’s what I wanted.
“I want to be the one to make you happy.”
“But why?” Should just couldn’t understand
“Because that will make me happy. It’s something I want to do.” I sat up and took her hand and pulled her down onto the bed. “Just let me hold you. I only want to hold you.”
She was stiff and rigid and once she was lying on the bed I couldn’t move her, so I moved myself into her, putting an arm under her neck and an arm over her waist, pulling her into me with my chin on her hair. Then I gently caressed the small of her back and I waited for her to relax. But she didn’t. Instead, she pushed her face into my neck and cried.
I didn’t try to stop her; I thought she needed it; I thought the demons in her needed to get out, and as far as I was concerned, the sooner the better. But it wasn’t sooner. I held her tight while she cried, trying to reassure her, trying to show her I wanted to protect her. But it didn’t seem to help, not for the longest time. I think the only reason she stopped was exhaustion.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I got up, feeling the blood flow back into my right arm and the burning irons in my joints and got a box of Kleenex. When I lay down beside her again I watched her dab at her eyes, then blow her nose.
Her smile was apologetic, “I don’t know what happened. I just lost it.”
“Do you feel better?”
When she looked over at me, all she could see was my naked chest. “What do you want, Sally, I don’t understand.”
I kissed her hair, “Honestly? I’ve already said it. I want to be your angel of joy, nothing could make me happier.”
I could feel her frustration, “But what is that, an angel of joy? I don’t understand.”
“Are you happy?”
She hesitated, as if not wanting to deal with the truth. “No.”
“Have you ever been happy?”
She hesitated again. “No … Never.”
“Would you like to be happy?”
“Of course I would.” There was a hopelessness in her voice.
“Can you learn to be happy on your own?”
Her laugh was hollow, bitter, “Apparently not.”
“Well, that’s where my angel of joy comes in. I can make you happy, I’d love to make you happy.”
But she didn’t respond, not for the longest time. “Is this about sex?”
“No, it’s about making you happy, that will make us both happy.” But that was only partly true so I felt I had to add, “But I want to make love to you, too, Jane. I really want to make love to you.”
She struggled up and sat on the edge of the bed. “So it is about sex. I don’t want it.”
I sat up beside her. “I don’t either.”
She looked at me, she really was having a hard time figuring any of this out. “But you just said you did.”
“No, I said I want to make love to you, there’s a big difference.”
She had turned away, “It’s the same thing.”
“No it isn’t,” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Are you afraid to touch me?”
“No, of course not.” But she didn’t look at me.
I lay down again, “Then touch me.” When I took her hand and placed it on my naked stomach she froze, but she didn’t remove it. “Touch me, Jane. Please. Touch me.” Then I added, to ease the tension, “You caused all the pain, at least you can massage a little away.”
She looked at me and gave a little laugh, but it got her hand moving, just a little and I gently stroked her arm in encouragement.
Her mind must have been spinning. At first she wouldn’t look at me but as her fingers began to cover a greater area she looked over at them. “I shouldn’t be doing this, Sally.”
“Why? You don’t like to touch me?”
“No, it’s not that …”
“I love you touching me, Jane. I think about it all the time. And I think about touching you.” I caught her arm and gently pulled her down and I snuggled into to her. “I want to be your angel of joy. I want to bring joy into your life. Will you let me?”
She didn’t answer me, but in a few moments I could feel her relax and I wanted her to stay that way so I just held her. When I woke up she was gone.
At work, I looked at the phone all day wondering if she would call, wondering if I should call her. I didn’t and she didn’t and I didn’t see or hear from her for the next three days but on Thursday night, as I walked to the bus stop after work she came up to me from behind, took me by the arm and said, “Can we go for a walk?”
We went over to Drower’s Park, two blocks away. She didn’t say anything, and I didn’t know what to say. When she hadn’t tried to speak to me after our night together I thought it was over, I thought I had gone too far, too fast. Now, I was confused.
But when we were walking in the park she said, “I’ve always been alone, Sally, for as long as I can remember. I don’t know any other way to live.” I started to say something encouraging but she squeezed my arm to stop me, “Please, let me just get this out.” We walked a little further in silence and I wonder if this was a Dear Joan walk. “I don’t know what you see in me. I don’t know why you want to spend time with me, no one ever has. And it scares me.” We walked in silence for a minute, I knew she was thinking. “Funny, ah, a 45 year old woman scared because someone seems to like her.” I spoke up again, but again she stopped me. “I’m scared because I don’t know what you want. And I’m scared because I don’t know what I have to give.”As we walked I fought off the urge to grab her, to squeeze her.
“I’ve been dancing on air for the past three days, Sally. Dancing on air.” I had been preparing myself for rejection so her words didn’t really register at first, but when they did, I stopped and grabbed her arm. But she pulled it away. “Please, just listen to me.” And I wanted to but when she started to walk, I couldn’t move so she came back and faced me. “I don’t understand any of this, Sally. I’m just lost. But I feel alive when I’m with you. This is what I want to tell you. I want to spend time with you.”
