A Long Night Rewarded

Part One

Sometimes things work out. You get rewarded for good deeds “above and beyond the call of duty”. I know this is rare, but when it happens you get out of bed the next morning and actually smile on your way to work. I got rewarded one long night and that reward has kept me smiling.

I hadn’t wanted to go to Johnnie’s birthday party. It was raining. He lived about an hour away and I wasn’t crazy about Johnnie. He’d been my ace student in last year’s finance class and though it was great to grade his work. Working with him had been another matter: he was too brash, cocksure and conceited. Ninety percent of the time talking to him was talking about him. But I went anyway, through the rain, fog and wet mountain road to wish him a happy birthday and live up to my role as the popular professor, the one that graduate students came to for advice, support and a pat on the back.

When I got to Johnnie’s house, the party was hotter than my laptop at 11PM. The bar was crowded, the small dance floor in the corner had four or five couples intertwined swaying to the sounds of some slow, romantic, Brazilian melody. A few couples had drifted to the terrace to pursue conversation or, one couple, a more intimate interchange. The usual suspects were there, all my graduate students over the last two years, and the most of the guys were very well accompanied, with prettier girls than I had ever had or ever will have. Still, I wasn’t jealous, I was just there to say hello to Johnnie and cop a free drink or two, which given my endemic, impoverished state as an untenured professor at a local business school, justified my trip. Johnnie was friendly as always, even though I didn’t bring even an empty bottle as a present. He didn’t care. At 22, having started and sold a software company, he had enough money in the bank to flush me out of any poker hand. Still, he was nice as he said to me,

“We’ve got some spare beauties tonight, professor, but I want you to meet my mom, Angelina.”

I looked down at the sofa and saw a petite woman in her early 40’s. The first thing I noticed was that she had short black hair in a pixie cut that framed a pair of bright, deep-set blue eyes and a nose that must have had a surgeon’s signature somewhere. Her high cheekbones and light bronze skin spoke of what must have been her Mexican or Hispanic ancestry. A tight mouth with thin lips finished a face with an expression that left no doubt that she was an independent woman. Her white dress was cut low enough to show off a pair of tempting, medium-sized breasts. My usual horny eye quickly evaluated the rest of the package: a maybe not too trim tummy, but firm legs and enough curves on the sides to indicate that she didn’t need an overstuffed sofa to sit comfortably. All in all, a gentleman’s seven; not a centerfold now, or ever, but you certainly wouldn’t lose points being seen with her. She must have been doing some checking out herself because before I could think of a punchy introduction she said in a deep and slightly rasping voice:

“Well, hello, I‘m glad there’s another adult in the place tonight. Why don’t you get me a glass of wine before you sit down?”

I took that as my marching orders and stepped to the bar to get her a Chardonnay and the usual Scotch on the rocks for myself. I admit that I first grabbed my standard brand before reaching back and picking up the bottle of Black Label that was half hidden by some of the cheaper stuff.

“Johnnie always has the good stuff,” I thought, “Let’s enjoy it while we can.”

Little did I know that was not all that I was going to enjoy that night. Before going back to the sofa, I took another look around to see whether there were any other alternatives on the horizon. I now saw three of the new female graduate students coming out of the kitchen, with chips and dips, but no companions. A quick evaluation: do I stick with my 40 something or head for, literally, greener pastures? My ever-present conscience replied not to be a cad and drop mommie dearest in favor of those that could be her, and my, daughters. Enough of moral ambiguity, back to the sofa!

“Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” were the only thoughts my courageous sailor-self could muster.

Walking back to her, Angelina looked up at me and uncrossed and recrossed her legs, pausing just enough to let me catch a peek at the inside of her bronze colored right thigh, not enough to see the golden never-never land but enough to get me wondering about the paradise that lay above. Simultaneously she pulled out a cigarette from her purse and held it out for me to light. I placed our drinks on the table, took her lighter from her hand and proceeded to light her Marlboro. As I did so, she covered my hand and lighter with her other hand, in a soft and inviting gesture with enough of a glancing touch that even a stuffy old professor such as myself couldn’t help but understand.

Her eyes shone as she softly said “Thank you.”

From deep inside my Dockers, but way above my Topsiders, something said, “You’re welcome.”

