Canada Days Suddenly Sarah

Changing planes in Chicago is always tough, maybe the toughest. There are no direct flights from New Orleans to Montreal. I make the trek five or six times each year, and I never get used to it. (Family, finances, duty, guilt. Nothing you'd be interested in reading about.)

I walk half-way around the terminal to get to Gate 21 -- always the same gate -- and settle down in a corner to read the New York Times. The terminal bar is closed, the flight late and the hot dog from food cart inedible.

Things get better when I look up to see Sarah Roth sitting by the window. We worked together in Montreal 20 years ago, I as an "illegal alien." She still has bangs across oversized glasses, a pluuuunging V neck sweater, four-inch heels and an ass to die for. She still looks as if she had been poured into her jeans. Her form hasn't changed in 20 years. And from the looks of her jacket and jewelry, her fiscal status is also unchanged: her husband, who's at least 20 years older than we are, owns a chain of appliance stores.

I hope she will recognize me eventually. I quit staring and go back to the Times. When I look again, Sarah is running my way. She gives me a hug and sits in the next chair. "Jack Strange! What have you been doing the past... forever? . . . It's been so long? Where did you go when you left Canada...? Oh, I have so many questions." (Note: After leaving Montreal, I spent years dreaming of fucking her in the stairwell the day I was deported I missed my chance. But I don't think that was what she was talking about.)

Before I can answer any of her questions -- same bright smile but I don't remember her being so perky -- there is the call for first-class passengers. I got an upgrade because of my travel miles. Sarah, of course, is flying first class, too. And for the next two hours we tell each other the stories of our lives since we last met.

I try to explain my life and why I am flying to Montreal in as few words as possible. It's not something I am comfortable discussing. Her biography, of course, is more detailed. But, I sit and listen. It's much better than having to take the trip alone, in silence.

Her stories and questions are helped along by the "free" drinks in the front cabin. As she has since I first met her, Sarah wants to know everything about the American South, Creole food and Cajuns. And she is still a "toucher," one of those women who absolutely must put their hands all over anyone they talk to, male, female, young, old. I learned long ago not to take it seriously.

So, as we sit together 20,000 feet above Ontario, she continues to paw me all over, even as the conversation wanes. She soon falls asleep. . . holding on to my arm. I smile to myself. I'm not so grim anymore.

Arriving at Trudeau, we say our good-byes and zip through immigration and customs. Standing in the taxi queue, I fumble in my backpack for my sweater. It is autumn here. Today's forecast for New Orleans is 92 degrees. When I look back, Sarah is standing next to me with a suitcase in hand and a smile on her face. We share a cab to town.

###

"5507 McArthur à Westmount, s'il vous plait," I tell the cabbie, "puis à la Hotel Saint-Louis."

"I'll have to put you on the meter, instead of the airport rate." The Portuguese driver is not impressed by my French.

"Why do you know my address?" Sarah asks.

"I just do."

Sarah moves closer, cornering me against the door, touching, touching, touching and talking, talking, talking. She attempts to fill me in on all the Canadians who had ever worked with us, their jobs, their lifestyles. I am not really listening. I am too distracted by the camel toe created by those terribly tight jeans. I start getting excited, but before I can do something stupid, we pull into the drive of this monster of a chateau under a vault of red, yellow and brown leaves. As she readies to open the door, she hands me a folded index card. "Please call."

I leave my bag at the hotel -- still too early to check in -- and walk along The Main for a sandwich and beer at Schwartz. By one o'clock I'm on the Metro and thirty minutes and a short bus ride later I'm at my destination. I'm only there for an hour.

I leave depressed, stop to buy a pack of Gauloises -- they're cheaper here than in the states for some reason -- and walk the four miles back to the hotel, chain smoking and staring at the sidewalk. A block from the hotel, I take the cell phone from my jacket and the index card from my pocket.

