Finding the Feeling

The Feeling, an introduction, part one

Remembering the feeling is hard for me, remembering the feeling and wanting it again, immediately, now, wanting it to never end.

It is the feeling of my hands on your calves as I kneel behind you, you leaning over your desk, waiting for me to touch you. People are around us, but they can’t see us. They can hear us, but they won’t.

It is the feeling of my hands moving slowly up your legs, up your stockings, up under your skirt.

It is the feeling of your legs, your feet slightly spread, your legs strong and firm, hidden by brief pieces of nylon I wish to end, but waiting for that ending, moving my hands slowly, just behind your knees now.

It is the feeling of the back of your thighs, the tops of your stockings, the firm shape of your hamstrings, the cool feel of your smooth skin above your stockings.

It is the feeling of the top of your thighs where they become your ass, the shape of them, the beginnings of the curve.

It is the feeling of my hands and arms under your skirt, the feeling you must feeling as the cloth slides upward, knowing that your pantiless ass will be exposed to me in a moment, exposed in your office with you leaning across your desk.

It is the feeling of your ass in my hands, my face within inches of you, the feeling of the firm yet soft globes of flesh that the sun rarely touches, the feeling of holding you, thinking that you like it and want more.

It is the feeling of spreading your ass and looking at your pussy, already shining with wetness, the soft curve between your legs shaved clean, the hint of hair further down under your front.

It is the feeling of leaning forward into you, touching you deep between your legs with the tip of my tongue, searching for your hidden clit, finding it, licking it gently before moving the tip of my tongue up your pussy, spreading your lips, pushing them wider, moving up to gently tickle the pucker of your ass with my tongue’s mixture of my saliva and your wetness.

It is the feeling of standing slowly, looking down at you, eyes closed, a wicked smile on your lips, your ass fully exposed and ready.

It is the feeling of lifting you, bringing you up to me, holding you from behind and kissing your neck, whispering to you, “Are you ready to go to lunch?”

It is the feeling I get when I hear you groan and chuckle and whisper back, “You bastard.”

Lunch, part two

The top was off the Jeep and we were flying just above the speed limit, leaving downtown and your office building. You had your shades on, along with your most mischievous smile, your hair blows casually in the summer breeze.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“One of my favorite lunch spots,” I tell you.

We ride on until I turn into the drive-thru for Taco Bell.

You are laughing now, giggling more accurately, but saying nothing.

The sign squawks, “Would you like to try one of our specials?”

“Yes,” I tell the metal box, “I’d like your 69 Special.”

“Trane,” you giggle and backhand my shoulder.

”What?” squawks the box.

“The lady will have one big chicken burrito supreme,” I told the box, “and I’ll have a soft chicken taco, wait, two soft chicken tacos. That’s your 69 Special, right? And two big cups of water, please.”

You were sliding down in the seat when the box said, “$4.52, at the window, Mr. Comedian.”

You had just stopped blushing when we pulled back into the street and headed further east with the food.

“You are a trip,” you laughed into the windshield.

Making you laugh is fun, I realized then.

I parked the Jeep at the park pavilion and we walked the path to a picnic table under a huge oak tree. You were lewd eating your burrito and told me how disappointed you were to see me roll the soft tacos and eat them without licking. We both laughed and looked at each other with goofy eyes that the kids playing nearby would call mushy. After you slowly licked the last drop of dripping sour cream from your burrito, I picked up the trash, sacked it, and held out my hand.

“Time for a walk,” I smiled. You came along without a fight.

The azaleas were in full bloom, the dogwoods soon to follow. We took in their beauty and scent as we walked arm and arm without talking. Some distance into the woods we found the old gazebo with the concrete bench.

“You come here often?” you asked.

“No,” I told you, “Not for a long time.”

You leaned against a post inside the gazebo and asked, “Are you going to kiss me?”

“In a minute, I suppose,” I smiled, “I was going to sneak a breath mint first.”

You laughed and pulled me to you, your arms coming up and around my neck. Your mouth wasn’t bashful, your tongue bold, and I didn’t complain. You felt good in my arms, even in your business attire, your nine-to-five coat of armor. I held you close, pulling your body to mine, pulling your breast to my chest, your hips to my cock.

