Morning next day, mourning lack of sleep, I was cheerfully musing on my refurbished libertine status. Greedy, wanting more of the same, I was perfectly positioned for such to come to pass.
Recent events in Holly's bed had effectively drubbed to dust my former over the hill self, inspired a youthful, jaunty bearing in me. In my conceited estimation, I was all so heroic. I had given a good accounting of myself, was quite proud of my untiring efforts.
Stateside after twelve grueling months overseas, I was making up for lost time from women, their good, bad, indifferent company. Holly's guest, a good woman if there ever was one, I was doing more than making or marking time.
My graying blond hair was askew. A shower stall, razor and tooth brush was in my immediate future. My ensemble this early a.m. cotton shorts dark as black currants, secured by a fraying white drawstring and stretching across my chest, a ratty gray tee shirt good for a few more wears, then unheralded consignment to the rubbish bin.
Adjacent to the kitchen sink, one basin cluttered with spent wine glasses, crumby saucers, crusted flat wear and for reasons unbeknownst to me, Holly's soaking wet black thong, I chugged a bottle of Aqua Fina, tasty as Tuscan wine, in two or three goes, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. A double dime of hours bedding Holly had parched me. Water liberated from the green Amana slaked one thirst. Despite Holly's draining me at every opportunity, I was eager to quench another thirst only her voluptuous, hot-blooded body could and would slake.
Starbuck's Espresso Roast brewing in a top of the line Mr. Coffee, a chrome Sunbeam toaster, a twin to one my parents purchased in 1952, twisted my eyes its way and gave a grin to my face. Functioning perfectly fifty-seven years later, our trusty Sunbeam had survived a decade in number of presidential administrations, polyester leisure suits, Beta players, my parents' abbreviated lives, my brother's two cursory marriages and my interminable bondage passing for wedlock.
This good and dependable appliance reassured me. Old, rugged devices turning to long after young pups had laid down in exhaustion inspired me to be of similar bent. Holly, freely and frequently disposing her magnificent body to my tool, the wicked device, I welded accomplishing this worthy ambition.
Retrieving an off-white cup snug in a cabinet over burdened with much dinner wear, I too noisily, averted an avalanche of crockery. Silence awkwardly stilled back, I cocked my ear, listened. No sounds of a certain she awakening.
Turning, properly smacked a large silver skillet perched on the avocado enameled cooking top. Off the stove to the hardwood floor, it crashed in a loud bang. Sounded like a bag of gongs falling on tin. Damn. If such caterwauling didn't wake Holly, she was good to go for sleeping in the noisy, often uncomfortable places, I had slumbered in. Not a smidgen of sound hinting of Holly stirring. She was proving to be not only a supremely gifted sexual partner, also a consummate sound sleeper.
Coffee poured in the waywardly handled cup, left un-doctored by cream or sugar; shuffling across the chilly tile floor on my bare feet, I found softer going on the bizarrely patterned Oriental rug in the dining room. On the maple table a too fragile crystal decanter held a pair of yellow tulips. Green stems plumper under glass, bulbs perfected by nature into canary yellow medallions. Less is more and simple is superior said in crystal clear eloquence.
Comfortable in a handsomely appointed, sumptuously padded chair, my hands cradled the cup. In a monk's motionless hush, an impromptu ceremony made of sipping and savoring coffee. I venerated the tasty, caffeine punch; the apartment's reinstated cathedral-like quiet. With greatest reverence, I applauded the delectable wench sleeping a short distance away amidst tussled sheets I had gratefully assisted in tussling.
Half an hour earlier, Holly on me like crepe bunting. Faces, hers beautiful, mine not so inclined, estranged on not too fat or too thin pillows I preferred. This choice body nestled so not awakening me. Something else did. Me, randy bastard, my cock, randy bastard's best friend, roused to the velvet bower of her hand. Not static, merely holding ground, but riotously active running up and down my length at a delightfully dawdling speed. What a commotion to awaken to. Not her engaging mouth but the third best thing.
"Like that, do you. What you going to do about it?"
What to do? Let me think.
Fuck it.
A lifetime jacked from dreamland, dealing with now immediately, sleep shrugged off in a wink. I twisted around; speared her. Holly, bright-eyed, full of mischief, drew me into my hilt with practiced ease. No make-up paving her strawberry and cream complexion, served up naturally, cleanly and tidily as an innocent, untraveled farmer's daughter, one tinctured with a bit of the slattern. Hair in a concise coiffure still remarkably disarranged considering its brevity. Arms disabused of any notion save clutching me in her grasp. Feet taking flight, sliding along my calves as I found her wet place.
"Oh yes, fuck me baby. Give me your hard cock, fill me with your hot stuff." said Holly.
Words impacting my ears no less sensually than her lively, hot body wordlessly accomplished.
Unimagined hell on earth had to be in not knowing Holly, never starting, staying the course on such an exposed, sinfully gesturing female. Hearing, touching and taking her, I was in a merry band of brothers not consigned to such a Dantian inferno.