###

Le Restaurant Victor Hugo is not far from the hotel. I shower, shave, put on a clean shirt, and leave at 7:15, giving me enough time to have a drink before my dinner guest arrives. My depression has returned, and I'm having second thoughts again. I think I'll need that drink to keep me from running away. I haven't been to the Victor Hugo since I left Montreal, but it's the same place. A few more jeans and fewer suits, but the same place. When Sarah arrives, she too is wearing jeans and a low-cut cashmere sweater, and those four-inch fuck-me heels.

She arrives on time -- something no woman in Louisiana would ever do -- and when the maitre d'hotel comes to tell me of her arrival, I take my drink with me and join Sarah in the entry. We are led to a table in the corner. Best table in the house. Panoramic view of the entire restaurant and intimate corner at the same time. I guess that's Sarah. I don't think I rate a best table. Sarah has a kir. I take another whisky. That second whisky -- or is it my third? -- gives me the courage or takes away my inhibitions enough to enjoy the sight of Sarah, her bright smile, her softness and those firm little tits.

We briefly discuss my afternoon, before I insist we change the subject. Sarah understands, and now it is my turn to nervously chatter on, about New Orleans and Louisiana politics and Cajuns and the Civil War and Creole food. But, I'm still depressed. We have onion soup and roast duck with a cheap Cote de Rhone. Sarah does her best to get me out of myself. She's discreet enough not to mention why I'm here. I slow down my drinking so I won't become maudlin. Sarah takes in most of the wine, but I do take a cognac with coffee.

I have been trying all evening not to think of how terrific Sarah looks, but as the brandy kicks in I find myself staring just a little, wondering what she would look like without clothes, just as I wondered 20 years ago every time she passed my desk. It's a good feeling this evening, a pleasant ending to a bad day. But, why should it end now: "May I buy you a Calvados somewhere?" She suggests: "Deux Gitanes?" So, we go outside and catch a taxi.

This time she doesn't pretend. She moves to sit close to me for the ten minute ride to Vieux Montreal, on the French side of town where she's sure there will be no Westmountarians to recognize her. She touches my arm and my shoulder, and puts her hand on my leg. It's been a while since I've been with a woman, and despite my depression I am enjoying it. But, I remind myself, she is a "toucher" -- a toucher who has had a couple of drinks and the most of a bottle of wine.

I don't taste the Calva. I just stare at Sarah through the amber. She is still sexy and alluring, but now she's beautiful. The alcoholic evening begins to take its toll. I find myself wanting to leap into the cool pools of her delicious green eyes, magnified by her oh-so-expensive, oh-so-sexy glasses. I guess I'm in lust because I really want to make love to this seductive woman. I notice she has removed the wedding band and the huge diamond from her left hand. I put my hand on her knee for a minute. She moves across the padded leather booth to be closer. I burn my last bridge with a kiss. The kiss is hesitant but more than a bit knowing. She puts her hands to my face, fearing, it seems, that I may run off. I'm going nowhere. The kiss grows passionate and deep and electricity begins flowing up my spine -- and hers, too. The sparks are jumping from one body to the other, lighting up our corner of the Deux Gitanes. She pulls my shirt collar to bring my face closer to hers. I move my hand to her breast. She is now breathing as heavily as I am. My hand is now on her thigh. She undoes a couple of buttons on my shirt to massage my chest. She pauses a second to remove her glasses and whispers: "Yes."

#

In the taxi to the Saint-Louis, we find ourselves locked in each other's arms. I continue to massage her tits through the fabric of her sweater. She puts her hand in my lap and seems to caress me through the wool of my trousers. As we turn onto Boulevard René Levesque, she quickly unzips my trousers and, without preliminaries, takes me, moving up and down and, using her tongue to lubricate the way, takes as much of me as she can. She holds my testicles in one hand and the stem of my penis in the other. She sucks and licks and sucks and licks again. I am enjoying every second of this, of course. I suppress my moans and groans out of consideration for the taxi driver, but I'm sure he knows what's going on in the back of his cab. I feel her lips caress my hardness and her tongue guiding me deeper and deeper. And she continues to move up and down, kissing the tip before swallowing me whole. I am shaking in delight. As we sit at a stoplight just two blocks from the hotel, I begin to explode, which sets Sarah off in a rage of sucking and pumping. I am now moaning anyway, despite the cabbie. This is the kind of thing I used to dream of 20 years ago. I am going crazy with every gulp she takes and every explosion of cum -- each one more thrilling, more electric than the previous. And Sarah takes it all before zipping my fly: "We're going to need that for later."

