Nyu

All Sexual Situations In This Story Are Between Persons 18+ Years Old

Saturday, December 30, 1960

Thirty-six-year-old Phil Maxon stood on the smooth cement terrace outside the bank of glass French doors closing him off from the hundred or so dancers milling to Dorsey-esque big band music in the Westport Country Club's ballroom. Cold, but clear, it was a beautiful night and, in the lee of the large Colonial-styled building behind him, he felt no wind to speak of as he stared at a distant pitch-black fairway.

Under the full moon, on the nearby 18th green, the pin, with its occasionally fluttering flag, cast a shadow over the neatly trimmed Bermuda grass as if it were a moondial. He took another slow sip from his Seven-and-Seven and wondered whether the New Year would really be very different from the old.

Behind him, Phil heard the music get briefly louder, then softer, as a door opened and closed. His quiet-tuned ears picked up the staccato steps of a woman's high heels before his nose caught her perfume. His only real surprise when she spoke to his back was that he did not recognize the voice. "Hi, Mr. Maxon," she greeted him simply.

Turning to learn who else was escaping the revelers, so close the magical moment in history when 1960 would forever depart into fading memory, Phil saw a very attractive young lady, dressed in a powder-blue satin lined chiffon prom dress. Her ruched bodice gathered demurely about her bust then tapered to a form-fitted lace waist above a full circle skirt over her crinoline. To his eyes, she evoked Pinocchio's Blue Fairy, only as played by Elizabeth Taylor. Certainly her dark brunette shoulder-length wavy hair, curled in ringlets over her high forehead, combined with her shaped heavy black eyebrows, were modeled on the movie star.

Still not recognizing the stunner standing only a foot away, Phil answered, "Hello. I'm sorry, I think I ought to remember meeting you before, but I don't." He abstractly studied the gardenia corsage on her dress's left shoulder strap and mentally measured which was creamier: the flower petals or the perfect pale skin between her décolleté and her slim throat.

"I'm Becky Barnes, Mr. Maxon," she replied casually. "I used to live next-door to you." She laughed a light tinkling laugh and added, "My mother and brother still do, actually. It's okay that you don't remember me. I've grown up quite a bit since I moved away three years ago." She edged infinitesimally closer.

Five-feet six-inches tall, Becky, in her three-inch spike-heel pumps, stood not quite nose-to-nose with Phil. Pausing, she half-smiled as she coolly met his obviously appraising brown eyes. Worried that her penetrating emerald gaze might read his mind, he kept his expression impassive. But, he need not have been concerned.

Becky was not even trying to guess Phil's thoughts; she was pre-occupied with her own. His manly, yet boyish, handsome features conjured for her the image of Sean Connery, in 'Darby O'Gill and The Little People', except in evening clothes. She resisted an impulse to straighten his slightly skewed black bow-tie. Instead, she asked, "May I have a cigarette? I left my little purse at the coat-check."

The question released Phil from his spell. He answered, "I have to apologize, again, Miss Barnes. I don't smoke."

Becky, quickly replied, "That's okay, too. I don't either, actually." She laughed her light laugh once more and explained, "Except sometimes... When I drink."

Phil observed placidly, "You aren't drinking now, though..."

Becky tried to match Phil's savoir faire as she responded, "No, I'm not." But then, she lost it, lowered her eyes, and volunteered, "I just made that up. I won't be twenty-one for another four-and-a-half months."

Becky's voice remained soft, even as her words began rushing like a creek overfilled with spring snow-melt. "I'm here as Chet's, err, Mr. Monkford's guest... with his wife, and his son, Bryce. Bryce got really drunk and the Monkfords had to take him home. I asked if it would be okay if I stayed, even if they were gone, and Chet said sure, but later, I realized being alone was weird. Then I recognized you out on the dance floor. And when I saw you walking toward this terrace, I followed you out, but after I said 'hi', I was stuck." A swift blush flitted over her cheekbones as she concluded, "So, that's why I said that."

Phil smiled kindly and said, "Sure, I know Chet. We golf in the same foursome every Saturday and play poker the third Monday night of each month. He's a nice guy." Then, in a naturally curious tone, he asked, "But how is it you're a 'guest' here? I thought Ralph was still a member, though now that I say that, I haven't seen him around for I don't know how long."

