Past Present and Future

A short tale of sugar relationships.

It’s a stand-alone story but builds on earlier chapters in the series.

Please enjoy yourself.

+

Sometimes I get it wrong.

That’s human.

Sometimes I get it right.

That’s generally delightful.

+

Tony had left the convertible top down and we didn’t talk much as we rode west on old Highway 22. I held my purse in my lap, smiled as I enjoyed the fall colours flashing by.

Tony backed the sports car into the barn on our arrival. A gentleman in the best sense, he came around, opened my door and held out his hand to help me out. I needed it, actually. While the Jaguar was very comfortable, it always felt like my bottom was about six inches off the pavement and getting in and out wearing a short skirt was a challenge.

Unlike the first time I’d visited, Tony most definitely admired my legs as I unfolded myself from the vehicle. I didn’t mind; I was here to be looked at. I stretched them out a little further than I really had to and got a little butterfly tummy at the look in his eyes. He helped me carry my things inside, went back to the barn. By the time he returned with some shopping bags in his hands, I’d undressed, left my clothes in the hall closet, touched up my makeup and was assembling my flute in his kitchen.

That was after all our arrangement. I peeled on arrival each weekend and stayed that way, providing music for him on request. For his part, Tony was considerate, generous, supportive, kind - and an exceptional lover. I’d fallen head-over-heels in love with him. My life was very happy.

“What’s for dinner and what would you like me to play?”

That seemed to becoming the first line I uttered every Friday evening.

“Chicken Piccata with a Parmesan-Reggiano crust. You know my musical tastes, Stephanie; choose something for me, please.”

“One of Mama’s recipes, Tony?”

“Of course.”

I’d never met Mama and was regretting it. I would have liked to been able to say thank you for doing such a great job raising her little boy.

I twisted a little on the stool, found the most comfortable position. “What does ‘piccata’ mean?”

“Um, basically boneless meat dipped in flour and fried in olive oil, with lemons and capers. It won’t take long.”

I got the hint.

I like the Kuhlau fantasy for flute in D Major. To my mind, no other piece of music has such liquid, flowing notes. I took a breath, composed myself and began.

Tony paused in his dinner preparations, closed his eyes, smiled. In a few moments, he opened them again, still smiling. His eyes drifted over my bare form, his smile deepened and he turned back to dinner. Kuhlau finished, I started a Graf fantasy, also very pretty and rather longer.

In front of me, Tony was pounding chicken breasts flat, putting on a pot of water, washing spinach, slicing lemons. His attention was now on the food, not me – and nobody could focus like Tony. My music was background for him and I smiled inwardly to see him swaying just slightly in appreciation.

Pasta in the pot and chicken sizzling in the pan, he put down his implements, stretched a little and poured two glasses of white wine. Walking around the kitchen island, he placed one of them on a second stool beside me. That done, he began to slowly circle my stool, his eyes drifting over me, head to toes.

I shivered just a little, remembering how embarrassed I’d been the first time he’d done that, smiled inside at how foolish I’d been, how much I’d changed since then. I shivered a little more as a tender fingertip touched my neck, slid gently over one shoulder, down my flank, across my hip and then, barely touching, along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. I felt my nipples harden at his welcome touch.

Finger slipping off my knee, he turned, stepped away, flipped the chicken, stirred a pot and, grasping his wineglass in one hand, plopped down in a comfortable chair, watching me as only Tony could.

Had you a year ago asked me the odds of my spending every weekend baby-bare for the pleasure of a fully-dressed man twice my age, I’d have laughed. The laughter was still there, but now it was of delight.

I finished the Graf piece, lowered my flute and took a sip of wine. I breathed in and was surprised to find how tight my tummy was. Tony could set me going with just one soft touch.

He rose, tenderly caressed my cheek with his fingers on his way back to the stove. I felt treasured, valued, loved.

Just for fun, I started to play some Jethro Tull, but after a few seconds of poking and sniffing, Tony pronounced dinner ready. He held my chair, kissing my cheek as I sat down.

I won’t spend much more time extolling Tony’s cookery. Three big Stephanie stars and I left the table stuffed. Someday, I thought, I should get him to publish a cookbook. I giggled at the thought.

“What?” His head was tilted to one side, a gentle smile on his face.

“You should do a cooking podcast, Tony.”

