Girl On Ice

One thing that keeps robbing me of time with Michele is her interminable training program. Her taut little body comes at a price, and she keeps at her rather grim-seeming practice regimen, but she also seems to enjoy it immensely. Early one Saturday morning, not yet light out, I went to the rink to see what was so much fun.

I parked my tush on one of the cold rink benches, and immediately wished I'd worn something longer if not warmer than my bright purple squall jacket. My jeans were simply not up to the task of insulating me from the cold hard surface, but my rear end is quite capable of warming a bench :=P. After a while I got more comfortable, aided by a hot chocolate from the stand. (Hmmmm, wonder when those pretty cognac-color cords will go on sale at Lands End...)

Skaters (mostly girls) were warming up both off and on the ice. Some were practicing crossovers, mohawks, and turns, and doing portions of the USFSA tests. Others were doing spirals, lunges, shoot the ducks, bauers, spread eagles, pivots, and attitudes. Still others were going through the familiar jumps and spins too numerous to mention.

I knew from my conversations with Michele that figure skating was a complex sport, that it's not just the jumps and their difficulty - it's also how well a given jump, spin, or spiral sequence is performed. And there are basic skating skills on display between these performance highlights: edge quality... speed and power... "flow." Does the skater move smoothly across the ice, or does she continually lose speed and have to regain it with a push to the other foot? Do the connecting elements use bi-directional and difficult turns such as brackets, counters, and choctaws, or only the relatively easy forward three turns and inside mohawks? Does the accompanying music find expression in the movement? So I watched the practice with interest, trying to see how all the activities fed into the final product of what might become an actual performance.

Michele and a few others of her age etched circles in the ice with a special tool, and started very slow, deliberate patterns over the circles they'd made. The younger girls yelled, somewhat contemptuously, "Compulsories!!!!! Yeeew! How last century can you get?!"

I really didn't get what happened next. The practice was over, and after the typically strenuous exertions, most of the skaters were stumbling off the ice, except for the few older skaters chatting and the gaggle of teen agers noisily flaunting their youth. Suddenly, Michele, whom I'd come to watch, sped up and circled the entire perimeter of the ice. She went onto the inside edge of one skate, lifting her other leg up and back, stretching her hands out over her head, taking the blade of the free leg and pulling toward her head, and then just balancing and gliding on one leg all the way around the rink... a perfect (and very long) Bielmann.

It was a lovely but hard glide, and Michele stopped in front of me, her breasts rising and falling with each breath, her pretty face framed in an auburn updo a few inches from mine. Her skating outfit was gray like the winter sky, and, in spite of the coldness of the rink, damp with perspiration. Little beads of sweat were running down her pretty face. Her eyes danced with exhilaration, and while I looked at her, the color of her cheeks shifted and deepened just as it would upon a bed of pink blossoms swaying in the wind.

I leaned forward to gently kiss the flowers. "What's up with the impromptu show?" I asked.

She replied, "With us 'older' skaters still on the ice and within earshot, that little 14-year-old bitch over there said a little too loudly, 'Why are THEY still competing?' My coach just now said to the little snot, 'That's why [referring to me] - because they love the beauty of the sport. And if you are really lucky you will be able to do that in ten more years. And one more thing. The compulsory moves----a deliberate return to the basics----are the building blocks of EVERYTHING.'"

I could tell from the expression on Michele's face that this was a great moment and that she was going to be in a really good mood for quite some time.

Michele usually walked to and from the rink, but I offered her a ride, which meant she didn't have to shower and change here, and she quickly pulled off her skates and slipped on her down parka and loafers. I further suggested that after she freshened up we engage in one of our favorite pastimes, some power shopping. This brought out a smile of even greater intensity than the one she'd had on her face ever since her lovely display. We were at her house in less than 5 minutes, and she disappeared into the bathroom.

