The Sweetness of the Pear: Meela

I spotted the frizzy pony tail even before I spotted the smile that went along with it. A tan skirt, a pastel blouse, shapely legs, and white sandals, stepping jauntily down the platform. We had been in almost daily contact by phone and email for the past month and a half, hammering out details about tidal flow rates, coral cohesion, and underwater currents, but this was the first time I'd actually seen her in person. She was much prettier than her picture. She spotted me and gave a little wave. When she reached me she held out both of her hands. We kissed cheeks.

"Claire. In the flesh. It's so nice to finally meet you face to face."

"Hector. We meet at last. Though it feels like we've known each other forever, doesn't it?"

Claire was the Assistant Manager of the Santa Rita Office. We'd both come up to Panga Lea to make a joint pitch to the firm that we hoped would sponsor the project.

I gave her hands an extra squeeze. "Did you have a nice trip?"

"Yes, thanks. And you?"

"I did indeed."

"Did you have to wait long?"

"Not long at all. A couple of minutes. Is this everything?"

"This is it," she said, re-engaging her roller bag.

"OK, then. Let's see if we can find a taxi."

You have undoubtedly heard many things about Calandria. Some of them are true. It is true, for example, that as a general rule, Calandrians do not wear undergarments. Claire, I was reasonably certain, did not have anything else on underneath her skirt and blouse. Neither did I have anything else on under my trousers and shirt. What is the point of wearing something that chafes and binds and that no one else can even see to admire?

On the other hand, many of the rumors are nothing but rubbish. For example, despite what you so often hear, it is almost always possible to walk more than two city blocks in Central City without having to step over a couple engaged in public fornication. Calandrians are affectionate, but they are also courteous and self effacing, and they would go out of their way rather than cause discomfort or scandal.

As to the question of whether Calandria is a land of vile sinfulness, a modern Sodom and Gomorrah, as so many would have it, or whether it is the last sweet remnant of the Garden of Eden--- that is a judgment you will have to make for yourself. I will simply tell you what I know to be true: the climate is salubrious, the people are gracious and kind, and the social mores, though very different from our own, are based on a long and stable tradition.

Claire went over several last minute change orders in the taxi, and then asked me to double check the figures in the hotel room. This was her first big project, and she had been working very hard to make sure it would succeed. We rehearsed our presentation and tried to anticipate possible questions. At last she was satisfied that we were in pretty good shape. She did not want to appear over-prepared.

While I copied down the last of the figures, she unbuttoned her blouse and laid it on the futon. I couldn't help but notice how pretty her breasts were, each one plump and full, her nipples pink and perky.

"I think I'll take a quick shower before dinner." She slipped off her skirt. "Traveling always makes me feel grungy."

There are no tan lines in Calandria. Every inch of her trim body, from her pretty toes all the way up to the tips of her ears was burnished to a single, uninterrupted, flawless honey sheen. She reached to get something from her bag, and I couldn't help but admire her taught, symmetrical bottom. She turned back toward me, trying to corral her briar patch of hair into a shower cap. Down below she was completely shaved, the lips of her vagina smooth and virginal.

"Or would you rather go first?"

"No, no. You go right ahead."

The inhabitants of Calandria are not at all self conscious about their bodies. To them, the state in which we first arrive into this world is the most natural state to be in. Their attitude toward clothing is somewhat like our attitude toward hats. They wear clothes to be stylish or to keep warm, and in today's fashion climate they would not be caught dead in public without something on. But they feel no moral compulsion to wear clothes indoors, and the thought of wearing anything at all to bed would strike them as just plain silly. They feel neither embarrassment nor shame in uncovering before someone of the opposite sex, and some social situations even demand it.

I must say that this nonchalance about nudity is one of the most pleasant Calandrian customs for someone from the States to try to get used to. In the first place, it is innately pleasurable to see the naked human form, and to be naked oneself in front of others. The physiological thresholds adjust themselves after a bit of practice, so that it becomes possible to maintain a certain amount of equanimity even when, for example, a lovely, nubile colleague disrobes for her shower right in front of you as if you weren't even there. But the old mindset does not completely fade away. Alongside this newfound sense of Calandrian innocence one still experiences the same old deep lusty stirrings. One cannot help but feel to some extent like a voyeuristic impostor.