I buckle my belt, tip the cabbie with the last of my Canadian money, and we straighten ourselves up to be somewhat presentable when we walk through the lobby of the St. Louis. We fool no one, not that anyone here is worth fooling. On the elevator ride to the 13th floor, I grab that fantastic ass in my right hand and pull her body closer to mine so she can feel my excitement. Sarah straddles my leg, rubbing her pussy against my knee as we continue the foreplay we had begun in the taxi. Sarah's body is warm and supple in my arms. I spread my hands across her back and sense her breath and her trembling. A wonderful feeling. Our tongues dance together. She slightly bites mine before putting her head on my shoulder and kissing my neck, running her tongue up the side of the jaw to blow into and bite on my ear. I resist the urge to reach under her sweater. That can wait. The scent of perfume is soft but oh so erotic.

We waste no time getting to my room at the end of the hall. I open the liquor cabinet under the desk against the wall and take out one of those little bottles of Hennessey. There being no brandy glasses, of course, I pour the amber spirits into two "sanitized" water glasses. Neither of us touch the cognac, we have other things on our minds. I toss my blazer on the bed and move toward her and she toward me, and we resume the embrace begun in the elevator. Her lithe body seems to melt into mine as my hands move to feel, to touch every part of this terrific woman. We both kick off our shoes, and I gently push her sweater off her shoulders and over her head. The touch of her flesh is electric. I can't touch enough of her. I knead her spine. She swoons and her body nearly turns limp as my fingers climb up and down, disk by disk. I press her hips closer to my cock, now growing hard again after its explosion in the taxi, and unbutton her jeans. I move to kiss her breasts then I drop to one knee to remove the jeans. She is down to her blue bikini panties.

I stand and caress her, the feel of her against me is nothing short of wonderful. My heart is racing as she unbuttons my shirt, deliberately, one button a time, pausing as she goes to pass her soft hands through my chest hairs and massaging my breasts and nipples. The shirt opened, she pushes it off my shoulders locking my arms in the sleeves, while she lightly passes her hands up and down my side. I'm quite ticklish and the sensation is pleasure and discomfort at the same time. I pull her close again to signal my discomfort. She unzips and removes my trousers before moving toward the edge of the bed. She grabs the tie which I had left on the bed that afternoon, loops it over my neck and pulls me on top of her. We push our way toward the center of the king-size bed, our bodies move as one to the head of the mattress, kicking the bedspread to the floor. I slip my hand down the front of the blue panties and touch her moist fur. I reach for her vagina, already wet with anticipation, and moisten my fingers before rubbing her clitoris ever so gently. Sarah jerks and moans, and raises her hips in hopes I will remove her panties. I oblige.

As I slip down to remove her panties, I sit up to take in the majesty of this woman, more beautiful, sensual and erotic than I could ever dream of 20 years ago. Her taut abdomen, her tits small and firm, her face pretty, her legs athletic and her pussy wet and inviting, a touch of pink visible behind the dark and erose outer lips. I toss the panties to the floor, and take a foot in my hand, I massage the arch and the heel, and pull at each toe. I suck on each toe in turn, eliciting groans and purrs. She is impatient. She wants to get off soonest.