In the meantime, I tried out her new furniture, a gorgeous turquoise and white room size sectional and loveseat, wonderfully large and comfortable. I began to think that maybe we shouldn't go anyplace. But given our mutual passion for shopping, I also did not want to interrupt the flow of our day... After all, we didn't get one to ourselves that often. So I began trying to think of places where, if the need truly arose, we could kill two birds with one stone. Uh, stores with private fitting rooms maybe? Hmmm... Maybe Nordstrom's. Some folks complain about their lighting, but they DO have mirrors on 3 sides. Hehehehe. :=P

Michele came out wrapped in a towel, looking even more gorgeous in her steaminess than she had in the cold and went straight to her bedroom to dress. As usual, I marveled at how her strong musculature could radiate such a delicate appearance of softness. She reappeared in about 2 minutes flat dressed in jeans and a bright yellow turtleneck. Once again, where to go? We left for Nordstrom's.

Michele was driving now, as we had opted for the cooler and funner of our vehicles. Her super long daily commute had contributed to a propensity for speeding and passing semis, though I'm pretty sure her brand new candy-apple red Mustang convertible made it far less of a chore than it had been before. I rode shotgun esconced in saddle leather and watched out for state troopers. It was early when we arrived, and any semblance of a crowd had yet to materialize, so we headed straight for the close-in covered lot where we would be only steps from the door of the store.

As usual, Michele's approach was super-organized: She keeps an ongoing list of clothing needs posted in her closet, and as she dresses each morning, she makes notes of items she needs to complete various outfits such as a wider brown belt or a black tee with V-neck. (She also pre-organizes clothes into outfits, :=P) This list goes with her to the store. Upon arrival, we headed straight for dresses by way of leggings and the other accessories that Michele loves.

I think anyone seeing us would think we were a mother and daughter shopping together. I am a bit self-conscious about my age, especially when comparing myself to Michele, who is very much in her prime. In my mind's eye, I am an old woman with large sagging breasts, my unshaved pussy a hairy and unattractive morass. In reality, nothing could be farther from the truth. I have a svelte figure, and those who know my true age tell me that look 15 years younger than I am. I still have a pretty face thanks to good bones. In addition, my "anjimal" (as Michele calls it) is always neatly clipped (in pre-1990s fashion), and otherwise scrupulously cared for as well. But her wonderful body still brings out my insecurities. At the same time, being with her makes me unconcerned about trying out things about which I would otherwise be inhibited and makes me totally un-self-conscious about youthful-looking clothes.

Michele collected about 5 daywear dresses; I found one. We headed for the dressing rooms. Apparently anticipating our needs, she headed for the handicapped dressing room where there was a little more room... probably just another case of GMTA. I staked a claim to the stall next door, hanging my jacket from the door and placing the dress inside. It was a perfect time to shop, as the other rooms were empty. The dressing rooms were nice... actual rooms with ceilings, not just stalls.

By the time I checked on Michele, she had already tried on one dress and discarded it. She tossed a dress at me saying, "Put this on." "It won't work," I protested, since we weren't the same size at all. "Yea it will," she said. "There were talls in the rack over there, so I grabbed that one for you."

As I obeyed her command, she looked at me. Michele's eyes are quick and bright; they are a lovely greenish color, and she has a wonderful way of turning them swiftly upon an object or person and holding them there until some form of obedience occurs. I pulled off my Polartec top, and, slipping easily out of my penny loafers, wriggled out of my jeans. I wuz standing there in my ribbed tank top and panties, a flattering look on me, though not particularly sexy. For her part, Michele wuz in her dark red half-cups and Italian panties.

"Pretty hot, huh?" Michele asked (or stated), placing a hand into her panties and running it between her legs, her fingers trailing through her pussy and then up to my lips for me to lick. The usual result occurred: my knees went weak, and I began to melt, getting flushed and hot. Her fingers tasted of unsweetened berries, bringing to mind how rigorous and healthy her diet was. I hoped in vain that I tasted at least almost as good, having had leftover quiche lorraine and strong coffee for breakfast.

"That's my baby," giggled Michele, herself lightly flushed. I put on the dress she had selected, but I was becoming becoming very horny and fixated on her half cups... She had obviously been thinking ahead when she had donned this particular set of underwear. I have always suspected that her plan was to keep me in a continuous state of sexual agitation. Many regard me as staid and unapproachable, as a woman of my age probably should be, but for her I'm merely a target for finely tuned sexual provocations. Not that I'm complaining...

