The meaning of the woman's words came, sometime after the event itself, came to the forefront of Levi's thought process.
"If you ever need references," she said, "just tell her to give me a call."
She rode him, her on her knees, her upper erect; her breast cupped in his hands, his thumb and forefinger rolling her nipples. It was the third time that afternoon, early evening, he had been inside her.
"I want to lick you again," Levi had said before she lowered herself onto him.
"No," Cee said, " ... I want him in me, inside me."
The women, Cee -- she had a real name, Cecelia -- he just called her Cee.
Cecelia owned a flower shop, just up from the Elvis Presley house. Her husband was of mid-level importance in the city, Memphis. She didn't really need the money; she just needed something at least moderately presentable and fulfilling to occupy her time, to salve her diminishing ambitions. Something of her own, something to take into the Junior League circle of women friends.
Cee called Levi on an infrequent schedule, came to his apartment and fucked his brains out.
"How do you last so long?!" she asked, working her hips forward and back; playing with her clit while she fucked him. "I never had anybody could last so long!"
He laughed. " ... have to change the rhythm," he said. "Have to keep changing the rhythm."
He reached behind her, inserted a finger into her; worked it up past the knuckle, until the full length was inside her.
Levi flexed the finger, feeling -- through the membrane that separated her two entrances -- his cock move inside her. Cee collapsed down onto his chest, closed her eyes and made strange sounds in her throat, female sounds.
"Fuck me!" she said, "oh, God! Fuck me!"
She was older, only six years older, but older; and decades, or even centuries, older than Levi in sophistication, socially savvy. He had found her while buying roses for his visiting mother-in-law. She had put the roses into a vase herself, not delegating the small task to an assistant; had spent more time chatting than was necessary. She ferried out of him that he was coaching at her alma mater.
"You were a cheerleader, I bet," he teased her; "or maybe head majorette."
"The former," she said. She walked him out the shop entrance, out onto the sidewalk, into the warm sunny afternoon.
In the days to come there were phone calls based on the thinnest of pretext. "Meet me for coffee," he had finally ventured. ... "No," she said. "But you can buy me a white wine after work -- or a Scotch."
She opted for the Scotch, Levi a couple of IPA's. Conversation grew awkward, died. He brushed his knuckles across her nearest breast, the distended nipple, watched her eyes.
"Well?" she said, questioned, "are you seducing me? ... Or, is all this just unrequited lust?"
Levi undressed her, taking his time, enjoying the process. Doing all the right things to assure her pleasure.