I put her feet on my shoulders, first one, then the other, and I rise to taste her, no, to devour her. I kiss the inside of her right thigh, from the knee upward, passing my tongue over her moist bush and down the left thigh before plunging into her pussy with a full appetite. My face is in her bush, my mouth trying to drink in all of her love juices. God, she is delicious. My tongue divides her labia as I move toward her clitoris, stopping briefly to press my face closer and extend my tongue as deep as possible into her vagina. I lick and touch her clitoris, then take it between my lips and lightly suck. Sarah moans loudly as her body begins to shake. She arches her back, and begins to softly shout: "Please, Please, Oh please. God damn it. Now. Now." And her cries fade into another moan.

I let Sarah's legs fall to my sides and move to top her. My cock is at her opening for only a few seconds before I gently enter her and claim her body. She purrs in submission. "Oh yes, Oh yes." I slowly press inside her, in and out and in and out and in and out. She is oh so tight. Repeatedly my dick presses through the soft, wet muscles that seem to resist my entry, squeezing me more tightly with every millimeter farther inside. Once in, those muscles seem to press hard to push me out, and the pressure is maddeningly electric. I retreat almost to her entry before slowly entering again. And each time comes that same purr of delight. Her delight is making mine out of this world. I feel so good now. My body vibrates in pleasure while my thoughts bounce erotically among all those images of Sarah past and present, of desire then and now. After pulling almost out and pausing a bit longer on the edge of her vagina, I thrust in, quick, hard, and out again just as quickly... then I slam in as far as I can go and out and hard inside again. Sarah yelps, and the shaking and tensing of her muscles return. 'Oh my god, Oh my god, Oh my god. Aaaaah, JACK!" She relaxes just a little and kisses me, as warm and wet and passionately as ever. I seem to have more passion, or at least more stamina than ever. The taxi? My long celibacy? Sarah? Whatever, I keep going and going and going, and Sarah has orgasms, little and big, one after another.

I spread myself over Sarah and cover her body with mine. I grip her tightly, and without removing my cock, I turn us over. She stays atop me for a minute or two, biting my shoulder. She sits up. She is more beautiful than ever, her breasts are perfect, her body smooth and glistening with sweat, and her face and eyes as handsome as ever. I am still for a moment, thrilled in body and spirit, and staring up at Sarah. She appears to be trying to catch her breath, but it is only for a second. She is soon riding me, bouncing along the center of this huge bed, my cock going in and out and in and out. I watch my cock engulfed by her pussy, then let out again. I am now about to erupt, but this is so exciting I don't want it to end, ever. No, never end. Sex and Sarah in a continuum. Sarah begins riding rougher and rougher, higher and lower and higher and collapsing hard, moaning and crying and softly shouting. Harder and faster and harder and faster until... "You've got to come, Jack, aaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Yes, come. Come, Jack. Come." And I begin to shake as my juices rise through my shaft, warm and rapid, and explode into Sarah, as we roll over the huge king-size bed. We both begin moaning and shouting our joy together. I groan loudly. "Sarah. Sarah. Sarah." She purrs on. "Oh Jack. You're wonderful. Wonderful. Wonderful."

In a few minutes I lose my hard and roll to the side. Sarah puts her head on my chest and touches my cock, which is just a little sore. I stare at the ceiling. Dead tired. But what a tired. The room is a bit cool, and we find the lost bed sheets and cover ourselves with them. We lie in silence for a long while. I light a couple of the Gauloises still left in the pack from the afternoon and hand one to Sarah. We still don't speak. What is there to say. A feeling of peace, calm, detente, pleasure. Why break the spell with words.

"I can't stay, you know. I must go home." I guess the spell had to be broken sometime, somehow. The silence returns. We shower. She looks just as great wet, and I do enjoy washing that fantastic ass and those boobs and, of course, that most delicious pussy. Kisses and caresses, sensual, sensitive, more loving than erotic. I guess we are both thinking about the future, near and distant. I have more people to meet and a return flight to catch. Sarah has a husband and a garden that need tending. But, we know I'll be back in a few weeks. There's no reason to say anything.

We ride the elevator to the lobby, where the doorman calls a taxi for Sarah. As she climbs into the back seat, she hands me a folded index card, "Please call again."