You may repost, print, or copy, provided you do not alter in any way - in whole or in part - without the author's permission, which is unlikely to be granted in any case. It may not be reproduced for profit or commercial use.
If you are not 18 or over, well - I encourage your curiosity, but please pursue it elsewhere... this story is for adults only. Thanks.
We are M & Y of MyMPTP. It's me writing at the moment - I'm Y.
This story is mostly just a remembrance M shared with me and then wrote for me a long time ago. He posted it in one of the "newsgroups" of yore.
So, please note: you may have seen this story long ago - but it was M who wrote it and this is his Literotica profile and we're here as a couple.
Comments or questions are welcome...I can spot a flame a mile away, and I don't read them before I trash them, so don't bother. Constructive criticism is always welcome. (Take me, use me, lick me, eat me, fuck me, whip me...EDIT MEEEEE!!)
Part I
I was barely 18 ... at least I *think* my birthday had passed. I was young, and though I'd gotten laid the first time when I was 14, I was just then really coming into my own sexuality. I had more than one really important relationship going, all of them with more or less understanding women ... all but one was older than me. And I suppose my hormone-driven ego was cranking right along. Pretty full of myself.
But SHE had me by the balls, plain and simple. She had worked for a while at the bookstore where I did. Early thirties, slender, graceful, with the posture and poise of a dancer, although she wasn't one. She just moved well and carried herself with pride and grace. Dark, especially her hair and eyes, but all of her. Her ancestry was Russian and French. She had a soft, deep sense of humor; she seemed to have read everything. She was surprisingly raunchy, but in a sort of quiet way - a way that was actually a form of flirting. She would make a sexual pun or double-entendre and just check with a subtle glance to see if you got it ... and smile with pleasure to see that you had. She would treat you as a co-conspirator in her naughtiness. She would especially do this when she had been slyly teasing one of the many customers or loiterers she attracted to our end of the store. She toyed with them, driving them, and me, completely nuts. "Here comes one of my regulars," she'd murmur as one of the earnest young intellectuals made his way up the aisle, trying to look uninterested, preoccupied. "Wonder what's on his highly educated little mind today?"
We had only worked together for a brief while when she began to casually place a hand on my leg or arm or shoulder. She would sometimes seem "little-girlish" with me, but only subtly. I doubt that anyone else who worked there could see that she was coming on to me. In fact, they would have thought I was flattering myself if I had said anything. I mean, she was nearly twice my age, gorgeous and sophisticated in a near-bohemian way, married, for Christs' sake, and I was this bearded young buck. But I knew, or rather, suspected. Hell, I didn't know what to think. I was becoming obsessed as only a brand new man can be. She was just too delicious. Was I kidding myself? No. Absolutely not. Maybe. Definitely. Oh, for Christ's sake ...
Soon there were lunches. My invitation. She said no the first time I asked her if she'd like to join me for lunch, but it was a very studied "no." She paused a long time, looking into my eyes before saying, "no, I don't think so ..." and let her voice trail off as a slight smile crossed her face. She *enjoyed* saying no to me! Put her hand on my goddamn THIGH when she said no to me.
Somehow, as nonchalantly as I could, but terrified I'd come across like one of her asshole "regulars," I managed to ask her again, and to my astonishment, she agreed. We started having lunch together nearly every day. And then I casually told her I was going to a movie after work, and she asked with whom, and I said no one, just love this guy's films ... we have some of the screenplays back in Film and Theater... We talked for a long while about his film, looked over some of the screenplays together, talked about one we'd both seen ... then she just invited herself along.
She let me listen to her calling her husband to tell him she'd would be home late, that she and "a friend" were going to a movie. She glanced at me and smiled slightly as she said "friend." Agony. "No, darling, you stay home ... well, sure, maybe ... if it's good I won't mind seeing it again with you sometime ... right. And we'll probably stop somewhere for a bite afterwards ... love you too."
It was the beginning of a long seduction. I wanted it to be a seduction of her by me, but of course it wasn't. I learned a lot.
The movies after work became sort of a regular thing. I decided just to try and set my sexual desire for her aside, at least while I waited for some sort of flash of insight that would make her mine. I rationalized it in a very high-minded way: she's married. I've got plenty of opportunities for sex with women who don't carry that particular baggage, and besides, it's dishonest. Hah! It was equally dishonest to pretend that I didn't want her. But that's life when you're seventeen, eighteen years old.