So far so good, I thought, she drinks, she smokes. Two out of three ain’t bad …maybe this could get interesting after all. I admit, I am a sucker for women who smoke. This day and age it is so politically incorrect that I’ve found smokers have to have personality to withstand all the pressures and stand, or smoke, their ground. Heck, if she smokes in the sofa, maybe she’ll smoke somewhere else.

After this, my thoughts quickly returned to reality and how I was going to fill the next few hours with agreeable social conversation. I admit that small talk has never been my forte. I forget jokes ten minutes after hearing them. It’s been years since I saw a movie. My last concert tickets were for the Rolling Stones when they were stars, not fossils. I have been to a few art galleries recently, but only long enough to recognize that I should go back to school to understand modern art. My circle of friends is so limited that I never have interesting stories to tell. My Saturday afternoon golf game is so bad that sometime it is worth a few laughs. I no longer count the strokes in my round, only how many dozen balls I’ve lost, how many people I’ve hit and whether I’ll be sent to Iraq as the new Army secret weapon.

Luckily, Johnnie had softened the ground for me and Angelina took the lead in conversation:

“Tell me about these kids,” she said, “aren’t they all wonderful…. Johnnie says they adore your classes.”

Talk about being given a soft pop up to center field. This was the conversational equivalent of a life raft with water, food supplies and full set of flares. For the next two hours I was able to converse about the university, today’s kids versus our generation.

“Not enough idealism, maybe they’re too materialistic,” I proposed, “They have good hearts and the potential to rise to nobler causes.”

“ Johnnie is idealistic, “ she answered, “He always has the idea of making money. “

We then drifted to history and the role of the relationship between men and women as shapers of our human evolution:

“How could the Pharaohs intermarry with their sisters?” I queried.

“Maybe sex comes before genes.”

“No, I always thought you had to take your jeans off before sex. “

The effect of Cleopatra’s loves on Roman and Egyptian history: ”Lust or politics make strange bedfellows?“

Queen Victoria’s relationship with her lover, John Brown was another topic: “Was it the sunset of the British Empire or was it what happened in the British Empire after sunset?“

The famous French courtesans and salons couldn’t be forgotten: “Did they give head to save their heads?“

Alexandra and Rasputin’s influence on Nicholas II was another topic: “ Was this a ménage a trois or ménage a roi?“

Of course, we couldn’t help talking about Bill and Hillary and Monica, ”Excuse me, was that the Oval Office or the Oral Office?”

This got me to candle lighting and cake cutting time in good form. Angelina was intelligent, witty and played to my strengths. Little was said about my lack of athletic ability, foundering small talk and miniscule achievements outside of the classroom. Overall, I was in good shape, we had talked about sex, indirectly and in a historical context. We had danced around the subject without either side giving a commitment or beating a retreat.

As Johnnie bent over to blow out the candles, (God, he can still count the darn things on his cake!) Angelina reached over and grabbed my arm to draw me to her as she stood behind her son. Like a teenager, I gently slipped my arm behind her waist and, unopposed, let my left hand drift down to that bulging rear so tightly framed by that short white dress. Slyly, I traced that beautiful curve down, down, down and then slowly worked my way back up to the starting point. Instead of pulling away, I could sense her move her behind back into my palm and slowly rotate it, letting my fingers into the fold between her legs. I repeated my circular exploration once, twice again, fearful of being caught and have some referee blow a whistle on my illegal pass. I was also starting to perspire and I didn’t think it was the heat from the still burning birthday candles! But there was no whistle, only a quick look and smile with her blue eyes glinting in the candlelight.

As Johnnie bent over to blow out the candles, Angelina clapped and bent over also, keeping her behind pressed against my hand, which was now deeply wedged in the cleft between her legs. I joined my fingers and started to squeeze firmly. With each squeeze she would move her behind so my fingers would enter deeper in between her buttocks. The forbidden fruit was in my hand. As he laughingly blew out the candles, Johnnie’s happiness was also mine.

It was time to say goodbye. Johnnie walks over to me and asks me to take his mom home; she doesn’t live close to me, but for an hour’s drive, a few minute’s detour wasn’t a big deal.