Becky backed off a half-step and replied, conversationally, "When Dad divorced Mom in '56, he changed his club membership to be individual, so Mom, Barney and I were no longer members. But I sometimes got to swim or play tennis here when I dated Bryce in high school. After graduation, he went off to Dartmouth, while I moved to The City to attend NYU, and we lost touch."

Taking a breath, Becky went on, "Anyway, I bumped into Mr. Monkford last week when we were both out Christmas shopping. He told me Bryce was home for the Holidays and hoped I could to join them to see in the New Year." Silently, she chastised herself, "Shut up! You're talking too much!"

"I see," nodded Phil. "Well, that was nice of Chet, and stupidly bad of Bryce to get potted and leave you stranded in a sea of couples. I don't mind if an old neighbor wants to stick close to me." Grinning, he cocked his head and added, "But I'm here with my wife, too, as a matter of fact. So, I don't know if that will really solve your 'third wheel' problem."

Becky stepped in very close again. Having successfully broken the ice, she purred, confidently, "Umm, that's the thing, Mr. Maxon... I mean, you may have been here with your wife, but she just left in a taxi."

Becky's sweet breath was more intoxicating to Phil than his highball, while her words hit his brain like a sledge at a slaughterhouse. He furrowed his brow and he tried to make sense of her news. She explained further, "At the coat-check, I heard Mrs. Maxon say to another woman, 'I can kiss Phil anytime. I'm going to go home and pop in on Trixie. She's hostessing a gang of her friends with their own little New Year's Eve party. I trust her, Midge, but you and I both know sixteen-year-olds don't have to try very hard to get into mischief!' She and the other lady laughed together, and then the cab showed up and Mrs. Maxon left."

Succumbing at last to her urge, Becky tweaked the bows in Phil's tie and twisted it straight between his collar points. Her teeth flashed in the bright moonlight as she grinned and said, "That ought to be lots of fun for Trixie and her pals! But, anyway, it sort of leaves you solo in the same 'sea of couples', just like me, don't you see?"

Maintaining her momentum, Becky pivoted on her pumps, hooked her left arm around Phil's right elbow and asked, just above a whisper, "Will you dance with me Phil? May I call you 'Phil'? You should call me 'Becky'." Not waiting for any answers, she started off toward the ballroom doors. His chest swelled behind his stiff tuxedo shirt and white dinner jacket as she steamrolled him.

Inside, the dance band was covering Chubby Checker's 'The Twist' while young couples, and old ones, too, energetically exercised their body parts with abandon. Becky pulled Phil to the dance floor by his arm, then began gyrating. He did his best to imitate her moves in his first ever attempt at the new dance craze, but he was far more interested in how her breasts shimmied and her skirt whirled while her cocked elbows flailed as her waist twisted behind her dress's tight blue lace. She beamed at him and breathless declared, "Hey! That's great, Phil! You can really shake it up!"

Abruptly, the music stopped and the bandleader announced into his microphone, "Get ready folks!" Everyone turned to the stage area and joined in as the bandleader began, "Ten!.. Nine!.. Eight!.."

Becky pulled Phil close to her and side-hugged him as she yelled with them, "Seven!.. Six!.. Five!.." Noticing that he was quiet, she poked his ribs with her elbow and said, "C'mon, Phil!"

Phil got in on the last counts, "...Two!.. One!..

The room went black as someone doused the house lights and the crowd exploded, "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" The band, still in the dark, struck up 'Auld Lang Syne' while scattered voices, some off-key, jubilantly tested their memory and sang along. Suddenly, Phil felt a warm pressing presence against his dinner jacket and hot crushing lips full on his mouth as Becky rotated a hundred-and-eighty degrees into him. Reflexively kissing her back, he felt moderately deprived when she broke away just as the lights came up.

Becky briefly held both Phil's hands between her white gloved fingers, then dropped them and exclaimed, "Thank you, Phil! Happy New Year!" He was so disconcerted that he hardly knew what to say. He flashed the back of his left hand across his mouth and saw traces of the Revlon Cherry Red lipstick that Becky had left behind when they kissed. Not as cool, calm and collected as he had previously felt, he mumbled, "Uhm, sure. You're welcome. Happy New Year to you, too, Becky."

Then, trying to regain his emotional footing, Phil said, "So, I assume you're staying in your old bedroom during the Christmas break. Do you want me to give you a lift?" His head screamed at him, "What the heck? Why did you say 'bedroom'? Why didn't you say 'house'? What's WRONG with you?"

