(the conclusion to "Marianne, a Friend from Germany")
After making love to Marianne Witmershaus, Ian Abercrombie always pondered her level of satisfaction. Did they fuck because she somehow still believed that after nearly 20 years her debt to him needed maintaining? Or was the exertion between them refraction of her husband's infidelities?
Marianne told him the couple had fallen out of love. They now shared "friendship." An "arrangement." She made it sound adult. Though often misplaced, who could truly parcel and ladle ardor at will?
Last of all, if she felt obligated to Abercrombie, did Marianne derive full measures of pleasure with him? Or did skillful faking and his male vanity willfully delude him?
It didn't help Marianne took lovers half his age. Men she acquired, used, then discarded in utilitarian fashion. Abercrombie remained her sole constant.
He recalled his own 20s. That vigor then seemed endless now.
Abercrombie laughed to himself. Other women he could screw and his conscience stayed vacant. Sexing Marianne mixed physical release with mental somersaults.
Every night of her visit they fucked. Still supple in his hands Marianne never flagged in responding to him. He could take her, abase her if so desired minus complaint. Both were aware of their unspoken compact. While the thought might've crossed his mind, both also knew he would never degrade her.
Despite the eye-opening dicey situations she'd led him into, Abercrombie ultimately respected her.
Marianne had nerves macho men should've envied. Better, she extended a sort of priceless loyalty.
Somehow Abercrombie was still awake. Marianne lay heavily against him, her regular breathing shallow upon his chest. After he'd exhausted them, gaining that shy sated smile bestowed only when her partner had melted her into that favorite mysterious state, Marianne dropped off to sleep.
Years ago, visits ago, Abercrombie asked how she'd appropriated the renowned male habit.
Drowsily, she answered, "Marriage."
He one-word tell all begged further questions. A bachelor, Abercrombie never knew where to begin.
Unlike Marianne, post-coital mania charged through him. Not just from being with her. Almost any woman. The act left him playful in a tactile manner. He enjoyed post-play banter, kissing, squeezing and caressing.
Sometimes such behavior surprised the woman. He'd lain with more than his fair share of partners who'd previously served as flesh and blood fuck dolls; accustomed to being pounded, happy reciprocation confused them.
Abercrombie's bedside clock read hours yet before dawn. He and Marianne lay entwined on a lake of churned sheets, their activity and closeness heating this mild night.
Over the years, across her visits, they'd developed a pattern. Eventually his nervous energy abated and he joined her in sleep. The following day Marianne would wake first, bathe, then prepare him breakfast. Coffee aroma more than rattling pots and pans woke him. For a man who considered coffee and Danish a well-balanced meal, Marianne's kitchen wizardry astonished.
Owing to her, Abercrombie had devoured "American breakfasts" late into afternoons. This diligence sprung from their first time together.
During that 1989 summer week, Abercrombie patronized Marianne's club twice. She let him monopolize her time. Once again there were questions about Boston. Tactlessly, she named a man. This Polish surname struck vague chords. The then reporter was more aware of the Pole's organization. In a general sense.
Abercrombie's answers mollified her slightly. When she wasn't posing onstage or culling the light midweek punters for those who might've accepted her perfunctory suggestions of amusement, Marianne sat beside him. She was of two minds. The first paid mechanical obeisance to him. She complimented him, squeezed his forearms, wrapped her fingers among his, stroked the insides of his thighs, and mustered less chilly expressions. Marianne ruminated in the second mind. These calculations erupted on her face.
Naturally Abercrombie wondered about her motives. Curiosity alone didn't allow him to accompany her into some unknown part of Hamburg. Having seen her without a stitch enough, the American felt at an advantage.
Away from the Reeperbahn, street lamps struggled against gloomy nighttime sidewalks. Her hard sole shoes scraped pavement. Theirs strides were long, shortening blocks to the apartment. All along the way Marianne latched onto his arm as if she verged on convincing herself of Abercrombie's essential value.
To her. Wherever that might lead.
Steps took them to a narrow walkup's third floor. Except for their footfalls and the stairwell's light timer clacking, her building was still.
The stairwell light switched off just as Marianne's key sawed into the lock. Irregularly spaced ankle-high socket lamps pushed into the apartment's dark. Umber puddles kept him from bashing furniture legs as well as guided him to her bedroom. There, Marianne snapped on a bedside lamp whose feeble lumens equaled those of the wall sockets.