“Sure,“ I said in my most nonchalant manner, trying not to choke and hoping my heartbeat wouldn’t be heard across the room, “I guess I can wing it.”

At that, Angelina reached over, grabbed her bag, kissed her son, and said to me, “Let’s go.”

We left for my car, a 10-year-old battle-scarred Toyota. Luckily I had redone the interior upholstery a few months earlier and the AC was in one of its operational periods. The radio was standard issue, but for soft jazz and golden oldies it served the purpose. As a gentleman, I opened the passenger side door for her, and smelled her floral scent as she grazed by me on the way in. As she sat down, she looked up at me and smiled, had she seen the pickle in my pocket? Or was she happy to see me? I went around the car, jumped in and, luckily, the old Toyota did not fail to start. A good omen, I thought.

We pulled out of the driveway and, after I shifted into third gear, (literally, not figuratively); she took my right hand and held it against her thigh, clasping it tightly with both of her hands.

“Where to?” I inquired.

“Wherever you want.” she answered.

I didn’t have a ready-made line for this. Don’t forget, they don’t cover this in Graham and Dodd’s financial analysis textbook. So I improvised,

“What say we just drive around, enjoy the moment and, somehow, get you home?”

Her answer was to take my hand, close her eyes and bring my hand up to her cheek. She rubbed my hand against the side of her face gently and tenderly, up to her eyes; flicked her eyelashes against my skin, then around her nose and down to her slightly open mouth. She took the back of my palm and drew it against her lips while giving me about a dozen dove-soft kisses. Afterwards, she took each one of my fingers and gave them another light kiss, then put each one into her mouth where she sucked each while her tongue went around and around the tip, down the length and back to the tip again. She serviced my entire hand, each time sucking harder and harder on my fingers, getting my blood to race and making me step on the gas. By this time, the car had two stick shift levers and no brakes.

I was on a roll, and felt if I was going to get shot down, I may as well go down in flames, so I took my hand from her mouth and placed it inside her dress on her right breast. Like I said, it wasn’t large, but invited a gentle touch and soft caress. Not your 18-year-old point-at-the-sky breast, so firm and insolent, but one that had fed children and grown to fullness. More modest and accommodating of day-to-day life. Soft, very soft and it fit wonderfully in my hand. I don’t care for big breasts, more than a mouthful is a waste. I wanted to squeeze it, grab it, make it mine, but resisted the temptation and instead started caressing her breast in broad circles, creating pleasure and sharing it with her, moving from the top to the underside of her breast in a slow and deliberate motion, not just mine, but ours as her hand on top of mine led me around making sure I wouldn’t stop. I started to feel her erect nipple against my palm. We were building something together, my erotic initiatives, her pleasure, could it be the beginning of us as a couple?

As I did this she moved closer to me putting her head on my shoulder, putting her left arm on my right leg and starting to rub the inside of my thigh. This gave me no alternative but to take her nail hard nipple between my thumb and first finger and start to stroke it and caress it. With each squeeze of her nipple, I could hear her breath tighten and her fingernails bite into the inside of my thigh.

“I may be in flames,” I thought, “But I ain’t getting shot down. At least not tonight.”

I could now feel the coarser skin on the areola. Is this what it is called? I could feel it swell between my fingers, as her breathing beat time to my pressure on her breast tip. The contrast between the smooth breast and the erect nipple, engorged with blood was striking. One was broad, smooth, with no beginning or end, round, indefinite. The other was clearly defined, an island in the center of the breast. One a light bronze color, the other, I imagined, a dark coral hue. I kept playing with the tip of her nipple, rubbing it between my thumb and finger, squeezing first lightly, then harder. Then I played coy, ignoring the tip and just circling the areola, first one way, then the other, tracing the miniscule bumps and grooves on her skin with a delicate touch. Like an errant schoolboy, I would return home to the erect tip, and again squeeze hard and soft, round the sides with a light, circular touch at the very tip. It couldn’t get any harder, but felt like it would burst out of her dress. Through this, her hand was pressing me tighter to her. I wasn’t touching her nipple, I was coming closer to her and with each minute I wanted to come closer to her.

“Take Five” was playing on the station. As Dave Brubeck beat time I was getting lost in the music and must have been lost on the road. I didn’t know where I was going. There was no blood in my head; it was all going somewhere else further down and further out.