We were great spiritual partners for one another. We had a passion for poetry, for films, for art, for the outdoors ... it was sooo good to be together. Off and on I would see that we were in a sort of love. It began to be ok that we didn't sleep together. In fact, we started to talk about our relationships - she about her marriage, I about my girlfriends and the occasional one-nighter. Once she asked me if I ever went out after being out with her, and I honestly told her yes. Had I ever gone out and had sex after being out with her? Yes. She looked down at her napkin, and I thought she looked a little flushed under her golden skin. When she looked up, she *was* flushed, and her eyes had a twinkle ... tears? She smiled tenderly, and said simply "Good. I like that." She paused again. "Sometimes after we go out, I go home and I ... I have to um ..."
The waiter came and broke the spell. I didn't know what to make of it all: wasn't as bright as everyone thought I was. Some say that I'm still as oblivious about sexual matters now as I was then ... or that I'm better at seeing other people's stuff than my own.
Three times, I think it was, her husband joined us for lunch. First time, he was sort of short with me. I was, at least, smart enough to be flattered. I was a threat to a 35 year-old husband! But her willingness to let him join us was unnerving. Was I that benign? Was I so young, such a sexual irrelevancy that it was "safe" to hang out with me and her husband together? It was gratifying that HE didn't think so.
But the second time, I realized I really sort of liked the guy. He was funny. He was smart. He looked cool. He seemed to really love her. He treated her well. Better than I did, actually. I was always teasing her about things, being sort of sarcastic ... he was soft and kind with her, and she soaked it up. I had to admit that I liked him, and I liked them together. I was more tortured than ever. Because however I idealized them and their marriage, however I tried to "platonize" our relationship, there were her dark, deep, naughty eyes, her slender fingers, her full, smiling lips, the crease in her brow when she frowned (which she did a lot) ... her absolutely sculptural collar bones, her soft, jet hair, her breasts, not large, just perfect and full, ripe ... her round hips as she walked away on her long legs, arm-in-arm with her husband, turning on a perfect ankle to surreptitiously smile over her shoulder at me. Did she just wink at me? I believed it was some sort of love that I saw in her smile.
She invited me to her place for dinner. When the night came, we went straight from work, I on my motorcycle, she in her car. It was a great place ... they'd remodeled an urban townhouse before it was popular to do so ... a carpenter friend had helped them with the design, and shown them how to do much of the work themselves. And it was beautiful, full of pottery and soft lighting and art. They were affluent - that had been obvious from the casual but expensive clothes she wore, and the occasional piece of jewelry. She worked because she liked to, and it gave her an escape from her doctoral work and her teaching fellowship. She lit candles, brought drinks over to the couch where I sat, and settled in next to me ... we chatted a bit about the day at work and eventually I asked when Tim would be home. "He's out of town on business ..."
I nearly dropped my drink. She adjusted herself on the couch, letting her shoes drop to the floor, tucking her long legs up under her as she looked at me over the rim of her glass ... "Are you disappointed?"
No, of course not it's fine with me ... it was too good to be true, but I was so flustered, I couldn't help trying to be cool. I started trying to chat about where he was. The conversation just stalled and sat there, until she said "Let's talk about him after dinner, OK?"
She slowly slipped her feet back into her shoes - fairly serious fuck me slides - and liquidly made her way to the kitchen. After a few moments I followed. We nearly collided in the passage between the dining room and the kitchen, and she had just reached for the light switch. The kitchen light went out, and we were face to face in the candlelight. I realized, oddly, that even with her heels on, I had a good two inches on her. I wiped the thought from my mind as she simply rose up and put her soft lips to mine. That's all that was touching: our lips. Her breasts where painfully close to my chest. Her hand on the wall switch was near my face...her smell - God, her smell! - was all around me, climbing down into me.
Her tongue touched mine, and for a moment, I thought I would grab her and take her right there on the floor or over the counter. In truth, I was too flustered, too excited to know what to do. I was trembling, and so was she. We broke our kiss after a long while, and looked at each other ... she was smiling, her eyes sparkling, and shaking her head from side to side as if in wonder. I smiled too, and soon we were holding each other and laughing.
We recovered and shared another kiss. Hot, wet and hungry. When we came up for air, I said something suave like "so now, what?" and she said "I'm not sure. I don't know where all this is going, but whatever comes next, I don't want to do it on an empty stomach!"
We ate in near silence. It was some sort of pasta I'd never had. After dinner, we returned to the couch. "Do you want to stay with me tonight?"