Sunlight, weakly at first blush, brawnier later, working its way into the bedroom as my cock maneuvered neither gracefully or ham handedly but capably inside Holly's receptive portal. Neighbors awakened, commenced their ablutions as we continued until we felt like not continuing.
Relaxing now, temporarily sated after gorging myself, I was in the quiet company of several healthy, humdinger tulips. Sipping this dandy tasting coffee, the sticky felt adhering to my tongue notwithstanding, I finally eyed Holly's apartment in detail.
Yesterday, eager to couple, I was oblivious to the apartment's minimalist décor. Dashing to the bedroom, I sensed more than saw pleasant digs flaunting a powdered and puffed female's floral, ambrosia scent, glimpsed pastel walls, a few disparate colors and shapes, not much else.
This morning a six foot tall Madagascar Dragon tree hove into view. As did several soothing watercolors hanging on the soft yellow walls. No entertainment zone whatsoever. Stark, uncomfortable looking furniture meant to be looked at, not lounged in. Bronze medals tucked in blue velvet-lined boxes, meritorious ones I suppose, significant prizes of some sort, three of them, equidistant apart, displayed on brass stands over the fireplace.
Unlike the crammed kitchen cabinets, the flat was a loose confederation of artifacts held together by acres of white space. Nor was there a lot of sentimentality calculated into the decor. The apartment's common thread of aloofness was a conscious effort. Such a dispersal of taciturnity signaled a well ordered mind not mental aberration. A hopeful rationalization founded on nothing more than a meager acquaintance with abnormal psychology and experience with quirky people. Ultimately, it was a place for everything important. Anything unimportant was sent packing. That was fine with me long as such detachment confined itself to the furnishings and not in Holly.
In one corner, a black music stand backing sheet music faced the one comfortable chair in this austere region. In its cozy province, I imagined Holly sitting stiffly, relaxed not a twit, the picture of grueling hard work, as her long, slender and Julliard trained fingers practiced violin by the hour. She played brilliantly no doubt. I had yet to hear her, but employment in the local, world class symphony suggested superlative skill.
Last night, resting, a pit stop before barreling back on to the track, I said something about hookers. Not hookers in their traditional sense but ones inhabiting Elizabethan England snatching valuables through open windows with hooks.
Following my hooker aside seemingly retrieved from nowhere, speaking in a hush, Holly nicely shored up our conversation with something not so off the wall. News of her musical aptitude, it's paying the freight. How her clever and practiced to the bone fingers launched her pell-mell into paroxysms of joy every time she worked her fiddle. Fondling strings with supple bow, yielding mellow arrangements, gravely serious sonatas, liberating emotive sounds, dulcet tones, she was distinct, a precious stone gushed over for its splendid natural gift.
Sex, music turned inward, claimed and calmed her oft-unruly, fidgety spirit. Sex, frequent sexual congress in all its sumptuous modes, soothed, satisfied, permitted another, more intimate, creative expression. Dancers cavorting in public, their art exhaled in graceful choreography, their fairly moving, finely tuned bodies, evoking the best nature of the human condition. Holly, her stage shrunk small, warmly personalized, and divinely intimate, was no different in her compelling desire to exhibit herself, engage her randy body in conveying the ultimate best nature of the human condition.
This part said in the first person sounded more charming, less haughty than my poor words suggest. Gently told, her voice nearly spent, beaten up by our diurnal and nocturnal buffeting, close combat of sorts, sex was therapeutic not salacious. Not a round heeled slut's tawdry confession but the declaration of a free spirit unconcerned with social convention or moral condemnation.
She said "I just love to fuck and be fucked" and I nearly shot my wad.
Flat on my back, swirls of wrinkles paid out under me, hands crossed behind my head. Holly resting on an elbow paying attention to me on the one hand, stroking me with the other as we chatted. Chattering soon put to bed as we resumed our merriment. What is a thirsty man still bellying up to the bar to do when so encouraged?
Another coffee poured; back at the table in my comfortable chair. Holly, dressed in nothing, settled precariously in ruby-colored, open-toed high heeled slides, sashayed up big as you please. How she moved so noiselessly on those strumpet shoes was beyond me. This pair meriting approbation as did the others lovingly arranged on the closet's floor. Heels lifted nearly vertical, legs corded as such shoes are wont, punching out her ass in the most decorous fashion. Shoes doing for her body what ribbon did for what it wrapped. Her body all the more invitingly sexual planted in such showboats.
Hair brushed, lipstick and make-up smacked on. Justly proud of her natural and improved assets, she leaned down. Boy did she lean down. Creamy breasts, hefty, gravity defying, filling my field of vision, overwhelming my personal space, she kissed me full bore and with lots of twisting tongue. Tasting of mint; skin sprayed with sunlight and citrus, a scent imploring my attention, quite impotent in masking the residual smell of our earlier exertions. This implacable odor restored the immediacy of our endeavors, made me instantly erect, a mile high erect to be factual. Or maybe my arousal was triggered by something more tangible.
"Baby, you do have stamina. I cannot believe how many times you made me come. You may be an old fart but you are something," Holly said.
Word of honor, she said it. Granted, the term "old fart" stung.
"And you are what my mother warned me about."
This statement is not in truth what I actually said.