It was your breath in my mouth, I think, warm, almost hot, that thrilled me in that moment, the gentle moans you spoke as you kissed me, probing me with your tongue, all it sending messages to my body, my cock, all of me, messages I liked and welcomed.

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?” I asked with my mouth at your ear, “I’ve made some plans. An early dinner? Can I pick you up at 7:30?”

“Will you make love with me if I go to dinner with you?” you responded with a smile.

“Then it’s a yes,” I whispered, kissing you again, tenderly this time.

the HooDoo Lady, part three

I watched her leaning on the rail of the ship as we eased into the Mississippi River near sundown. Summer dinner cruises have long been one of my favorite things to do. I played them, the cruises, as part of a jazz and blues quartet years ago. Now I get to pay the price of admission and simply enjoy.

Watching the sun sink into Arkansas along the river has always been special. Watching her in her long sleek black dress made it even better.

“Where did the boat’s name come from, the HooDoo Lady?” she asked without turning away from the sunset.

“It’s named for Memphis Minnie,” I told her, “Maybe one of the first true blues singers. She sang here in Memphis in the late 20’s, I think. Her first recordings are from then, but I guess her best work was in the mid-30’s. ‘The HooDoo Lady’ was one of her best known songs, like ‘Black Cat Blues,’ and ‘Man, You Won’t Give Me No Money.’”

She turned to me and smiled. I knew then the dinner cruise was a good idea.

“You ever play any blues anymore?” she asked through the smile.

“Funny you should ask,” I told her, “I was going to wait until after dinner to tell you, but I have to work tonight. I was hoping you would come with me.”

“Work?” her eyebrows rose.

“Yeah,” I continued, grinning, “Late night work, studio work. Robert Cray is in town and doing some recording for a new album, one called, ‘Sweet Potato Pie.’ I was hoping you come with me, watch the studio work, hang-out, then maybe we could spend some time together, or if you have to get up early or something, I could take you home.”

She was already laughing at me. “Get up early?” she chuckled, “When would we get out of the studio?”

“Oh,” I stammered, “Maybe around four in the morning.”

She only laughed then, but she said, “I’d love to go with you. And just so you know, I’ve already taken off work tomorrow. A horrible case of the flu, in case you’re wondering.”

We both smiled as I drew her to me. The hug lingered for a long time, both of us listening to the music drift up from the lower deck while we watched the sun send orange streaks over Arkansas.

The music took us. Her hips began to sway and suddenly we were dancing, body against body, cheek against cheek, her arms up high on my shoulders, her hands behind my neck. Her perfume, her scent, her taste as I kissed her neck, all of it held me and I never considered fighting it.

“Trane,” she whispered, “I’m starving.”

“Me, too,” I whispered back, “Should I try to find a bedroom on this boat?”

“No, you jerk,” she laughed, “Feed me.”

I stepped back and took her hand, knowing where to find our table.

“I ordered red snapper for you,” I told her as we walked, “The name just reminded me of you somehow.”

She laughed and placed a sharp punch in my ribs without moving away from me.

Sweet Potato Pie, part four

Ardent Studios in Memphis may be one of music’s best kept secrets. People assume most good recordings are done in New York or Los Angeles, but Ardent can hold it’s own with any of its competitors.

I watched her eyes take it all in as we moved around the studio. I introduced her to engineers and technicians as well as the musicians and record people. Robert Cray is nice, she had said when we were alone for a minute, and he does look like a young Muhammad Ali.

Although Cray writes most of his own music, I had been obtained to work with him on an old Otis Redding song they wanted to put on the album, “Sweet Potato Pie.” Soon after we got rolling, sounds of Redding’s “Trick or Treat” were bouncing around the studio.

She sat for a while on the stool I had gotten for her so she could sit behind me in the studio while we played, but after a few minutes she was standing and moving, dancing and smiling. I played and watched her move, wondering if I wasn’t in fact playing better with the help of her breasts and hips moving underneath that smooth black dress. I wasn’t the only person to notice. Although other women were scattered around the studio and soundroom, she was the one who had most of the attention. Even Robert, a serious guy in the studio, was smiling and shaking his head as she danced.

A photographer moved around the room taking black-and-whites for the album cover and Robert Cray website. She played to the camera, loving it, I could tell. It pleased me to see her having so much fun, indeed, it pleased me.

