Just talk

….after….Crumpled sheets….

The silent seconds ticked by, then, unaccountably I started to giggle, I couldn’t help myself. A moment later she was laughing too.

“That wasn’t your first time, was it?” she said, when the laughter eventually subsided.
“How could you tell?”

She rolled onto her side, reached out and traced a fingernail from between my breasts down the centre of my torso to my navel, and then to the top of my mound of Venus, raking gently through my damp, sticky pubic hair.

“You knew what you were doing. Not many women know about that last position. That sort of thing takes practice. Did your husband teach you that one, or was it as I suspect another woman?”
“A very lovely woman, a long time before I married.”

She laughed softly. “I’m glad you’ve had some experience, though I suspect you haven’t indulged in lady-play for a long time.”

“It’s been more than ten years since I……..”
“You must have been very young. Were you in love with her?”

It took a second or two for my memory to settle on the face of the first woman I’d had sex with. It was a long time ago and far, far away. But I could recall the touch of her lips and fingers, and the taste and the smell of her. She had taught me a great deal about life, love and independence.

“Yes, I loved her yes,” I replied, “but we weren’t in love with each other. The first time it just sort of happened. I was far from home and she was kind to me when I really needed someone to talk to. Don’t get me wrong, she didn’t take advantage – she tried to push me away. It was inevitable and I’m not sorry it happened. It only lasted a few weeks and when we parted we both knew it was time. The second was when I was at university. She was between boyfriends, and mine was…well he wasn’t around much. We were in bed together for company and warmth. I don’t really recall who started it. I tell myself that it was down to the vodka and the whiskey and the weed. But I can’t be certain it wouldn’t have happened anyway.”

Inga’s finger had started brushing my clit gently as I spoke. Then there was no need for words.

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Crumpled sheets

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….following….     It started with a kiss…

White sheets crumpled and stained, perspiration droplets dappled our bodies, smeared lipstick on our cheeks. We lay side by side panting, exhausted, exhilarated. The taste of her was on my lips, on my tongue, in my mouth – the heady aroma of her juice, strong in my nostrils, the sound of her final orgasm ringing in my memories ears. Above our heads the skylight spilled sunlight onto the bed in which we’d just made love.

We hadn’t been gently with each other, at least not at the beginning.

It’s not so easy to go from deciding to do something to actually doing it. Especially since the image of her, back pressed against the wall, legs wide, hands pressing on the head of the woman whose tongue was lathing her clitoris was playing on a screen in my imaginations theatre.

The vodka had helped a lot. She had taken the expensive bottle from Christian’s well stocked bar cooler.

“I brought this for him from Poland,” she said, unscrewing the lid and bringing back a couple of shot glasses.
Handing me an empty glass, she filled it to the brim. “L’chayim,” she said.
“Shouldn’t that be Nostrovia?”
She pulled a face. “I hate fucking Russians. They’re all fucking bitches.”

I remembered something Christian had said about the woman who’d broken Imogen’s heart and decided to leave it alone.

One more straight shot and I was feeling very relaxed; another, and the images in my head began to fade. That was when she’d leaned in and kissed me.

We didn’t undress each other. That’s something men do.

We stood at the foot of the bed facing each other as we stripped down to our bra and pants. It’s odd the things you notice, her pants were a delicate beige lace with little bows at the hips. Her matching bra, a pair of lacy cups that contained, rather than held up her firm breasts. Even at that moment, as I was about to commit a kind of adultery, it came into my head that my husband would have loved to handle her tits. Standing a mere three feet apart we looked at each other, before we unclipped our bras, slid our panties down to our ankles and stepping out of them.

Reunion

—–OOPS….this comes after A Persistent Memory….

It’s been a while since I’ve sat in this seat with coffee, prawn salad sandwich and a lap-top.
Not much has changed except for the bar staff; two strangers paid to smile and be constantly cheerful.
The laughing banker-boys are not here today. Perhaps they’ve migrated to another watering hole. I found them mildly obnoxious, but I still miss them. Odd.
On the left by the window, four lady-shoppers sip gin and tonics, natter and giggle; their leather handbags by Bottega, Givenchy and Alexander McQueen stand alongside plastic Harrods and Selfridge bags.