But, of course, if one is going to play, one must play by the rules. Confidences inhabit a different plane than ironies. As Ilsa, my neighbor back in Central City, would put it, "The pear is sweet, but the one who offers the pear is sacred."

I finished the figures. Claire had left the bathroom door ajar. The shower was at the far end, without a separate stall, the water falling onto the tiled floor. Claire moved to make room for me, but I saw she was finishing up. I undressed and got her towel ready for her. "Thanks," she smiled, patting droplets from her pretty face. "You have to turn it this way for hot, and that way for cold."

Claire was right about the griminess of travel. I don't know if it is a byproduct of combustion, or if it just comes from the crush of the crowd and the sweat of exertion. But it felt very good to lather up and sluice it all off.

When I came out, Claire was still naked, arranging her things in one of the drawers. "I took this one. I hope you don't mind," she said.

There was a knock on the door and the maid came in. Did we have everything we needed? The monogram on her apron identified her as Conchita. She was an attractive woman in her late thirties, with dark hair and a pleasant disposition. Out of habit I repositioned my towel along a more defensive line of site. We were in pretty good shape, thank you. Everything was just fine, except, oh yes, could she perhaps recommend a nice place for dinner? There was a small seafood restaurant just a few blocks away, nothing fancy, but people seemed to like it. That sounded ideal.

Claire put on a flowery summer dress, and I put on a fresh pair of trousers and a colorful Hawaiian shirt. Conchita's restaurant was delightful. The tables were set out in a courtyard hung with bougainvillea; none of the chairs were alike. The mussels and snapper had been caught just that morning, and the chilies and papayas had been picked that afternoon.

It was my first visit to Panga Lea, but Claire had been there as a little girl, and over dinner she recounted several happy memories of that trip. Afterwards we took a stroll through the town and down along the beach. The night was balmy and the moon was bright. We took off our sandals and walked along the wet sand. There were still a few people in the water, and Claire suggested that we go in too. We left our clothes well up above the tide line. The bottom was sandy, but it fell off fairly quickly, and the waves broke close to shore. Beyond the breakers I could just touch bottom. Claire clung to my side. We faced out to sea and let the slow waves lift us up and gently set us down again.

Claire pushed off and floated on her back, her shoulders and breasts glistening like sealskin in the moonlight, her hair a mass of tangled sea weed. I floated beside her, my penis breaching the surface every now and then like a gaping tube worm. We swam and body surfed and then played for a while in the wash, letting the tide tote us up and back like two bleached logs of drift wood.

Although the night was warm, there was a light breeze that made it chilly to be in and out of the water. "Oh," Claire noticed. "Your poor little sea slug. He's all scrunched up." He was indeed all scrunched up, to the point that he was nothing but a mushroom cap sticking up from his ball of coral, without a trace of stalk. "Perhaps it's time we got the little fellow home to bed."

"Well, we do have a big day tomorrow," I agreed.

We headed off along the beach in the direction of the hotel, carrying our clothes until we were dry enough to put them on.

Back at the hotel Claire brushed out her hair. "I'll give it a proper wash in the morning." I set the alarm for early, and placed the order for breakfast. She lay down on one side of the futon and I lay down on the other.

"Do you think we should go over the presentation one more time?" she asked.

In Calandrian society it is considered perfectly acceptable for recent acquaintances to sleep together naked in the same small bed. In fact, for two colleagues who find themselves brought together on a business trip in an unfamiliar town, the rules of Calandrian hospitality would be hard pressed to come up with any other arrangement. What could be more sociable and cozy than the warmth of another human being lying close beside one, the occasional inadvertent brush of his or her skin in the night? If Claire and I had drifted right off to sleep, and even if we had exchanged a little goodnight kiss, or an affectionate little goodnight caress, Calandrian society would not have taken us to task.

But Calandrian hospitality is not prudish either. It tries to pay attention to all of life's little appetites, and it has a tender spot in its heart for each of life's little pleasures. It does not demand, but it certainly encourages one not to tuck in one's companion until he or she has been adequately fed.

