“Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, thank you! Thank you!” she said, giving sincere thanks for something for which she had waited too long. I was beginning to feel a little blessed myself. Fortunate to have found her. I stroked her slowly, front and back, until a note of desperation entered her voice.
She flirted and squirmed, finding postures that would encourage me to penetrate her. Or slap that impudent little rump of hers just a little bit harder. I was in no hurry. Although Truly appeared to disagree, urging me on by performing some frankly indecent contortions.
This may be one of the reasons Truly preferred father figures. Most young men would have come by now and be halfway out the door to boast about it in the nearest pub. Whereas, being forty-something, I don’t have the energy to scamper anywhere except here, where everything is set up just the way I like it.
While Truly got deeper into her trance I patted the reddened flesh for a while, still hardly able to believe my luck. Then a scratch of a fingernail here and there reminded her that into each life a little rain must fall. And that a little vinegar mixed with oil makes a fine combination. The sour-sweet tang of her scent was heavier now and her posture inelegant to say the least – thrusting her rump up in the air and kneading the bed-sheet with her outstretched fingers. Well, we all have needs and I’ve often done what she was doing. Tarting around on all fours demanding to be serviced. Fill me up. Fuck me. But it’s best not to answer these prayers too quickly. Stroking up and down the divide of her bottom with my left hand while keeping the soft slaps coming with my right seemed to be doing her a lot of good.
The soup was simmering nicely now. I thought boiling would spoil it. Truly seemed to disagree. She straddled my body, face down towards my feet, legs wrapped around my stomach, backing herself up towards my face as I continued to pat her with cupped hands. Harder smacks seem to be finally answering the question she posed some time ago. Her skin was rosy red, the heat spreading where it was needed most. The scent of her twin openings was a mingling of the sacred and the profane; heavenly, yet grounded on earth.
“Go on! Do it!” She was getting impatient. Coming to the boil. I kissed and licked her as she urged me on. Now the surface of her hot red bottom was moist with saliva the slaps had more effect. A mewl of distress told me to tone it down. Which I was happy to do. It was just as nice stroking and kissing the warm velvet flesh for a while before a different sort of urgent moan and upward thrust of her hips was telling me to pile on the pressure again. As I resumed the gentle but firm pitter-patter of slaps and smacks, the sounds she was making were closer to those of a hungry beast. Once she unzipped me I was no longer so aloof, not so much in control as I perhaps should have been. But, as my old Zen master used to say to me, when you are hungry you should eat. And with a hot dish in front of me, and with the chef urging me on, it was time to tuck in.
I buried my face in the cleft in her beautiful bottom while Truly took my hardness in her mouth. The sounds of guzzling and slurping competed with our grunts and groans. Once her teeth had caught my piercings once too often – which was once, actually – I yelped and withdrew. She took me in hand, rubbing me slowly up and down. Meanwhile it seemed appropriate to form the fingers of both hands into wedges to press gently inside each of her openings. Once I had done that her eyes screwed up and her mouth opened to its fullest extent. One thing that was bothering me was my wedding ring slipping off inside Truly’s warm, wet pussy. But it was too late for that now. And it would have been nice if that astral image of a disapproving Katrin could have disappeared but you can’t have everything.
Now my right hand was inside her pussy it was easy enough to wiggle my first two fingers down onto the spongy tissue which some chap claimed to be the G-spot – naming it after himself, as if Grafenberg was ever going to be a sound you would want to associate with pleasure zones.
And then there was no more time for talk. The storm enveloped us. We came. Then came to our senses, both starting to feel guilty in different ways.
Should young ladies really behave like that? And what about married men? Who were old enough to know better?
My phone alerted me to a voice message withdrawing permission for what had just happened. Although my wife had been keen enough – or apparently apathetic enough – to agree to it that very morning.
“What’s the matter?” asked Truly.
“Katrin,” I said. “She’s gone off the idea.”
I didn’t have to explain. Truly was used to the anger of wives and significant others. Was it even part of the thrill for her? Kicking Mummy out of Daddy’s bed?
I breathed in her Body Shop soap and hints of her innermost secrets still on my fingertips as she dressed, looking for ways to remember her. Just before she left she put both hands on her still glowing bottom and pushed her lower lip out. She stood with her feet turned inwards, regressing back to some time she must have felt cared for, secure.
“You’re very… thorough,” she said.
“Any time,” I said, making detailed plans for a number of futures that never happened. At least I still have her cheeky smile. Even though I had thought it was the start of something. The start of everything perhaps. Instead of a few years of near-misses and misunderstandings and trying to ignore primal urges while dealing with tearful goodbyes and endless arguing about relationships. We did have our wild moments together. Now and then. But less times than you could count on the fingers of one hand.
She’s driving someone else mad now. There isn’t a cure in sight, just yet. She rang to say she was pregnant the other day. But she couldn’t quite get her head round the concept of marrying the father just because society expected her to. So she had assented to a marriage then decided not to go ahead. After all the arrangements had been made.
When I stopped laughing at that I wondered if her parents sometimes regretted that she was now too old to spank. Or whether her new bloke took care of her in that way. Someone should, anyway. It’s the only language she really understands…
Sweet, Sweet Annie by Rich Logsdon
I
Christmas Eve, and here is Annie, my sweet angel of the night. A small, thin and beautiful Asian girl, she is dancing topless in animal splendour to incessant, pounding music. Dim stage lights cast a glow over her, and my eyes feast upon this delicious woman. She’s changed, I think: though her eyes are still dark slits, her hair has a reddish brown tint and is tied in pig tails; and while the rose tattoo (which I bought her) remains below the belly button and small golden rings pierce her nipples, she has put on needed weight and enlarged her breasts.
But I’ve changed, too, and I’m sure she senses that. As she dances, eyes darting at me, her nipples are erect. I can smell her sweetness. Her back against the pole, she slides down to the stage, spreads her legs, and massages herself through her light blue, semi-transparent panties. She never takes her eyes off me.
“That’s my Annie,” I say.
In the smoked-filled club, I grin, stick my tongue out, and wiggle it obscenely, hardly an appropriate gesture for a professor known for scholarship on Nabokov and Pynchon. She laughs, pulls away from the pole and, on hands and knees, crawls over to me.
“How ya doin’, Jerry?” she purrs, leaning forward and licking my forehead. Wrapping her arm around me, her hand cradling the back of my head, she puts her face inches from mine.
“Merry Christmas,” she says in a seductive whisper. “Long time, no see.”
“Same here,” I respond. I can’t imagine another place I’d rather be than with Annie. It’s like standing at the gates of paradise. She smells like a rose garden, and I want to stick my tongue between her legs and taste her juices. Through sweat and smoke, she leans forward and kisses me lightly on the lips.