Angelina wasn’t idle. Her other hand had been stroking the inside of my thigh all the while. Occasionally, she would “slip” and graze my now erect member, tracing its rigid outline inside my trousers. From the base to the tip, just a little touch and then she’d move her hand back to more innocent areas. Once she’d graze it on the outside, then the devilish hand would shower attention to the inside. Just a little, not too much, but enough to let me know that more was to come. I wanted to say something, but my mouth was dry and I didn’t think that any conversation was going to add to our drive.

I wanted to give her some encouragement, “That feels nice,” was all I could muster after one of these trips through the length of my staff.

I didn’t recognize the throaty, hoarse voice as my own and I hoped she wouldn’t notice my febrile state. I couldn’t remember when I had been with a woman like this. Had it been months, years? But notice she did.

“You like it? I’m not really doing anything.” she added, again in between breaths as my nipple caresses were taking their toll, “Maybe you’ll like this more.”

As she said that, she rolled over to me and proceeded to unzip my fly. Thank God I still have an old fashioned zipper and not those newfangled buttons. Buttons are fine for blouses, but Peter needs to be ejected from his pod like a pilot ejecting from his plane. Tonight, Peter was not in an obliging location. He was wedged in all his glory head down towards my right knee, bursting against my pants. He was shy, didn’t want to look at the object of his attention, rather look away and pretend not to be interested and let them come to him. Some hope. Angelina was no novice, however, and deftly put her hand down my shorts, grabbed Ol’Pete by the head and brought him up into firing position. Come out of the trenches, you coward, your day of reckoning is here!

She loosened my belt, opened my trousers and came up and stuck a very hot and agile tongue into my ear. “Is this dangerous?” she asked, not expecting me to answer, as she kept flicking her tongue into and around my ear. “Only if I pass out,” I replied in my best tough guy imitation. She reached into my pants, cruised down my shaft and grabbed both my balls in her right hand. Compared to the heat of my erection, her hand felt cool and comforting. Just the touch brought relief from that hot, bursting feeling at the center of my being. She moved her hand lightly against the underside of my shaft. Just two or three fingers touching me from base to top, then down again. When she got down, she would reach and give my balls a little squeeze, first the left, then the right, then cup both together in her hand. On the way up she would press against my opened pants to make room for her caress and allow my ever hotter and throbbing member room to expand and enjoy the fine companionship it was receiving. When she got to the tip she added a new wrinkle, taking two fingers and squeezing the top of my friend, first once, gently, then twice, more firmly, finally giving it a tight squeeze so as to keep all the semen that was now boiling, inside. I never studied Chemistry or I would have known that what was being done was against all natural laws.

She too must have been having fun. Angelina decided more aggressive actions were called for and pushed down my underpants to permit my totally erect penis to come free. At this I instinctively looked at the speedometer, not for safety reasons, but because my law abiding self was terrified of being pulled over and not being able to reach down and find my wallet with my pants open and my Jr. Copilot in the way. I’m glad I did, because my little Toyota had been having fun too, zipping past 70 MPH like there was no tomorrow. It may not have had a companion, but the open highway and my lead foot were enough to get it to go, go, go.

She pulled back my foreskin and gently led my penis into her mouth. At first, she simply rolled her tongue over my glans, but soon, her tongue too went wild, coursing from the top to the bottom of my erect shaft as a dehydrated traveler grips on the last Coke in the desert. I felt her thirst for my dick, for my hardness. She couldn’t get enough. Up, down, up, down. I’m not John Holmes and felt ashamed at not having more to give her, but she didn’t seem to care. What I had was enough, if I gave her enough of it. She was going up and down on my friend like they had known each other since birth. I was just a stranger, a bystander in this relationship between her mouth and my flesh lollypop. Her saliva had moistened my member completely. Her tongue kept going round my glans and shaft and then flicking my slit. I could feel some drops start to form and being drawn out by her sucking and squeezing. All I felt were her tongue go round and lips up and down and more tongue and more lips and sucking and licking. My penis got wetter and wetter and became one with her. Mouth, tongue, lips, penis, saliva. I didn’t know what was what. They were all together.