A large bed dominated the small room. One bulky bureau and vanity table further constricted those four walls.
Abercrombie assumed her closet doubled as an armoire.
She lacked space to stand a television. A radio-cassette player crowded her other bedside table beneath another lamp.
"Cozy," he said. It was too dark to notice whether she rolled her eyes in response. After Marianne got out of her shoes, she brushed by him to raise the window then draw heavy curtains.
Preliminaries finished, Marianne undressed.
Ordinarily this ought have incited Abercrombie. Yet having seen her naked already, coolly naked at that, blunted his eagerness. Fortunately for them her appreciation of him erased his unintentional slight.
Marianne's hands had roamed across his torso and extremities at the club. Clothing, light and loose as the fabrics were, nevertheless obscured.
When she pulled off his polo shirt Marianne took notice. With Abercrombie's slacks and boxers kicked side somewhere near his shoes and socks, even the room's dim light failed concealing the peculiar hunger in Marianne's eyes.
If at 19 she hadn't already been so practiced, Marianne might've gasped from anticipation. A purposely pursued active lifestyle would keep him bulked up and buff into his 40s. Or so he hoped then at 30.
She approached him deliberately. Brief as their acquaintance was, he saw a measure of hesitancy. Her hand reached out to his face. Fingers grazed along his cheek, lips, throat, into his broad chest's hairy meadow, down the Main Street of faultless stomach, poked through his pubic grove, where her tender grip rapidly turned his cock turgid.
Abercrombie grabbed and easily pulled her against him. Had she doubts, resistance, they fled in his strong embrace. From knees to mouths their bodies pressed together.
Marianne's lips and tongue were far livelier than he suspected. He thought she'd have been one of those frosty women who required thawing out before their kisses became heated. Especially if they had vulnerabilities needing cover as long as possible.
He took her to bed. Ancient springs and timbers squealed and shrieked beneath their every motion. He pulled himself off her mouth, lapping then nuzzling both ample breasts. What Marianne enjoyed better than his sucking her nipples were fingers exploring her labia.
Faster than Abercrombie expected Marianne became moist.
While rhythmically clamping his fingers in her secret recess, Marianne reached into a bedside drawer. She extracted a foil encased Pariser. Opening it, freeing the rubber, stuttered her beat. She nodded. Abercrombie understood her message. He shifted, allowing her space to affix the sheath.
The johnny bag was tight. Nor did it cover as much as he was accustomed. Abercrombie dismissed minor dismay when she disregarded the bad fit altogether.
Wide open thighs received him. Between Marianne's wetness and her generous slit, Abercrombie drove himself in easily. Long thick legs wrapped themselves behind his own. He tried using his forearms for support but her mushy mattress gave him no platform. Her hands skipped between his back and waist, forever a beat slower than his strokes.
The farther he pumped the more delightful her low aching sighs.
At times Abercrombie was deliberate, other times ragged. Just to hear the change in her cadence.
Somewhere close to climax, hers, Marianne surprised him. She determined the new notes; their emphasis and length.
Marianne jammed fingers in his ass crack. He seized from this rude burrowing, nearly propelling himself through her. His new depth clenched her body and scrunched her face. Sighs strangled in her throat.
Her goosing made him come harder than usual. Also sooner than he wanted.
For the longest time afterward Abercrombie's semi-rigid cock lingered in her. The last guest at a great party who desired to prolong the evening's merriment. She cradled him between legs flat upon the bed. Abercrombie angled himself so that much of his bulk shifted off her.
They remained silent. Searching looks and little kisses got their respective points across. Sleep overtook both.
Abercrombie awoke face down, alone, submerged in pillows. Daylight spilled past curtain edges. He roused himself into sitting position. Rough carpet instead of wood or linoleum met his feet. Reflexively he checked his wrist for the time. His wrist was bare. He must've forgotten he'd removed his watch before bed. Before Marianne.
His eyes adjusted. Among the women's things on the vanity sat his watch, wallet and passport. He reached over and fumbled with his wallet. In the billfold cash and cards remained unmolested. Items atop the vanity trembled from his tossed leather's landing.
