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Perhaps a Story to Tell

Category: Mature
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I had just finished a nice dinner and was walking back to the Bed and Breakfast where I was staying. It was still light and there was an orange glow in the west where the sun had set over the Pacific. I thought a glass of wine would be just the thing before turning in. Fortunately, the B&B had some available, honor system of course. That’s what I like about them, so friendly, so trusting.

I travel a lot in my work, and I like to break from the mundane. I had come from Boston with business in San Francisco and Los Angeles. But rather than hop on a crowded plane to stay in another sterile airport hotel, I arranged to drive the rental car down the coast highway and overnight at this B&B along the way; an interesting place with character, history, perhaps a story to tell.

As I entered the sitting room, I found her there reading. Hungry for company after dining alone, I invited her to share the wine. Thanking me for “such a gracious offer, it would only be proper for a lady to accept”. She put her book aside, saying she must have read it a thousand times, and “The company of an interesting gentleman would be a welcome change”.

Her makeup was minimal and her blond hair was tightly pinned up in back, accentuating a graceful neck and jaw line. By her physical features, I placed her in her mid-twenties. Being nearly 45, myself, I find the allure of younger women seldom goes beyond the physical. The brain is very much a sex organ, and unless there is a connection at that level, I can lose interest quickly. Yet it became clear through conversation that she was mature, sophisticated, and intelligent beyond her years.

She said she’d been around for a long time, seen many people come and go. I asked why, if she lived in the area, she was staying at the inn. After a long pause, she said that she simply belonged here. In addition to the slightly odd things she was saying, and the way that she was saying them, there was something else different about her. She was elegantly dressed, but in a very old style. But this was California where anything goes, and it seemed charmingly fitting in this 100-year-old inn with its Victorian antiques.

Well into the second glass of wine, she pushed off one of her shoes and ran her foot a short distance up the inside of my pants leg. Intoxicated, not just from the wine, but with her as well, I accepted her tease and returned a smile. Having successfully tested the waters, she took the initiative to move from her chair to a spot next to me on the love seat. Closer to her, I caught a whiff of a dark, mysterious but hauntingly familiar perfume. I could feel my pulse quickening, my desire building.

More wine, more conversation, more closeness. Innocent touching. Arousal.

I suggested the intimacy of a stroll on the beach and she beamed. Leaving our shoes on the back porch, we followed a sandy path toward the sound of the ocean. The foam of the breaking waves was picking up the light of a full moon. Our hands soon found each other as we walked the half-mile or so to where a rock outcrop barred our way. Stopping, turning toward the ocean, she leaned back against me, pulling my arms around her like a wrap against the cool night air, and I bent my head down to nuzzle in the hair above her ear. Then she slowly turned to face me and, now holding both of her hands, I softly kissed one, then the other. Then I kissed her lips, briefly. Her eyes, gloriously blue even in the pallid moonlight, begged for more.

Another kiss, lingering, mouths open, breathing heavy, arms encircling, bodies melding.

We walked back toward the inn, her head on my shoulder. Before ascending the path up to the porch, she leaned close to my ear, and whispered, “I must have you tonight.” I told her of the fire she had ignited inside me as well. She said she must change into something more suitable and would be at the door to my room in 10 minutes time. I was about to tell her the room number when she said, “I know where I shall find you.”

I stopped by the sitting room to retrieve the wine and glasses; it appeared that I wouldn’t be nodding off to sleep any time soon. Back up in my room, a soft knock at the prescribed moment and I opened the door. She entered, wearing a nightgown of fine silk that, like her dress earlier, seemed from another time. It was gathered at her collarbone and flowed drapery-like to the floor with little ribbon ties down the front. It was just sheer enough that, in the soft light of the room, I could begin to picture her breasts among the folds of material. I offered her some more of the wine, but she turned it down, saying that I was all she needed.

We kissed again. Her hands went over my shoulders and behind my neck, mine settled in the small of her back. As our tongues explored each other’s mouths, I slid my hands down to her rear. Through the nightgown, I could feel no panties. With my fingers gripping each buttock, I pulled her close against my groin, wanting her to feel my hardening dick. Then I slowly slid my hands up her back; no bra either. Higher still, I reached her hair and removed the pins holding it in place. It cascaded down nearly to her waist, soft, blond, gentle curls. My fingers combed through its silkiness on their return to the small of her back where their journey had begun.