The smile turned to a grin.

“Would you help?”

“I’d love to...” I turned scarlet as my mouth snapped shut. I don’t blush much anymore, but I’d just realized the implications of the two of us taping a video here in Tony’s kitchen.

It was one thing being naked for Tony. I could handle that; I’d grown to enjoy it. But bare Stephanie in front of thousands of anonymous viewers, maybe people who knew me at the university? Not so much.

The man obviously could see what I was thinking, for his grin doubled.

“I think you’d do more for the ratings than my recipes!” he laughed.

I faked a scowl at him and his laughter turned into a solid belly laugh. I joined in a second later, happily confident that Tony would never expect such of me. He’d pushed my limits many times, often much further than I thought I could go, but he’d never once demanded anything which would leave me ashamed, unwilling to face myself in the mirror. Despite my state of constant bareness, I felt a solid respect from the man and knew I was far more to him than just a pretty toy.

The day was clouding over by the time we’d finished the dishes; there’d be no sunset to watch tonight. Instead, we decided to get an early start on a weekend’s worth of studying and homework. As usual, Tony’s patient assistance with my biology report saved me a lot of time and frustration. Finished that, I hit Save on my laptop and we each moved on to our individual assignments.

Outside, the cloud had turned to drizzle as dusk settled in. I gave it twenty minutes, then decided that it was time to take the reins, to surprise the man who had made me love him so much.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

His attention focused on his studies, he merely grunted an acknowledgement.

I stepped down the hall, bare feet silent on the flagstone floor, opened the closet where my clothes lived on a wooden hanger Friday through Sunday. I’d of course packed no suitcase, but the purse I carried into the bathroom was a large one.

I normally don’t wear high heels, especially not stilettos. I know they’re not good for a girl’s back or hips and I know my limitations as to stability and balance. But, let’s be honest, there are few things that make good legs look better than a nice pair of heels.

Black, with black ankle straps and slender silver toe straps, I loved the way they stretched out my calves, tightened my bum and make my legs look almost endless. No, they weren’t Guccis or Jimmy Choos, but they weren’t cheap, either; it’d taken me a long time looking at them, trying them on, looking at myself in the store mirror, before I'd decided. Thinking about that now, I smiled just a little. When I’d agreed to be Tony’s sugar-baby, I’d resolved to give him value for his money.

I still wasn’t, I suppose, totally comfortable with all of that. A lifetime of societal indoctrination still had a residual hold on me – ‘objectification’, ‘commodification’, bleh. But explain to me why girls are pretty if not to make boys enjoy looking at them? Tony had treated me with scrupulous honesty and remarkable generosity. My life had dramatically improved thanks to him and he’d never once asked me to do anything shameful. Without ever leaving his farm, he’d taken me places I’d never dreamed of.

I pulled a small bottle from my purse. Perfume tends to either be cheap and brazen or else subtle and very expensive. This had not been cheap; it was something I would never have dreamed of pre-Tony. I put my fingertip over the mouth of the bottle, turned it over quickly, touched a scent-laden finger to the inside of my wrists, behind my earlobes, my throat and my cleavage, behind my knees. I paused, almost blushed at the thought —

Blushing twice in one day, Stephanie! Who’d have thought you could have retained any shyness?

— and put another touch on either side of my sex and one at the top of my bum crease.

Taking the black thigh-high stockings from their package, I smiled at the feel of the slippery material. Real silk was something I hadn’t been able to afford pre-Tony, either. Sitting down, I drew them over my legs, smiled at feeling of silk flowing over my skin, smoothed them out, checked them for wrinkles and straightness. Looking at myself in the mirror, I felt my tummy tighten a little at the way they emphasized the soft bareness of my thighs above them.

Bending over, I strapped on the shoes, stood up and took another glimpse in the mirror. The heels made my legs look simply amazing.

I looked for a moment at the ring he’d given me the night I agreed to be his sugar-baby, ran a fingertip over the solitaire diamond, the symbol of our arrangement. I considered leaving the gloves off, keeping it uncovered, but they were thin; it would be visible. Being careful not to snag the material, I pulled the glove over my left hand, tugged and smoothed it up into place up to my elbow. The right glove was easier.

I ran a brush through my hair, straightened my necklace and did a last check of my makeup. I pulled my shoulders back, smiled as my boobs shifted. I thumbed my nipples gently, smiled again as they stiffened a little.