"Or we could make love instead."

One of the wonderful things about being in bed together naked is that if you do decide to fool around, everything you need is right there where you need it. I reached out and ran my hand along the smooth lowlands of her flank, up over the dune of her hip, and down the cool, moonlit littoral of her thigh. She scooted closer and tangled her fingers in the kelp bed of my chest.

It was a sweet, shy, getting-to-know-you fuck. The graceful cove where Claire's neck met her shoulder still tasted salty and warm. Her pretty nipples, which had bobbed along beside me so innocently just half an hour ago, now blushed like anemones as my tongue surveyed them more closely. My sea slug stretched himself out again to better receive Claire's affectionate caresses. He eeled his way along her coastline, happily exploring every little tide pool and estuary. And hidden within the fjord on the chaste southern promontory that he had already spied several times earlier that day, he was amazed, as he always is, to discover a secret cozy cave that had been there waiting all this time, all moist, and snug, and welcoming.

He scratched his itch along the cave's smooth walls, first on one side, then on the other. A tingle told him that a sneeze was on its way. It approached as voluptuously and ineluctably as a tidal wave, lifting him up to the point where there was no turning back, and finally bursting forth in a tremendous, juicy, body wrenching spasm that reverberated all up and down the continental plate. It was followed by an aftershock, then another, then another.

I floated for a while alone on the open ocean. The repeated squeezes of Claire's insistent thighs wrung out every last drop of eel jism. We rolled onto our sides. My eel slowly retracted his way back home, finally losing his purchase on her sweet cave altogether. Claire gave me a little smile. I pulled up the sheet, and only then did we drift off to sleep.

In the morning light Claire's face was serene and lovely. Her cheeks had not yet lost all their baby fat. Her lips were full, her skin unblemished. Her wild pre-raphaelite hair diffused the scene behind her like a spotlit chestnut halo. I don't think I've ever met a Calandrian who was not at least reasonably attractive. It's not just the handsomeness of the race or the luck of the draw. From an early age, grooming, fitness, and poise form an essential core of the Calandrian education. Like all her schoolmates, Claire knew that appearance must be tended like a garden, and that with proper attention, any patch of land can be made into a splendid enough place for one to spend a summer afternoon, or, indeed, to stake one's claim alongside. In Claire's case the soil was fertile and the gardener plenty able. But the wellspring of her beauty, it seemed to me, the sap that infused every petal and twig, was the unqualified awareness that I could only imagine she must have felt, ever since she was a little girl sitting on her mother's lap, that she was pretty, desirable, and worthy of love.

The alarm went off. Claire's eyes eased open. Took in their unfamiliar surroundings. Eased shut again. A few seconds later they ventured a second reconnaissance. This time they noticed the strange fellow on the adjoining pillow. Memory banks spun up, cobwebs were cleared. Her eyelids fluttered up for a third time, and this time they remained open in a weak but steady gaze. "Good morning, team," she mewed.

I gathered her closer. The increasing chatter of her eyelashes, now played out against my chest, told me she was gearing up for the day's events.

Traditionally, the Calandrian fuck consists of two full courses: the primo---the more substantial meat and potatoes portion of the meal, and the secondo---the lighter but equally delicious fruit compote, brandy and chocolates, or, as the case may be, continental breakfast. The two courses are separated by an intermezzo of cuddling, sleeping, or going about the impinging activities of the day. But no matter how satisfying the primo, the act of love does not feel complete, and the lovers feel themselves to be still somehow intimately entwined, until the consummation of the secondo.

I glided my hand along the uninterrupted silkiness that stretched seamlessly from her shoulders all the way down beyond her bottom. I could just reach the tops of her thighs, where they turned in between her legs. Her eyelashes modulated their tempo, then paused altogether. She nibbled thoughtfully on one of my nipples. She slowly stroked the other one. Then she knelt up as if to begin her morning devotions. The sheet slipped off her back, revealing our nakedness. Tenderly she coaxed my obelisk into erection, rubbed its head along her vulva, and then lowered herself down upon it, impaling herself on its rigidity, bearing down until she had enveloped its entire length in her votive embrace. She worked her way back up again, slowly anointing every inch with her chrism, then down again, up and down, rubbing herself luxuriously against its ribbed totems.