But it wasn’t the kind of time I wanted to spend with her. I wanted to be in her bed, in her arms, instead I was sitting beside her later that evening at a movie. I didn’t take her hand and she didn’t take mine but I could feel her next to me and I could feel that she was leaning into me, just a little. Not the next night though. On Friday night she took me to a well lit hall to listen to a chamber orchestra which, surprisingly, a really enjoyed.
We were on the trail on Saturday morning by 8:30 and by 10 we were resting in a tiny meadow overlooking a falls. She was sitting on the grass with her arms pressing her knees to her chest telling me how she had discovered the place. She was glowing. In the past two days she’d become a different person. She had opened up, welcomed me into her world and I was feeling a love and desire for her I could barely contain. I wasn’t listening to her, I was looking at her. Since I first met her she seemed to have undergone a metamorphosis, like a flower in time-lapsed photography, gradually opening until, at this moment, she seemed to be in full bloom. I couldn’t take it any longer. I stood up and reached my hand down to her. When she took it I pulled her to her feet and into my arms and I held her, feeling the heat from her body, her breath on my neck and I could feel her arms tighten around my neck.
I knew it might wreck the moment, but I had to know. I pulled back, looked into her eyes then put my lips on hers and waited. She didn’t kiss me, but she didn’t pull back either. She just sorted of panted on me, as if wanting me but not knowing what to do. But I did. I squeezed her to me and sucked in her lips and I could hear myself moaning and she was moaning, too but she sounded a little scared so I released her, hoping she wouldn’t flee. She didn’t, she seemed like she was in shock: her eyes were wide and white, staring at me.
I couldn’t keep my hands off her all the way back to her apartment, not on the trail, not in the car and not on the walk to her door. And certainly not inside where I wrapped her in my arms and hugged her then pulled her towards her bedroom. But I couldn’t make it. Even before the doorway I was down on the floor pulling off my shoes and socks and I had my shorts and tee shirt off before I jumped on the bed.
“This is really easy for you, isn’t it?” She wasn’t annoyed, she was just standing by the bed, fully clothed. I reached up and took her arm and pulled her onto the bed beside me, “If you want something as badly as I want this, how hard can it be?” My hands were tearing at her shirt but she pushed me away and sat on the edge of the bed. Even there I couldn’t stop myself. I reached for her tee shirt and tried to take it off but she pushed my hands away again. “Jeez,” she laughed, “You’ve been mauling me since the meadow.”
“Well, ya,” and I pulled at her shirt again and got it up high enough so I could kiss the bare and sweaty skin of her back, but only for a moment because she pushed it down again. “Come on,” I was getting frustrated now and I was pulling pretty hard at her tee shirt.
She slapped at my hand, not in anger or anything, but she was making a point, “Behave.”
But, really, I was too far gone for that. I was at her tee shirt again, I just couldn’t wait any longer. “You’ll have to tie me up. I just can’t help myself.” With that she sprang off the bed and went to her closet and when she turned around she had two scarves in her hands and a mischievous smile on her face. “Oh, no you don’t!”
“It was your idea.” She sat down beside my and took my hand and I let her tie a scarf around it.
“This isn’t fair,” I said, but, really, I was unbelievably turned on, but I don’t think she knew it, I think she just wanted to keep me still for awhile while she sorted out her emotions.
“I can’t do this the way you want to do it, Sally.” She tied the scarves around both my wrists and then to the bed posts. When she finished she bent down and kissed me gently on the lips. “I have never had sex before.” She waited to allow that bit of information to sink in. “I have never wanted it, and anyway, I have never had the opportunity.” She started to touch my stomach like she did when she came over to give me a massage. “And then I met you.” She leaned over me and carefully released my breasts from my sports bra.
When I watched her lips lower onto my stiff nipple I struggled at the scarves, which no longer seemed like a good idea, “Please, Jane, undo me, I’ll be good.”
But she didn’t; she looked up at me and smiled, “In a minute,” then she returned to my breast and licked and sucked it gently, then she did the same to the other and I could see my erect nipples glisten with her spit.
“Please,” I said, “please.”
She sat up and put her hands on my panties but before she removed them she kissed me on the stomach. “When you first told me you wanted to have sex with me, wanted to make love with me, I was shocked. Disgusted. Do you remember?”
I could feel her finger nails under my panties, “yes,” my voice was a whisper, my mouth was dry, I could hear my heart.
I raised my bum and she pulled them off and dropped them on the floor and looked at my sex, clearly, she was no longer disgusted. “I have never before been naked in front of anyone.” She kissed me on the stomach again, I could feel her chin on my pubic hair. “Do you want to see me?”