Heels, stockings, gloves, necklace - in the mirror, I was centerfold-ready.

I started a reasonably good strut down the hall, my shoulders back and straight, my head up and my brightest smile on my face. The low click-click-click of stiletto heels on stone floor was distinctive.

Tony was still focused on his homework when I came into the room. His head came up, his attention searching for the unfamiliar sound. I put a little more sway into my hips.

He spun in his chair, turned to look at me. For the first time, I saw Tony diRossi disconcerted. I did a model’s end-of-runway turn in front of him, posed with my hip thrust out, hand on hip, awaiting his inspection.

I won’t say his jaw had fallen, but his eyes were definitely wide open.

“Every girl likes to dress up once in a while, Tony!” I grinned. "You like?"

My grin grew as I leaned down to kiss his forehead. One of my boobs brushed his shoulder, trailing over his shirt and pulled loose to brush his ear. I could see his gaze briefly shift.

I put my mouth next to his ear, whispered. “It’s OK, Tony. It doesn’t count as fetish unless there’s a garter belt, too.”

With that, I slid back into my chair as if everything was normal and resumed working on my homework. I didn’t look his way and the silence was… impressive.

I could hear him take a deep, deep breath. It was clear that I’d hit a pretty good button.

“I thought high heels were supposed to hurt?”

Well, they weren’t exactly comfortable, but my, oh my, I did like the effect they were obviously having on my audience of one!

“You get used to them." I tried to act casually, struggled to repress my grin as I turned back to my homework, started making notes, ignored him. I could feel his eyes darting over me. He gave a little sniff, then another and I was pretty sure the perfume was at work.

It felt delicious.

The dear man tried to call my bluff and turned back to his own work, but I could see it was a bit of a struggle. Eventually, he started typing on his laptop.

Time to up the ante.

I stood, stepped behind him, bent down and nipped his ear gently with my teeth.

“You, sir, are entirely overdressed.”

His head turned to look at me over his shoulder. I could see appreciation and amusement in his eyes, saw a growing gleam of hunger.

“Girls like to look, too, you know.”

I gripped his collar between thumb and forefinger, bent to his ear again, whispered very softly.

“Off. Take your clothes off.”

He stared at me.

“Now, Tony.”

I paused for a moment, smiled, kissed his nose.

“That is, if it pleases you, Mr. DiRossi.”

Grey eyes under white brows locked on mine, then he smiled.

+

I’d noticed Tony as a freshman last year. To be fair, I think every woman on campus noticed Tony. It wasn’t his distinctive white hair and beard so much as his flair, his perfect grooming and his GQ-level fashion sense. He had confidence, panache. Had he not been a generation older than the average co-ed or even had he not been so withdrawn, Tony could have had his choice of any woman on campus.

Instead, he kept pretty much to himself. No, he wasn’t shy. He was polite, intelligent, articulate, would enter discussions if questions were asked, but he made no effort to blend in, to make friends.

Then the luck of the draw put he and I together as biology lab partners. His common sense, patience and analytic intellect had been gifts for me, a solidly competent music student who sometimes found herself floundering in the left-brained world of science. He’d asked nothing in return, which I’d found a bit surprising.

Thrown together like that, he wasn’t evasive, but he revealed little, offered less and, outside of helping me with my lab reports, had been the Invisible Man. Classes finished, he would invariably be driving out of the student parking lot on Western Road ten minutes later. Alone.

There was something else I found unusual. He didn’t ever seem to acknowledge that he was surrounded in class by attractive young women. Especially me, his lab partner, the very pretty young woman standing right beside him.

Every woman knows what I’m talking about. Men

always

check you out, politely or less so. There’s always at least that quick, surreptitious glance at a girl’s figure and legs when they think you aren’t looking. Always. But not Tony. His manners were impeccable, almost courtly. He’d hold the door open for me in the hallway, that sort of thing. So, yes, he knew I was female, but ‘attractive’ didn’t seem to be linked to that, let alone ‘desirable’.

It was unusual. Eventually it became mildly irritating.

What was wrong with me? Wasn’t I cute enough for him to notice?

After class one Friday, intrigued, challenged, I’d pushed too hard with those games women use to get attention - batting my eyes, playing with my hair, keeping very close to him, touching his arm.