Becky's satin opera gloves had slipped below her elbows as she Twisted exuberantly way back last year. Smoothing them into place just above the joints on her upper arms, she smiled sweetly and replied, "Yes, Phil. That would be great." As she thought of the thrill that sparked from her chest to her uterus when she kissed him, she wondered, "Did he get a little jolt, too? Or was it just something that happened and he didn't care?" She resolved to explore the question more, and soon.

"Okay, then," Phil said, settling the matter. Noticing people already preparing for departure, he suggested, "Let's beat the rush for the coats and hats and get out of here, now. What do you say? Or else we could stick around until the last dog is dead..."

Becky laughed her special little laugh and said, "No, I hate 'dead dogs', let's go!" Minutes later, well ahead of the gathering queue of members still waiting for help from the harried coat-check girl, the parking valet delivered Phil's 1960 Persian Sand Metallic Cadillac Coupe de Ville to the Country Club's front doors.

Phil opened the door for Becky, then, without bothering to button his long black alpaca overcoat, he walked around the long sharp tailfins and got behind the steering wheel. As he pulled from the pillared portico onto the blacktopped lane leading to the property gates, she slid on the bench seat to its center. Hearing her chiffon skirt, with its crinkling crinoline, scoot noisily on the the textured nylon and leather upholstery, he cast a side-long glance at his passenger. Reaching for the control knob, he turned on the radio and pushed the middle station selector button as he said, neutrally, "This is the station my step-daughter, Trixie likes to listen to."

Becky, sitting with her knees bent and her legs angled into the footwell with her high heels against the elegant Trieste carpet below the car door, turned off the radio while Phil's hand was still on the knob. He pulled his hand away quickly, but not so fast that his cock did not register the transferred heat that shot through his body from her soft gloved hand. On his way back to the steering wheel, he slid both the heater and defroster controls to high. Making a second, hopefully better, guess about why she had moved closer to him, he assured, "This Caddy has a great heater system. You'll be warm before you know it."

Becky was already feeling warm in lots of different and interesting places. With the glowing green instrument lights showing off her happy smile, she answered, "I'm comfortable, Mr. Maxon... I mean, Phil. In case you were wondering, I had to move to the center because this car is so huge!" She laughed and added, "You were so far away, I thought I would have to shout to talk to you!" She rubbed her left hand on the foot-wide empty space remaining between their adjacent hips and said, "Look. There's still plenty of room between us. You don't mind if I sit here, do you?"

The dark pink Cadillac had been Phil's birthday gift last June to his wife Roberta. In their nine years of marriage, he had never considered being unfaithful to her, yet here, now, in her car, lustful feelings toward a twenty-year-old co-ed were surfacing in his head. He felt doubly despicable for it and troubled because he could not seem to make them go away. "No, Becky," he answered in a strangely hoarse voice. "I don't mind. Sit any way you want."

Focusing intently on driving, Phil entered the highway and headed toward the safe haven of his home, in Westport proper. Without noticing the glint in Becky's green eyes as she edged within a fraction of an inch of his left hip, he ignored his prickling neck hairs when her left arm snaked along the seatback behind his head, without, in fact, touching him. He was not numb, however, to her right hand's light weight, after she flipped open his undone overcoat and laid her palm on his trousered thigh, while she rested her elbow on her own right hip with her forearm loose across her side. He drew in a deep breath and decided his best course was to ignore it.

Becky's lungs inflated, too, when she saw Phil's shirtfront lift behind his jacket. He felt her satin-protected left breast bulge into his ribs and then recede as she breathed out again. He sighed optimistically, but gave up hope as her curved right palm graded his quad from his knee halfway up his inner thigh. Throwing his words right back at him, she paraphrased, "You said you didn't mind if I sat any way I wanted to."

Instantly curling her left hand onto Phil's neck at his nape and left ear, Becky simultaneously removed all distance between their bodies. Now, her C-cup boob was flattened against his torso under all conditions. She gripped his leg muscle and then drove her hand higher into his groin. His dressed-right cock fattened measurably and flexed of its own accord against her groping pinky and ring-finger.

Fearful he might crash the car, Phil quickly pulled over to the shoulder, slowed and then stopped in a wide graveled turn-out. Shakily, he replied, "I-I meant... within reason, Becky. This isn't..." He searched for the word he wanted, then selected a second choice first. "...safe, uhm, I mean, right!"