The Rag & Bone Hellcat dress wuz definitely me (and her as well, for that matter). It wuz shown with R&B Moto pleather leggings and Newbury ankle boots (the boots no longer available, *sigh*). With the dress on sale for a paltry $198, the dress and legging total came to a mere $723. At that price I would have snapped it up, but I already have so many similar... haha :=P

For some reason, Michele finds it really easy to drop her drawers in a hurry, which she did while yanking me by my tank top down to my knees. I was between her strong legs, which she promptly draped over my shoulders as she sat on the bench. Her areolae peeked out over her half cups, and her sweet cleanly shaved slit confronted me directly. Blood rushed to my head (and elsewhere). I could feel my own pussy lips becoming swollen with desire.

"You like my little anjimal?" she asked in baby talk. "Yes, me wikes your wittle anjimaw," I said as I stuck my face into her pussy and hoped to God I had shut the door. Meanwhile my hands went to work on freeing her breasts, and after a few tentative licks, my mouth went to work, Michele's cunt becoming creamier and more delicious with each wriggly intrusion of my tongue. By now I had her bra off, and my hands gently massaged her superheated 34Bs. "Oooooh," she said, "that feels unbelievable."

I stuck my fingers in her pussy under her clit and kept licking, hoping to trigger the serial multiple orgasms she so often has. After some minutes, I felt some tremors, mercifully unaccompanied by the loud yelps of pleasure that so often occurred with them. I moved up her left rib cage with my mouth, licking the length of each rib as they increased from the twelfth to the eighth, then decreased again from the seventh to the first, moving slowly to her hairless fragrant armpit, lingering there and kissing the sensitive flesh, then to her firm round breast, and finally to her collarbone to nibble her neck. Keeping my hand in her cunt I got up on the dressing room bench, and hers moved to mine as well.

I remember thinking that her ribs seemed so delicate, I hoped she'd be very careful on the ice. I then began to worry that my legs were sandpapery, but checking, I found that they were still okay. I draped my right leg over her lap. Her hand drifted over my leg and made its way up along my inner thigh where the tender soft flesh was warm and moist...

Kissing her mouth, she tugged at my lower lip as she so often did, turning it into a signature unique and private erogenous zone. My lips were hot and so were hers as we used the device of kissing to somehow meld our bodies into one. Wave after wave of sensation came from my pussy, driving me wild. Finally, a wave of pleasure washed over me, leaving me breathing in gasps that only very gradually subsided.

Breathing heavily, we sat all wrapped around each other for a few minutes before untangling the hot jumble of entwined limbs that so often characterizes us in repose. We looked longingly at the several thousand dollars worth of clothes we had brought in to try on, and then gave each other a GMTA look. Crossing two minds simultaneously was the thought that perhaps a store like this might have security cameras behind its mirrors. Oops. We put on our jeans and tops as nonchalantly as we could, and prepared to leave.

In spite of business hardly having picked up, somebody knocked at the door. We said, okay, and hurried ourselves along. Upon exiting, we noticed that the person who knocked was not even handicapped (and didn't have anyone with them :=P), and that there were plenty of other rooms available. But being freshly fucked, neither of us found ourselves able to harbor any animosity toward anyone for anything. I grabbed my jacket from the room next door.

We did notice that the entire area was a little noisier than it should have been.

"I want THAT outfit, not some kid stuff," screamed the obnoxious teenager, amazingly, the VERY SAME ONE from the skating rink.

"Don't be silly," said her mother, it's way too expensive, even for an adult who might get some use out of it. It's not for kids - it's way too sexy. Where would you wear it? There's no way I would spend that on an outfit for myself, much less on clothes intended for school. If you want expensive things, you're gonna hafta work for the money to buy them, and even then I wouldn't want you buying that."

"Yea, yea, yea..." and then a loudly whispered "BEEEEYOTCH!"

"What did you say?"

"Noooothing."

"You NEVER acted that way when YOU were her age," I said MUCH too loudly to a smirking Michele as we sashayed past.