We parted slightly to gaze in each other’s eyes, and she said something about it having been a long time. She took my hands and brought them to her breasts. They were full and firm. I gently squeezed them, encircling her nipples with thumbs and fingers as if to draw their milk from them. She closed her eyes, softly moaning. I wanted to see her and feel her without the barrier of her nightgown. Beginning with the top ribbon, I slowly untied each one and, parting the fabric, gently kissed each square inch of her soft skin as it was revealed to me. As I worked my way down, I gradually lowered myself onto the settee that was behind me. The last ribbon was located between her breasts and I nuzzled in the warmth of her cleavage, inhaling more of her mysterious perfume. All the ribbons untied, her hands left my shoulders and she held her arms slightly out and behind her. The gossamer nightgown flowed off of her like water and pooled on the floor at her ankles. There was nothing more between my eyes and her rapturous beauty.

Her breasts were magnificent. Generous globes, puffy areolas, enticing nipples. As I was now seated, they were directly in front of my face, begging to be held, to be kissed, to be suckled. They were soon filling my hands and mouth to overflowing. Every time I pulled one of her nipples into my mouth, it swelled and hardened yet again. Soon she pushed back and I watched her glorious mounds rise and fall with her heavy breathing.

Unbuttoning my shirt and pushing it back off my shoulders, she paused to gaze at my hairy chest. Then unfastening my pants, she pulled them and my briefs off together. Seeing my dick standing up in the air, with an ardent look on her face, she again said something about it being a long time. Then dropping to her knees, she took my dick into her soft, surrounding cleavage. Wrapping her wonderful breasts around it, she bent down and kissed the head that was peeking over the top. Then she started rubbing my shaft, at once moving her breasts in opposite directions, then in unison up and down with long strokes. She gradually incorporated more use of her hands, rubbing my dick on her neck and face, adding more kisses. This evolved into licking and nibbling, and finally taking the head into her lips while stroking the shaft with her hands. She started bobbing her head up and down slowly, each time taking a little more of me into her mouth. Her golden locks were lightly brushing my thighs, adding their own elements of feeling. Her tongue was incredibly adept, finding every nook and cranny, and I was soon feeling a building orgasm. As the sensations increased, she slowed her pace, but continued drawing me nearer. When I was right at the threshold, so close that I could taste the other side, she withdrew her lips. Oh, how I loved to be teased in this way.

I stood up and, taking her hands, helped her rise as well, softly kissing each one, briefly sucking on her fingers. Gazing into each other’s eyes, she reached around my neck and I gracefully scooped her up into my arms, and carried her over to the bed. Laying her on it, I walked around to the end. Kneeling, I picked up her foot and began kissing, licking and nibbling my way up the inside of her calf. Rounding the corner of her knee, my destination came into view, glistening with wetness. Its musky aroma was drawing me in but I slowed to savor the ultra-smooth skin of her inner thighs with my lips and face. But her desires were strong, and pulling my hair, she guided me home. Long slow licks of her labia had her moaning with pleasure. I could see her clitoris swelling and peeking out from its little protective hood. It was demanding attention, but I knew the sweet rewards of anticipation.

I penetrated her vaginal opening with my tongue and her body stiffened. She was so juicy that I could cup my tongue and practically spoon out her nectar. I continued teasing her hole with my tongue as she squirmed on the bed. Finally, while in as far as I could reach, I began a long, slow lick up and out. Maintaining contact as I exited, I continued upward to find her clitoris. She shuddered as I licked it, swirling my tongue around it, sucking it into my mouth, gently pinching it with my lips. Her breathing was becoming shorter and faster, and I knew she was getting close. Suddenly, she gripped my hair in her fists and let out a squeal, squeezing my head between her thighs. Unrelentingly suckling her clitoris throughout her climax, I could feel the rhythmic contractions of her vulva against my chin. She screamed my name, which was very strange, because we somehow never got around to introductions. But now was not the time, as I was still locked onto her clitoris and she was still moaning and gasping for air.

When she calmed down, she said she wanted me to do it again, this time with my dick. I began a trail of kisses up her tummy, stopping to swirl my tongue in her naval. This made her laugh uncontrollably and struggle to resist. After having my fun, I was on my way again up to her wonderful breasts. They were so firm that they seemed to defy gravity as she lie on her back. I squeezed and suckled them as I had done earlier, until she was begging me to fuck her. Crawling forward a little more to where she could finally reach it, she wrapped the fingers of one hand around my aching dick and gazed into my eyes. “I’ve been waiting so long. I knew you would return.” Return? What was she talking about? But I couldn’t question as her other hand had already pulled me down, bringing our lips together. She sucked my tongue into her mouth, while rubbing the head of my penis in the folds of her labia.

Slowly, I lowered my hips and began to penetrate her. As the head passed the opening and she began to experience the full width of my cock, I could see nothing but fiery passion in her eyes. Again she spoke of it being such a long time and locked her feet behind my back. I continued sliding my entire length into her. Once completely buried, I just as slowly withdrew to where I was almost completely out. Then I repeated the process.

