So it came to this. After flirting with one another for a time; after an incredible night of fucking; after a two year absence; after a sudden reunion and sudden incredible sex; we were in love.
Actually, we had been in love all along. Now we acknowledged it. I had asked her if I could ask her to marry me. She told me she would seriously consider it if I could incorporate a romantic proposal with fucking. I suppose it was my fault. I broached the subject while we were having sex.
I really did want to marry Carrie. She was just perfect for me. She was so incredibly intelligent. She had a quick wit. She was a talented actress. Carrie was very discerning. She could easily spot dissimilation. She was totally honest, but with tact. She loved movies and loved to read. And she was quirky. She made funny sounds at odd times. If she found something you had said funny, she would have you repeat it - and laugh just as much the second, or third or fourth time. When she snuggled, she made sounds that reminded you of a Furby, that 1990s toy. (Google it.)
And I couldn't forget about her beautiful face and her amazing body. Carrie was about 5'5', maybe 110 lbs, strawberry blonde to red hair (real red, not magenta), with a spattering of freckles, a perfect ass, smallish but beautiful breasts. She had hazel eyes that twinkled when she smiled.
To be able to grow old with someone like that; to have that body joined to mine over the years; it was more than I could have hoped for.
But I had to figure out a way to propose in a very romantic way, yet it had to include fucking. Carrie had been very explicit - romantic and fucking.
It took a lot of thinking, conniving and planning, but I came up with it. After a 20 year career as a wedding photographer, I had recommended numerous caterers to brides with bucks. One caterer, Jean-Paul, had moved his catering business into a successful restaurant/catering business, largely on my recommendations. Jean-Paul had become a friend. I approached him with my dilemma.
JP came up with a great idea. His restaurant was closed on Mondays. He suggested that he could come in on a Monday, prepare a special meal for us, and then leave us entirely alone. The rest, he said in his French way, was up to me. I took him up on his idea.
I let Carrie know well in advance of our Monday night rendez-vous. The job interview that had brought her back to me had landed her a good job. However, she traveled around the region. I wanted her to be sure to have the time available. And I told her to dress very formally...but not to wear underwear.
I sent a limousine to pick up Carrie at her new apartment. I was standing outside Jean-Paul's restaurant in a tuxedo when she arrived. I escorted her in. Once seated, the sommelier brought us a bottle of wine without asking our opinion. "You will be delighted," was all he said. He was right.
The restaurant was completely empty but for us.
The head waiter, who never carried plates, brought us our introductory plate of grilled calamari. "Monsieur, Madame," the waiter said, "I am at your service through the entire meal. Do not hesitate to call upon me." JP had gone beyond anything I had imagined. The most distinguished waiter in the entire city served us each course in turn, without being snobby.
Carrie had chosen to wear a white, sequin-studded gown that stopped at the knee line. There was a bit of fluff to the skirt of the dress, but the bodice was of a tight, stretchy material that made it obvious there was no bra involved. The gown was strapless, displaying her delicate shoulders, air brushed with freckles. She didn't have much cleavage, but the gown showed what she had to its best advantage.
JP himself served the final course of sorbet and champagne. He discretely moved in two buckets of ice with bottles of champagne tucked within.
JP kissed Carrie's hand and said, "I take my leave of you now, but indulge yourselves in anything I have to offer." As he left, he must have pushed "play" on the sound system, because the luscious tones of Artie Shaw's "Stardust" wafted over the quiet restaurant. Carrie was crazy over 40s and big band music.
"Care to dance?" I asked. She took my hand and we danced together as if we were in a Clark Gable movie. When the music changed to Sinatra's "The Way You Look Tonight" my hands were up under her skirt, cupping those wonderful ass cheeks in my hands. I was happy to note that she had followed protocols. No underwear was in evidence.
We glided around the room as if we were Fred and Ginger...okay, if Fred was feeling up Ginger's ass and was pushing his hard cock up against Ginger's wet pussy, then we were like Fred and Ginger. Oh and we were dancing.
The music stayed with Frank. "I've Got You Under My Skin" provoked Carrie to unzip my fly and pull out my very hard cock and begin stroking it. As the tune changed to "A Summer Wind" Carrie pulled me over to a nearby table. She sat on the edge and pulled up her skirt to reveal a wet, dripping pussy. She had manicured her pubic hair to form a narrow strip pointing to her now protruding clit.
After that, I have no idea what the music was. I just dove into Carrie's wet, wide pussy with my open mouth and flipping tongue. Her pussy seemed to take on a life of its own, matching my tongue thrusts, riding my kisses up and down the length of her slit.