I felt her move up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. From our reflection in the glass sound room window, I could see her moving, her hips and ass doing magical things, as she leaned over and kissed my neck.

The photographer snapped away, loving her as a subject. He obviously was no fool.

After a third time through the song, Cray smiled and said we had a take on “Trick or Treat.” He came over to say thanks for the help on the song, but more to get a goodbye hug from her. Can we use you picture on the album or maybe on the website, he asked her. She consented graciously as if she was asked that question everyday. I love that about her, her smooth ability to handle most any situation with poise. Cray asked us both to check-out the website, it’s www.rosebudUS.com/cray.html, he said, handing me a card for my guitar case.

We said our good-byes and were gone by three o’clock, earlier than I had thought we’d get free.

We climbed into the Jeep, the top still down. “Would you like to go for a ride?” I asked her, “After all, it’s a beautiful summer night. I can’t imagine a nicer thing to do than ride with a beautiful woman on a night like this.”

“Trane,” she laughed, climbing into the seat beside me, “You are such a charmer, bullshitter, tease, rogue…”

I kissed her then to shut her up. For a moment she continued to mumble words into my mouth, but then I think she gave up and used her tongue to explore me. We sat there alone in the parking lot, our mouths pressing harder, my left hand moving up her stomach to her right breast, my fingers caressing the nipple through the thin fabric.

She pushed me away with affection and a smile. “Drive,” she said with a sly grin.

I cranked the Jeep and pulled onto Poplar Avenue and headed back toward the river. The amber light of the streetlights gave a dull glow to the empty street as I shifted into fifth gear.

She leaned across to me and kissed my cheek after unfastening her seat belt. “You remember my office today?” she grinning.

“Of course,” was all I told her, grinning myself.

Her right hand came across and began to unzip my slacks. She moved lower, moved nearer my lap, as she unbuckled and unfastened me. There was no underwear to get in her way, so she pulled my cock free and deftly took it in her mouth. Her tongue brought me to a full erection in a heartbeat, her fingers working into my pants to cup by balls.

I drove with my left hand and used my right to push down the back of her dress. Her back was smooth, warm, soft. I could only reach as far as the base of her spine, the crack of her ass only inches beyond my grasp.

Her hand came up to encircle the shaft, stroking me as she held the head of my cock in her mouth.

I drove, wondering where to go. She handled that when she moved her mouth away from my cock and sat back, her hand still stroking me. She leaned closer to me, her head on my shoulder, and said above the sound of the rushing night air, “Take me somewhere so I can fuck you.”

I hung a left at the next street and headed for my apartment above the Trane Station.

Bedtime, part five

Her head staying on my shoulder, her hand on my cock, stroking me occasionally, running her fingers over the tip and under the head, as I drove carefully home to the Trane Station. I stopped in the parking lot and pulled her to me. I kissed her, enjoying once again her soft lips, the caress of her lips on mine, always with the same thrill as the first time.

I broke the kiss and held her, beginning to move my hand down to zip my pants for the walk inside.

“No,” she said, “Don’t undo my work. Leave those pants open, it’s not that far inside.”

I only laughed and allowed for what she wanted. We walked away from the Jeep with my right arm around her shoulders, my left hand holding up my pants, her right hand still holding my cock. She held me there at the front door of the Trane Station as I fumbled with the keys. As I found the right key and moved to push it in the lock, she squatted down in front of me and took me into her mouth again. We stood there like that in front of the door, right on Madison Avenue, for at least a few moments, her squatting, legs spread, my cock in her mouth, her eyes looking up to me saying, I bet no one’s ever done this to you before. Her eyes were right.

Finally she stood, moving up on her tiptoes to run her tongue over my mouth. “Are going inside?” she asked, “Or do I have to fuck you out here?”

I turned the key and pushed the door open. She stepped inside and I followed still holding up my pants with my left hand.

“It’s dark in here,” I told her, watching her ass from behind, “But you know the way upstairs to the apartment.”

“Why should we go up there?” she asked without turning around. I watched her from behind, seeing her hands come up to push the straps of her dress off her shoulders. The dress fell and she was naked. She stepped out of her shoes and her dress without ever turning around.

I watched her walk across the room and step behind the bar, her smile and her nipples competing for my attention. She reached down and pulled two glasses from the bar set-up and filled them with water. “A drink, Trane?” she smirked.