I continued with these long slow strokes, gradually increasing my speed. She pulled my upper body down further, wanting the full weight on hers. My arms were now free to encircle her in a tight embrace, while my dick kept pumping in and out of her vagina, faster and faster, slamming my pubic bone into her clitoral mound. Her breathing was becoming short again as she approached another climax. I could feel my own building as well. We were tight in each other’s arms with orgasms on a collision course. We were both getting closer. Closer. I buried my face into the pillow, she bit into the nape of my neck, and together we exploded in orgasm. Our bodies convulsed together, me shooting load after load of my seed deep into her, her vaginal muscles rhythmically assuring she would not miss a single drop. Slowly the convulsions softened to twitching, then to throbbing, then faded away entirely.

We were spent. After a few moments of heavy breathing, I rolled off of her, and she rolled with me. As I settled on my back, she came to rest on top of me, straddling me, arms still entwined, my dick still inside of her.

What did she mean by my return? How did she know my name? I tried to recall having met her before. But it would have to wait until morning, for now she was fast asleep.

I awoke to sunlight and the songs of the birds coming through the open window. But I was alone in the bed. I looked around the room, but she was not there. Was it all just a wonderful dream? On the bureau were the mostly consumed wine and two glasses, one of them with traces of lipstick. In the mirror, I could see the mark where she had bit my neck in our throes of passion. I guessed she had returned to her room and I would be seeing her at breakfast.

I showered and was packing my things when I saw something lying on the floor. It was one of the silk ties from her nightgown. She’ll be wanting it to sew back on, I thought. As I picked it up, I noticed a spot of something on it that appeared to be dried blood. I put it in my jacket pocket.

I placed my bags by the front door, entered the dining room and took a place at the table. My host couple soon joined me. I asked if we should wait for the other guests, and they said that I was it. “We are always full on weekends, but a lone guest is not unusual for midweek.”

So, she was not a guest at the inn after all. Perhaps a friend of my hosts.

While eating breakfast, my eyes landed on something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up and cause me to drop my fork. On the opposite wall was an old painting. It was my mystery lover looking back at me. She was wearing the same dress that she wore in the sitting room the previous evening.

“What’s the matter?” one of my hosts asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Perhaps I h…” and I stopped myself. “Just a sudden chill. Could you please pass me some more of those waffles? They’re really great.”

After a few moments, I inquired about the woman in the portrait. They said her name was Lily. She was the lady of the house in the early 1900s. The painting and most of the furnishings were in the house when they bought it from a woman who was Lily’s sister, Agnes.

They continued the story. “The house was an inn back then, as it is today. Lily’s husband was a terrible man, always drinking, cavorting with the prostitutes at a brothel in the next town. He mostly ignored poor Lily, and she did all the work around the inn. One night he came home to find her sleeping with one of the guests, an older man from back east. In a rage, he murdered them both with a double barreled shot gun. He quickly left town and was never heard from again; some say he headed for Canada to escape the law. Lily’s sister Agnes was her only living relative, and after the property was tied up for many years, the courts decided she should have it. But she didn’t do much with it and finally sold it to us in 1964. We cleaned it up and put it back to work as an inn.”

“Because Lily was an adulteress, the townspeople wouldn’t allow her to be buried in the town cemetery. And no one knew how to get in touch with her lover’s next of kin; all they had was a name in the guest register. Agnes, bless her heart, had them buried together on her property south of town. Lily and her husband didn’t have any children, and Agnes never married. Further, Agnes passed on about twenty years ago, so there are no descendents. Agnes’ house is no longer there; it’s an empty lot, except for the two headstones of Lily and her lover.”

So much comes together now. Her old style clothes. Seeing “many people come and go”. Her feeling that she belonged here. The book she said she’d read a thousand times; perhaps she had. And it having been so long since… well…

But I still couldn’t figure how I fit in; how she knew my name; how much of this is reality. As I was leaving, I glanced into the sitting room. Her book was on the table, as she’d left it the night before.

Driving down the highway toward L.A. I noticed a fenced-in lot overgrown with weeds. I could barely make out the tops of two markers in the corner when the weeds bowed down with the wind. I felt compelled. I stopped the car. I reached for the ribbon in my pocket and once more contemplated the blood stain. I walked through the broken gate and approached the graves. Lily’s was on the left. By the dates on her stone, she was only 24 years old when her life was taken away so tragically.

Now I have always accepted the possibility that there may be a few still walking among us who should have left this world and moved on to the next. But I have never questioned my own place in this world, until this moment. I also understand just how it is that Lily knows me. For the stone on the right bears my own name.

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