“Please, Jane,” I was squirming at the ties, “don’t do this. Let me go.”
She took her tee shirt off then leaned forward and kissed me on the lips, “Just be still a minute. This is hard for me.”
When she turned and started to take off her hiking boots I thought I was going to faint. She was wearing a very thin jog bra; I could see a nipple straining against it and I’ve never wanted anything more than to have that nipple in my mouth. I moaned, “Jane, please.”
She turned to me again when her boots and socks were off and she kissed me gently, “I’m not trying to be mean. Just wait a moment, this is one of the big moments of my life. You can give me a minute or two.”
But I couldn’t, “Oh, God, Jane, please,” I was now frantically pulling at my binding, my legs squeezed together to fend off an orgasm, but I knew I wasn’t going to last, “I’m going to cum, Jane, I’m going to cum.” Her eyes went wide with surprise, it seemed to shock her, “Please, your fingers.”
It took her a moment to understand me but when she did, she leaned down beside me, put her fingers between my open legs and allowed me to beat myself against them and scream into her shoulder while the convulsions spasmed through me, wave after wave and my insides seemed to gush from me onto her fingers and I could see my chest heave while I fought for air. Then I collapsed, hopelessly drained of energy, helplessly in love, tied to a bed now soaking up my own juices.
I could smell me on the fingers that were now caressing my face, “Are you alright?”
“Oh, God, Jane,” I was pulling at the scarves and curling my knees to get to her, “let me loose, Jane, let me hold you, I need to hold you.”
She pushed me flat and kissed me on the lips more tenderly than every before. “Another minute, just another minute, I want you to see me; do you want to see me?”
“Oh, God, Jane, this is so not fair.” I had tears in my eyes now but she couldn’t see them, she had turned away and was now standing, taking off her clothes. I fought through my tears to see her but it was like looking at her through an opaque window. “Please, please,” my voice whimpered, this was so unfair, all I wanted to do was hold her.
Through my tears I could see she was standing still just a few feet away. “Well?” Her voice sounded timid, unsure.
I started to cry from my frustration, “I can’t see you, Jane; my eyes are filled with tears.” I felt powerless, like a prisoner, all I wanted to do was hold her and she wouldn’t let me.
I felt the Kleenex daub at my eyes and when I opened them and blinked a few times she was sitting beside me, smiling. “This is hard for me, Sally, I have never been naked in front of anyone before. I just want you to look at me. Please look at me, then you can hold me. OK?”
When I nodded she got up and stood before me. She is thin with big breasts that sag slightly and she has a magnificent triangle of whispy brown hair at her crotch. I lost it; I exploded in rage, “Take these fucking things off me right now!”
I was frantically pulling at the scarves when I felt a breast beat at my face as she tried to undo the knots, but I had strained so hard they were impossible to untie so she got some scissors and when she cut me free I threw my arms around her and wrestled her onto the bed and I lay across her crying, I didn’t know why, from fear, from relief, from joy, from love. “You tortured me,” I said, as I felt her hands caress my head, soothing me, as I had tried to soothe her a few days ago.
She scoffed, “I didn’t torture you, I just wanted a little time and I wasn’t going to get it with you pulling at me.” She kissed my hair, “Anyway, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
And I knew she didn’t, I knew she was nervous, I could sense how hard this had been for her. But she had done it, she had kissed me, put her fingers in me, she had coaxed from me the most exquisite orgasm of my life and she had taken her clothes off for me and was lying beside me, with her face in my hair and her hand caressing my arm.
She looked up expectantly as I pulled myself away from her and kneeling over her I began to stroke her stomach, as she had stroked mine. I felt her shiver at my touch and she tried to turn away, but I pushed at her hip and she settled back, turning her face away, breathing hard, her chest heaving. “Oh, God, Sally.”
How many times had I been here in my dreams? How many times had I had Jane Carter under me, begging for my touch, begging for my love. When I bent down and sucked at her long hard nipple she moaned and she was moaning when I kissed along her stomach, down to her pubic hair when I pulled her legs apart and gently eased a finger in her and when I did, she thrust at it frantically, bucking at my fingers and she let out a long shrill scream and I turned to watch her sit up so she could look at herself as a magnificent flow of warm fluid exploded from her, bathing my fingers, soaking the bed.
She was pulling at my arm now, trying to pull me down but I didn’t move, I couldn’t, I watched the fluids seep from her, pooling in a great wet stain between her legs. It was the most erotic thing I had every seen, ever imagined and I couldn’t help myself, I bent down and nuzzled my face into her, tasting her, feeling her wetness against my face, the wetness I had caused.
She was pulling at me more insistently now, so I lay down beside her and she swung a leg over me and folded herself around me, pressing herself into me. I could feel her trembling so I caressed her back which was smooth and muscular. “That was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” I said, and I meant it. “You are magnificent.” When I pushed her off me, onto her back, I rested on my arm and looked at her.