I paid homage to her as well. As she cantered above me like a ravishing goddess, I stroked her with reverence and awe---her flexing hips, her long, slender sides, her quivering breasts, her floating arms. Her nipples were hard as rubies, and I opened one hand wide to touch them both in their cycle. I slid the other hand between her thighs to venerate the wet, intimate folds of her labia. Another precious jewel was hidden there, and with every rise and fall she secretly pressed it against me. Her eyes were fixed on a horizon far beyond the walls of the room. Her face had become utterly slack, no longer with the peaceful serenity of sleep, but with the stark abandon of ecstasy. I could not take my eyes off her. She rode and rode and shuddered and rode and saw at last the full, glorious, radiant, undiminished object of her quest. She slackened her pace, but she did not stop riding for another good mile at least.

Conchita brought us our breakfast of rolls and cheese and coffee. She was glad that we had enjoyed the restaurant, and she wished us luck on our presentation. When she turned to go, I saw that the apron constituted the entirety of her uniform. Apart from her sandals, it was the only thing she had on.

Claire's hair was still a little damp when we headed out. It was a glorious morning. We passed groups of chattering children on their way to school, grocers and merchants opening up their shops, deliverymen making their morning rounds.

We were welcomed by Dr. Peterson himself, the president of the firm. He introduced us to Grant and Mekela who would be heading up the project from their end. Grant was ruggedly handsome with short blond hair. He wore khaki trousers and a button-down shirt much like my own. Mekela had short nappy hair and wore a colorful vest and skirt that contrasted strikingly with her rich ebony skin. Her vest was bright scarlet and marigold, and it buttoned across her midriff, leaving her breasts fully exposed. They rose from her chest like two gentle volcanic islands with out-turned basalt craters. Her skirt was like a grass skirt, made up of narrow strips of scarlet, pumpkin, marigold, tan, and black that hung freely from her waist and shimmered and parted as she walked.

The conference room looked out over the sparkling bay, The three of them listened attentively to our presentation and asked several thoughtful questions. Dr. Peterson congratulated us heartily on our preparation. The firm was very keen to get into this area, and our proposal was right in line with their vision. He was quite hopeful that we could do business. Grant and Mekela would go over the plans with us in greater detail, and we would all meet back together later in the afternoon.

Grant had several specific questions related to the figures, and Mekela sketched out their ideas about funding. They brought up a few points we had not thought of, and they used a somewhat different pricing schedule, but there did not seem to be any major discrepancies. They also had their own maps, much more detailed than ours, and we studied them closely. The final decisions would of course require an actual survey, but we saw no cause for concern.

We ate lunch on a patio overlooking the bay. Figs, grapes, and a salad of eggplants and olives. Grant had lived all his life in Panga Lea, and he gave us the captain's tour of the bay, pointing out several interesting features about the harbor, the islands, the plantations along the coast, and the small villages just visible on the distant hillsides. Mekela showed us where some of the project installations would be built.

"Call us old-fashioned, but here in Panga Lea it is still the custom to take an afternoon siesta," said Grant when we had finished. "Of course we can go right back to work if you prefer, but I think we are well enough on track that we can afford a little time to recharge our batteries."

Claire and I saw no problem in honoring the local customs.

Claire went with Grant, and I went with Mekela. She led me to a small room with closed shades, a mat, a futon, a table, and a basin. She often went home for siesta, she said, but the firm had a few rooms available as well. We stepped out of our sandals at the door. She took off her vest and unwrapped her skirt. Her smooth, chocolate vagina was topped by a carefully trimmed patch that looked to be of the exact thickness and texture as the hair on her head. It reminded me of a French poodle. I smiled, and she smiled back. Following her lead, I took off my shirt and trousers and hung them on the post next to hers.

"I'm not really acquainted with the siesta," I said. "We don't practice it in Central City."

"It is second nature to me now," she said, walking over to the futon. "It really helps me to concentrate more fully during the second part of the day." She lay down and stretched herself luxuriously. She patted the spot beside her. "Come and lay down. We will take a little nap. We can make love first if you would like."