I pulled my clothes off as I watched her sip from the glass. Her eyes drilled holes in mine, almost taunting me. I walked over to her and took the glass of water she offered. I held it at her throat and slowly poured it down her front, between her breasts, over her belly. She didn’t flinch, never taking her eyes from mine.

I pulled her from behind the bar. We stood beside it now, near bar stools, visible from the outside through the bar’s from window.

“Turn around,” I told her. She did, slowly, teasingly. “Do you remember your office this morning?” I asked her. She didn’t answer, she just leaned over and rested her elbows on a bar stool.

I let the tip of my cock move up and down her pussy to gather and spread her wetness. The head slid inside her slowly until her lips had spread and gripped it. I held her hips and pushed insider her completely, my balls pressing against her clit.

I began to stroke in and out of her, slowly in the beginning, but then harder and faster. The slapping sounds of our skin bounced in the large room of the bar. I held her hips and fucked her, there is no better description, I fucked her like we both wanted it.

I wet the thumb of my left hand and pressing it against and into the pucker of her ass. She gasped and pushed back against my cock and thumb.

“I’m cuming,” she nearly shouted, her first words since my cock entered her. And she did, the quiver of her body evident through her legs and hips. I stopped stroking her to let her feel it all, to feel the explosions I envisioned inside her, all of it happening around my cock planted deep in her pussy.

“Are you close?” she whispered. I told her I was. “Then let me have it in my mouth,” she said before moving to let my cock ease from her, moving to turn and kneel in front of me standing there in the bar.

Her mouth took me, tasting both of us, I knew, her cum white and frothy on the shaft of my cock. Her eyes looked up and held me, enjoying, I could tell, the sheer lust of what we both felt and were doing.

Her tongue made me cum, its licking under my tip driving me there. My balls felt as if they would burst as I spurted into her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed as she took it, her eyes smiling in her pleasure and mine.

She licked the last drop from my softening cock and stood to kiss me, our tastes mingled on her tongue.

“Want a ride upstair?” I asked her, smiling a very contented smile.

She giggled when I turned and leaned forward for her to hop on my back. She laughed and jumped up, straddling me like a horse.

I carried her that way, both of us naked and laughing, through the bar toward the stairs to my apartment, her wetness dripping from her pussy onto the small of my back.

The Dungeon, part six

We slept until just past noon. I made coffee and sat on the futon beside her reading the morning paper. She slept for a time, her hair tousled, her subtle make-up smudged, her mouth slightly open as she breathed. She was beautiful.

As she stirred I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Good morning,” I told her, “Well, good afternoon, I should have said.” She rolled to her back and stretched, looking at me and smiling.

“I gotta pee,” she said, still smiling.

“Not allowed here,” I told her, “Bladder discipline is an art form.”

“Fuck you,” she giggled as she moved out of the bed and walked naked across the floor.

“You did that,” I told her, “Anytime you want more, well…”

The bathroom door closed and I heard the lid on the commode go down. “Asshole,” she called from the bathroom, “Leave the seat down.”

I went back to the paper and waited, sipping coffee and feeling pretty good in spite of being called an asshole. I listened as she brushed her teeth with my toothbrush. I grinned thinking how much I liked the thought of her doing that.

She came out of the bathroom with my white terry robe wrapped around her. “So what’s up for today?” she asked, taking a coffee cup and pouring some for herself from the carafe.

“I was going to get in a workout this morning. Wanna come?” I asked.

“Sure,” she smiled, “Got any clothes I can borrow?”

“It’s a nude gym,” I grinned, “You can…”

Her finger across her lips told me to hush. I did and watched her come across the room and settle on the futon next to me. Her kiss was cool and fresh with a hint of the coffee on her lips. “Good morning,” she whispered, “Or good afternoon. Thank you for last night, all of it.”

I kissed her back, lightly, and smiled. “My pleasure, all of it,” I told her.

We moved around the apartment getting dressed between gentle touches and kisses. I told her about my basement gym, the Dungeon, some had come to call it. A lot of free weights, a treadmill, heavy bag, a mat for sparring, television, VCR, and CD player. All that, she’d laughed. You’re more strange than what’s obvious, she’d said.