"Move around and lie between my legs. Push them back, way back, till my knees are on my belly… Caress the backs of my legs… Ohh, my cunt is so wet. I can feel it running down onto my ass.
"Look at my cunt. Spread the lips with your fingers. See how delicate and pink it is? How like a petal? Kiss it. Kiss my cunt. Run your head down and lick my ass… Put your tongue on my asshole… Oh, God! Run it all over my asshole.
"Ohhh, I've got to feel my breasts. Run your tongue all the way up to my clit… Yes, like that. Bring it down to my ass again, up to my clit again, long, wet licks all the way up and down… Oh, baby, -it's so great.
"Scratch the backs of my thighs some more… Yes… put your index finger into my asshole, slowly, just a little way, it's so wet… Now, put the fingers of your other hand into my cunt, move them in and out. Now keep doing that and lick my clit… Ohhhh, I'll guide your head with my hands… Leave your tongue out and just lick, up and down, up and down, faster, run your fingers in my cunt faster, real fast keep doing that, keep-licking-I'm-going-off-again-keep-licking-her e-it-comes!"
Mora pushed my head hard into her. I had a bit of index finger up her ass, and two fingers from my other hand going in and out of her vagina as fast as I could make them move. She bucked so violently that I couldn't keep the one finger in her behind, but she was past the point of caring, shrieking at the top of her voice, her head lolling crazily from side to side, her involuntary pumping movements faster than she could ever make herself move by will. My entire face was wet with a mixture of her juices and my own saliva. I had some reservations about licking her asshole, but it was apparent that Mora was fastidiously clean about herself. Her taste was slightly acidic saltiness, much different from Ellena, who didn't know shit about personal cleanliness.
We both were out of breath, and it took us a few minutes to calm down. The only thing that wouldn't calm down was my hard-on, it had grown again and wouldn't quit. I was a bit tired and quite proud of myself for having been such a good pupil. I had learned so much that it all was still a mess in my brain; I would have to sort it out later. But of one thing I was sure, learning to make love was like learning to ride a bicycle: once learned, you might get rusty at it, but you would never forget how.
I was very lucky. Most men learn a little bit over a lifetime from trial and error, mostly error. But I was being beautifully taught by a woman who evidently knew it all. I was grateful to her and, I thought, terribly in love.
I looked at Mora splayed out on the bed, her limbs heavy with orgasm-induced torpor, and decided to forget the pressing need throbbing restlessly between my legs. I was learning.
We lay together and talked awhile, the aimless, nonsensical things people talk about when they (at least one of them) are all fucked out. Soon she fell asleep. I slid out of her arms quietly and sat on the sofa, reading the big, Sunday newspaper. I thought that while Mora slept it would be a good opportunity for me to explore the flat.
I went to the den and looked at the books on her shelves. There neatly arranged and classified, were Have-lock Ellis, Krafft-Ebing, Freud, Jung, Adler, Aristotle, Hemingway, Dos Passes, Faulkner, and a smattering of other modern authors. There was a section of art books dealing with everything from the Renaissance to impressionist to modern. The rest of the shelves were stacked with junk, unknown titles by unknown authors to fill out the room. She had a lot of classical record sets in seventy-eight, but mostly popular singles by Frank Sinatra, Dick Hayrnes, and Perry Como.
The blank canvas bothered me. Next to the easel was a table on which sat clean brushes, glasses, and about a hundred tubes of oil scattered around a palette with multicolored dabs of paint all over it.
I slid open the closet door quietly. Inside hung a mink coat and a mink stole. Payment from whom? And for what? There was also a cardboard file box. I was tempted to open it, but didn't, not out of any moral consideration, but because I was afraid that I might be caught in the act. Against the back wall of the closet, sitting on the floor, was a finished canvas. It pictured half of a woman's torso in somber shades of blue and gray. Reclining at a diagonal slant from top left to bottom right was one breast, half of a muscular side and thigh leading to a mottled pubic area, and the top of a leg. The brush strokes on the body were tiny, but the background, in gray with darker gray shadow, was dabbed on hurriedly with a large brush. It was as though two different people had done the painting; one the torso and another the background. Was it supposed to be a painting of Mora? Of someone else? Of some idealized female form? I knew that I would be afraid to ask. I certainly didn't want her to know that I had been poking around in her personal things, so I went back inside and finished the newspaper.
Mora woke up sleepy-cuddly and warm, purring like a contented kitten. I got back into bed with her and we held each other for a while.
"I still smell myself on your breath and your face," she said.
"I'll go wash." I started to get out of bed.
She grabbed my arm. "No, don't. I like to smell it on you. Leave it."
We went to a band concert in Golden Gate Park, holding hands and skipping like two little kids. 'Then I got my first driving lesson in a large parking lot near Lake Merced. Within an hour I was driving the MG like an old pro, slipping the clutch out easily and only jerking a little bit.
I drove us to the Cliff House for dinner. The place was full of families out for Sunday chicken or fish, which was about all they had on the menu. The people next to us were trying to quiet two small kinds, and Mora looked coldly at them. "I hate children," she said bitterly.
"Why?"
"Because they're dirty and noisy and require a lot of attention. They drain the woman out of you and leave a tired, frazzled old lady in her place."
"You were a child once," I said, "peeing in your pants and being potty trained."
"I was never a child," she said, blowing a long cloud of smoke from her cigarette. "Children make me nervous. I even get nervous when I'm around them, bratty, whiny little things. Who needs them?"
"People keep having them."
"Well not me," she said emphatically.
"Never?"
"Never!"
I let the subject drop because she was becoming upset. Mora ordered another martini, her third, and drank it quickly with her dinner, eyes hard and distant.
It was still light when we got back to the flat. Mora went in to clean up and asked me to "pour me one." I made a martini for her and a Daniels for myself, raiding the bottom of the ice bucket for enough cubes to toss her drink.
By the time she came inside, her martini was warm, but it didn't matter. I could smell her from across the room, wearing a heady perfume to which I had never been exposed. I could feel my balls twitching even before she got to me. She downed her drink with a few quick swallows and never commented on the fact that the ice had melted. Her mood had changed again, and she was all lightness and love. We watched TV, holding hands and munching cheese crackers we had taken from the kitchen to go with our second round of drinks. I wanted to touch her, to start something that would get us into- bed, but I had learned that it was best if Mora started in her own time.
She put her head in my lap and appeared to nap for a while, but as the early news was coming on I felt my zipper going down. It's pretty difficult to watch the early news with a hard-on, so I was nice and soft as she took me into her mouth. My rod started to fill and gorge and she kept her mouth still, feeling it enlarge against her tongue. She sucked me until I held her head still as a signal to stop, as it was starting to feel pretty good. She slid to the floor and pulled my pants off over bare feet, while I took off my shirt. "It's time," she said, and we walked hand in hand over to the bed.