I wanted Tony to acknowledge my femininity, my attractiveness. Instead, irritated by my antics, those grey eyes turned on me like lasers and, without touching me or saying anything the slightest bit rude or crude, he kicked my juvenile game down about three flights of stairs.

No, thank you, he didn’t want a coffee. No, thank you, he didn’t want to chill for a bit.

No. Thank you.

Instead, he'd called out my coquetry, seized the initiative and turned everything into a totally different game, one light-years beyond the usual social dance I’d known all my life.

His counter-proposal had been for me to spend the entire weekend with him, absolutely starkers, doing whatever pleased him at the moment.

“How about we do something less adolescent? I’ll wait while you go up to the residence and pack a bag. No, actually, don’t bother with a suitcase; you won't need anything. Just bring your flute, your purse and your books. I’ll have you back at your residence in time for dinner on Sunday.”

Alternatively, he continued, we could just walk over to the campus Starbucks and he’d help me with my lab report as usual. The

‘before it’s time for your milk and cookies, dear’

had been unstated, but quite clear.

I would have called down Facebook hellfire and Twitter damnation on a boy my own age who’d been so forward. I tried to dodge, tried to plead having to work at the campus pub, but Tony’s grey eyes had me pinned. Twenty minutes later, we were heading out to the country in his convertible.

Our destination turned out to be a pastoral gem near Watford. Having inherited a working farm from his late uncle, Tony had leased out the fields to his neighbours and renovated the old stone farmhouse into a warm, beautiful place with oodles of light and an outstanding view of the surrounding countryside.

The first thing he did on arrival was to introduce me to Pi, the farm’s feline owner. I like cats; Pi and I took to each other.

The second thing he did was to tell me — gently, politely but quite firmly — to undress and then join him in the kitchen. The unspoken alternative — my choice and no hard feelings — was for me to be sent home in a taxi, thanks for coming out and we’ll see you at the lab next week. With that, he turned and went to start dinner, leaving me staring at a row of empty hangers on a clothes rod.

Many women would have opted for the taxi, but I was too stubborn to allow myself to be dismissed like an eight-year-old who'd tried to butt in on a serious adult discussion. Scarlet with embarrassment but too stinking proud to leave, I hung up my clothes in the closet, assembled my flute and, very shyly, went back into the kitchen. Tony, meal preparations underway, merely pointed at a stool and told me to play.

Furious at him for his boldness, furious at myself for agreeing, I did so. He clearly enjoyed the music, but, as the minutes passed with Tony’s attention devoted to his cooking rather than my delectable and now utterly bare form in front of him, my embarrassment had turned to confused, frustrated irritation. How

dare

he be so cavalier in the presence of a gorgeous, naked, blue-eyed blonde? How

dare

he ignore my vulnerable, exposed sexiness? What sort of freak was he?

Of course, once dinner was cooking, Tony’s attention shifted. He’d circled me on my stool as I played, openly examining and admiring. The look in his eyes left no doubt in my mind that he indeed viewed me as a very desirable woman.

I’d been prepared to wind up in his bed. How else, given the way his proposition had been phrased? My confusion increased when dinner was ready. Instead of finally making his move, he had, with courtly charm, seated me at the table beside him and served a meal Escoffier would have been proud of. While his eyes never left my breasts and legs, he made very polite, entirely normal dinnertime conversation. When after dinner he took me outside to his deck to watch a stellar sunset, I was more than a little bewildered.

Saying then that he couldn’t possibly pay me enough for the pleasure my music and my appearance had given him, he’d tried to give me a sterling silver necklace instead. Intricate, hand-crafted and heavy, I was stunned at how well it both complemented and amplified my own beauty. Pawned, it would have paid for next year’s tuition. Instead, I refused it, indignantly told Tony I wasn’t for sale. After much discussion, I agreed that to wear it at his farm – if I returned.

I think that refusal marked a changing point in our relationship. For the first time, I saw what looked like true respect in his eyes.

It was only then, hours after I’d first doffed my clothes, that he touched me for the first time. Tony proved an exceptional lover – strong yet gentle, thoughtful and sensitive. I thought my head would explode with that first orgasm. Then came another, a better one. And another, still better. And again and again, almost all weekend, leaving me a puddle of quivering female happiness.