She had tears in her eyes but she was smiling. “Oh, God, Sally, I don’t know what to say.”
She began to kiss my shoulder. I reached out to her breast, took it in my hand, squeezed it roughly, thumbed the nipple then bent down and sucked on it to get it wet then I rubbed it against my cheek and eye, feeling the erotic intimacy in my groin. I had no idea I could feel like this.
She pulled my face away and kissed me, “Ewh,” smelling herself on me she pushed me away, “You need a bath.” She rolled off the bed, and laughed, “and so do these sheets.”
I didn’t move. I watched her as she bent down to pull the sheets from the bed, her large breasts swaying, her inner thighs still wet. She seemed an entirely different person, far more sexual, far softer, more vulnerable, more human — more desirable.
She looked over at me, “Well?”
“I can’t believe you tied me up!”
She was bending forward, her hand on the bed, her tits hanging so erotically I could feel it in my pussy. She smiled, “You told me to.”
“I couldn’t keep my hands off you.”
She laughed, “No kidding.”
“And I won’t be able to, either, I won’t ever be able to keep my hands off you.”
“It was a big thing for me, Sally. I don’t know why but it was a big thing to me. Seems stupid now,” she looked down at her breasts then went to her closet and put on a robe. “It was difficult to take my clothes off in front of someone. It didn’t help that you were trying to pull them off. Nakedness is new to me. I’ve never really been naked,” she smiled embarrassingly, “I’ve never really look at myself.”
“You should. You’re fantastic,” I rolled off the bed towards her. I was planning to pull her robe off and I guess she knew it because as soon as I was standing she pushed me onto the bed again. It surprised me, “Jeez, who are you, ropes, violence …”
She was laughing, “Take a bath, I need to clean this up.”
I did as I was told but it wasn’t easy leaving her and it wasn’t easy watching her sit on the toilet, that’s why, when she looked away, I grabbed her by the robe and pulled her into the bath tub. She was sputtering when she came up and she looked scared and angry but I pulled her to me and kissed her with everything I had and she was soon kissing me back and climbing on me, her wet robe a weight on both of us.
She helped me and I had the wet robe off in a moment and she straddled me with her tits hovering over my face, teasing me. “You may have been afraid to get naked but ever since you did you’ve acted like a wanton harlot,” I said.
She pressed her breasts into my face, laughing. “I’m a quick learner, thanks to you.”
I had to have her again. I pushed her out of the tube, onto the floor and I was on her with a towel, rubbing her, roughly while she struggled. “Come here,” I said, struggling to my feet, trying to dry myself. I pulled her up and pulled her into the bedroom and when I pushed her on the bed I lay down, snuggled into her, pushing my face between her legs.
I was in no hurry now, I was where I wanted to be. I wanted to smell her, taste her and when she exploded this time, I wanted to feel her juices flood against my face, my lips, into my mouth. I wanted to possess this woman, own her. I wanted her to be mine.
And I wanted to be hers. I wanted her to want to taste me, to suck on me, I wanted her to want to put her tongue in me, I wanted to feel her breath in me, her moans in me. But I didn’t want to force it on her, I didn’t want to force me on her. So I waited, with my pussy inches from her face, hoping.
It started with a simple kiss. She leaned forward pecked me on my pussy then escaped backwards. I nuzzled my face further into her and waited, hoping she would take my hint. But she didn’t, not for the longest time, but then she came again, lightly kissing again, but this time she didn’t pull away, this time she left her face on me, kissing gently and as I pushed at her more forcefully, so she pushed at me.
I pulled away, “Jane?” I looked at her.
She looked up from me, surprised, “Yes.” Her face was wet, she was panting.
“I want you to cum for me, like before. I want to feel you on my face.”
As if in answer she plunged her face back into my pussy, sticking her tongue in me, moaning loudly, uncontrollably and when I had my face again between her legs she forced herself against me, riding my face bringing her self closer and closer to the same orgasm that was building in me.
It wasn’t so wet this time but because I was there, I was able to have it all, all that flooded from her and all that remained on her legs and pussy. I don’t know why it mean so much to me, but it did.
When we discussed it later I said I thought it was because, well, it was her, and I wanted all of her. She thought it may have been something far more primordial. But it didn’t matter why, it just mattered that we had finally connected in a way that left no doubt in our minds. We were made for each other.
—–
We went to work together on Monday. Rode up the elevator together. When she got out at the floor before mine, she turned, kissed me on the lips, squeezed my hand and said, “Have a wonderful day, Angel.” Then she smiled at the others in the elevator and left.
I don’t know what they saw when they stared at me. But I know what I was feeling.
I was an angel of joy. I was Jane Carter’s Angel of Joy.