It was three weeks before I gathered enough courage to put on one of her little temporary tattoos. When the URGE is on her she puts the tattoo high on her breast so it would show just above the line of her bra or, more often, where her bra would have been if she wore one. I put it high on my arm, right where the roundness of my deltoid muscle made a little dent.
I didn't say anything, just followed the instructions, cleaning my skin with alcohol, dampening the tattoo, kind of like a decal when I used to build model airplanes, and then peeling off the backing paper. It wouldn't show, even with a short-sleeved shirt, but she would see it as we got ready for bed.
I went to work and did something boring. I was pretty keyed up and, if I'm being honest, I don't remember what I was working on, I suppose it was a plan or a grant application or something. I know that day took about 127 hours.
I called her about noon and told her I was taking her to dinner. When I got home she looked absolutely terrific. She had chosen one of her sheer blouses, white, worn over a black bra that showed clearly, and a short, wrap-around skirt that showed off her pretty legs and, when she spun in our dance, would show the black panties so sheer you could read a newspaper through them. Her makeup showed her 50-something years rather than trying to hide them, and I was proud to have her on my arm.
"So," she said, as we placed our orders, "What's the occasion? We don't usually go out on Wednesday night."
And I was suddenly awkward. I didn't know how to proceed with this conversation.
"Oh," she said, smiling that motherly smile that always got to me, "You think you're getting an URGE."
"Well, yes," I said
She giggled and said, "I don't think so."
"What?!" I asked, louder than I should have.
She laughed then, softly.
"Honey," she said, reaching across the table and laying her hand on mine, "When you're ready there won't be a 'well' before your 'yes.'"
I could feel the way my face fell and I hated it.
She giggled and patted my hand. "Don't worry, baby," she said, "Mama will make it all better later."
I was still out of sorts as we ate and about halfway through dinner she reached across the table and used her palm to lift my chin, making me meet her eyes.
"You know what happens to pouty boys," she said and I felt a sudden rush, deep in my belly.
The age difference between us was too obvious to ever ignore. We had played "mommy games" from time to time, and we both found them satisfying.
Don't get me wrong. It wasn't a fetish with us, but something that occasionally spiced up our lovemaking. It was an odd combination of kinky and tender to, for example, lay with my head in her lap, nursing at her small breast, while I relaxed so completely I needed the diaper she had put on me after carefully powdering my bottom.
When she called me a "pouty boy," I knew the threat there. Three times in our four years together Millie had spanked me. There was something liberating about surrendering like that and I discovered, that first time, what was meant by that trite phrase we've all seen in one form or another - "pleasure and pain are closely related."
She is much more experienced than I am, as that first spanking illustrated.
It was my own fault, of course. We were at the banquet of the local chapter of the American Society of Interior Designers (who knew such a thing even existed). Millie had been attending breakout sessions and seminars for four days and this was the big finale. I had been bored out of my skull.
In the event, I felt like I was the meat at a meat market. There were 200 or so decorators of which, by my rough estimate, 175 were women and most of them were Millie's age, I guessed between 45 and 55. These weren't the staff artists or the people who "staged" houses. These were the people who had made it to the top of their very competitive career ladders.
And it was a God-DAMN attractive group of women. I suppose it makes sense if you think about it. At that level, jobs are landed through personal contacts, and attractive people are usually the ones who are best at that.
Oh, there were a few outliers. Interestingly, those are the ones who stick in my mind after the fifty or so names that were thrown at me. There was Mags, something I assumed was a shortening of Margaret, who was five-foot nuthin', about 250 pounds, and so perfectly dyke you expected her to have a five o'clock shadow. There was Leigh, essentially the opposite of Mags. Leigh was easily two inches taller than me, weighed maybe a hundred pounds, and was so heavily, and ridiculously, made up that she looked like a 70-year-old caricature of a woman. As I say, it was the outliers who stick in mind. As a group, they were attractive, some pretty, a few beautiful, and all were bright and witty.
What got me in trouble was this -
The dinner part of the final banquet to close out the convention was over and the sort of general party was in full swing. I had retrieved Millie's third Screwdriver from the open bar, along with my third beer, some microbrew concoction of which I had never heard, and was kind of hanging around the fringe of a circle of women. Millie accepted the drink with a distracted air, not even a "Thank you," and went back to the discussion of the "Rule of Threes" and primary colors versus pastels and other things that I suppose were important to them. For me, I was just about as bored as a human being can be and still remain conscious.
There was a band playing at the other end of the big hall, a little four-piece combo that seemed to be doing mostly oldies. I'm more of a blues guy myself, but the lead guitar player had an interesting-looking Gibson ES-335, a Marshall stack, and he was sounding pretty good. I waited for a lull in the conversation, touched Millie's arm and when she turned to me I said, "I'm going to see if I can steal some licks. That guy's pretty good."
She smiled distractedly, said, "Go right ahead, Baby," and turned back to the conversation that was, obviously, more important than me right then.
I didn't mind. She had attended enough meetings and events with me as I presented reports and plans to the Committee In Charge Of Something Boring I understood how she felt. This was something she was interested in.
I wandered over as the band started to do
Harlem Nocturne
, and watched, interested, as the lead player added little licks to the jazz standard. He was really good, but I could follow most of what he was doing.
From that, they went into a medley of early 60s schlock. Bobby Vinton's
Blue Velvet
, Brian Hyland's
Sealed With A Kiss
, and the Beatles
And I Love Her
done back to back with no breaks.
"So," the woman's voice said, softly, her lips close enough to my ear that I could feel little puffs of warm breath, "Are you as bored as I am?" Her hands were on my hips and I could feel her breasts pressed against my back.
I chuckled, leaned back, and said,
sotto voce
, "I don't know how bored you are, but I'm giving you exactly 47 minutes to stop that," as I moved my shoulders against her breasts.
Her answering chuckle was soft and breathy. "Only 47 minutes?" she asked.
"My wife gets suspicious at the 48-minute mark," I said, laughing softly and finally turning to see just who the hell I was flirting with.
She was, it turned out, the perfect, mathematical opposite of my bride. She was tall for a woman, looking me straight in the eye on the moderately high-heeled shoes she wore. She was strikingly pretty with blue eyes so pale they were almost silver, blonde hair that matched her eyebrows and the very light down of sideburns that I associate with natural blondes, a straight thin nose, something you'd see on one of those statues the Romans seem to leave laying around, thin lips, small ears, and an unexpected sprinkle of freckles. She was big in every dimension. I estimated those breasts that she had pressed against my back as about a 42EE. A wide belt gave the impression of a wasp-waisted figure, but the bulges above and below the belt suggested a thick chick rather than a true hourglass. Her hips matched her boobs, and her calves were thick, tapering to surprisingly small ankles.
Yes, I looked her up and down, deliberately, and she smiled as I did.
"Do I pass muster?" she asked when, at last, I met her eyes again.
I grinned and offered my hand.
The band was into
Unchained Melody
now, and the frontman was doing a passable Bill Medley imitation.