Becky was undeterred. Her exploration of her earlier question had yielded undeniable results. Softening her hold on his leg, without removing her hand, she rubbed her thumb up into his thigh crease while she stroked his growing erection with her fourth and fifth fingers as she expounded quietly, "At midnight, I felt something special when we kissed, and I thought maybe you did, too. Now I'm feeling something else that's pretty special, and I know that you are, too.

Becky teased her left index finger along Phil's ear shell and continued, "Thank you for pulling over. I like feeling safe." Scrunching herself higher up on his body, she craned her neck, kissed the corner of his mouth and then gave his nearly completely hard dick a thoughtful massaging squeeze. It petrified for her as she burbled into his right ear, "And I really, really like feeling this. Tell me that you don't like it and I'll stop right now."

Phil shut off the Caddy's lights, but not its engine. Becky moved her left hand high onto his head, burrowed her fingers through his wavy brown hair and scratched her gloved fingernails into his scalp. Removing her hand from his boner, she opened up his pants under his black silk cummerbund then fished his stiff cock through his boxers' vent into the Coupe de Ville's warm cabin air. He groaned as her soft satin glove slid to his glans and blotted his bubbling pre-cum, but he did not say he did not like it.

Becky slid her mouth from Phil's ear to his nose and kissed his nostril before finally landing, cross-mounted, on his lips. He moaned as she pushed her right hand back to his root's root and her tongue past his teeth while she kneaded his skull from crest to nape. Rolling thirty degrees onto his right shoulder, he curled himself against her bosom while reaching his left hand to the power seat button and adjusting its back angle down. She stroked his cock's full length, varying her speed, until he grunted and delivered her expected results.

Phil's phallic fountain sent his first cum spout six inches above Becky's flashing fist. The second and third blasts sprayed his seed lower, but in a wilder, wider arc. She gnawed his lips and flexed her fingers in his hair as she squeezed out additional small spurts while he spasmodically bucked his hips. When he had been absolutely still for a long minute, she raised up from his swollen mouth then brought her greased gloved hand and arm up where he could see the damage.

"You are a bad man, Phil Maxon," she accused with mirthful twinkle in her eyes. "Just look! You shot your stuff up like a geyser and ruined my gloves!" She kissed him again sweetly, and asked, "Now what am I supposed to do? I have no idea how to clean your goop from satin!"

Phil powered up his seatback, pushed Becky off his chest, then turned on the Coupe's dome light and answered simply, "And you are a bad girl, Miss Barnes. Do you go to church?"

Becky bladed a congealing cum clump from the opera glove, high up near her elbow and transferred it thoughtfully to her stuck-out tongue's pink tip. Leaning forward, she curled back onto Phil's chest, then snaked her loaded spatula quickly past his parted lips and crushed the cock-curd to his hard palate. "Mmmm, thumm tyemth-uh," she murmured. Then, moaning even deeper into the back of his throat, she painted his inside cheeks with her cum-flavored saliva before withdrawing and asking, with her tinkling small laugh, "Why? Are you Catholic? Do you think I should find a priest to confess my sins?"

Phil swallowed his chewed up and spread about seed, then replied, "Not hardly. But I think I see your Mom and Barney heading out on Sunday mornings nine-ish."

Becky nodded, "That sounds right. I usually sleep in when I'm home and have my cereal in the kitchen, alone, around ten. When Dad and Mom were married, we all went to the Methodist church regularly, but after the divorce, Mom only took us for Easter and Christmas. Then Barney started high school and thought choir was a good way to get in with the girls, so he got Mom to start up again." She laughed and added, "I think there was a hot alto, but I left for college the same year and never really heard much. What about you?"

Phil raised an eyebrow and answered, "Me? Technically, I'm a Congregationalist like Bobbie, er, Mrs. Maxon, but we're lapsed, you might say. Lately, she's gotten involved with her daughter Trixie's ice-skating and has been taking her to the rink on Saturdays and Sundays. They're gone pretty much all morning and sometimes don't get home until even two or three in the afternoon."

"Oh," said Becky, still wondering why the question had been raised.

Phil coughed, then took a big breath and a bigger gamble. "The reason I asked, Becky, is because I'd like to, umm, see you again. Maybe tomorrow?..."

Becky laughed again as she interrupted, "...You mean, TODAY?"

"Yeah," Phil agreed with a chuckle. "Today. After I see your Mom's car leave, I could come over and, uh, you know, eat cereal with you... or something."