If you could see me you’d note the vaguely belittling smile on my face. I’m not proud of it. I am mildly envious of the pretty, pampered creatures with their Rolex watches and Gucci pumps. I admit it – I’m a snob. I’m proud of the fact that I work bloody hard for what I have.

Anyhow, back to my recent visit to Italy.

*

Just as we had all changed since my last visit, the house too has also been altered. I don’t know why I was expecting it to be exactly how I’d left it on that fateful day so long ago. I suppose it’s like being used to a friends face, and then running into them after it has been tucked and tightened by a plastic surgeon; the same but somehow different. Nicer but still disappointing. Just imagine being given bigger breasts – an improvement, but somehow missing the familiarity and comfort of the original smaller ones.

A classically Italianate extension had been added to the east-wing, for Vitalia and her growing family. The floor of the outdoor dining area near the pool had been re-laid with an intricate blue and white mosaic of Aphrodite bathing; and the orange and lime orchard has been dug up and transplanted well away from the main house, making it possible to extend the lawns and flower borders.

Like all good reunions, a lot of time over dinner this evening was spent giving run-downs of all that had happened in the intervening years. When it came to my turn to give an account, I didn’t leave out too much. But as you might guess, my relationship with the Sicilian, the Canadian, the strange dark skinned gentleman, (of whom I have yet to tell), Inga and the others, (again as yet untold to you) are still a closely guarded secret between you and me.

I did come clean about my stop over in Thailand, but left out the salacious details of the brothel and the reason for my eventual, tearful flight in the middle of the night.

If I’d been meticulously truthful, I’d probably have been called a puttana (whore), and kicked out of the house with orders never to return.

All evening I was aware of eyes that followed me………

*

“My younger brother wants to carry you off and make you his sex slave,” Vitalia laughed, when we were alone in my room later that night.

I made a surprised face. “He does?”

She giggled. “You mean you didn’t notice the hungry looks he was been giving you all evening. It’s a good thing his fiancé is arriving in a few days to distract him.”

“You forget that I’m a happily married woman.”

“You might be, but unfortunately my beloved brother is no respecter of matrimony. In fact I think he prefers them married and initially unwilling. The more they struggle the harder he chases. They all give in to him……..eventually.”

“Kicking and screaming, I suppose?”

She laughed and sat down on the bed. “I’m sure they kick and scream, and scratch and bite, but afterward they keep coming back for more. I’ve seen his cock, so I’m not surprised they fall on their backs. It’s much bigger and prettier than my husband’s more moderate weapon.”

“The size of a man’s cock isn’t everything.”
“It may not be everything, but a nice wide cock is a comfort in the night.”
I didn’t know what to say so I asked the obvious question. “Aren’t you satisfied with the size of Carlo’s penis?”
“It’s OK…. I suppose, but Carlo is always so fucking gentle when he makes love.”
“That’s because he loves you.”

“In that case, I’d like him to love me a little less and brutalize me a little more. Is your husband always gentle?”
“No. Not always.”
“Lucky you. What is he like when he makes love?”

I looked at her for a minute. It was an extremely personal question, but we’d always had a fairly no-holds-barred, no subjects off limits relationship.

“He can be rough sometimes,” I began, “but I know he loves me and would never really hurt me…. too much.”

“Does he actually hurt you then?”

There was a gleam in her eyes and I knew what she wanted to hear. “He’s got big hard hands and it does hurt when he spanks me. Sometimes chokes me… a little.”

She shivered with a kind of glee, and I could see that her mind was creating pictures of my words. “I’d love some of that, but Carlo’s not the type.” She hesitated a moment. “Has he ever taken you the other way?”

“What other way?” I asked, although I knew exactly what she meant.
“You know….the other way – in the bottom.”
I should have lied, I know that now. “A few times, yes.”

“I’ve seen pictures of women being ass-fucked and I’d love him to try it. I did once sort of suggest it, but he wasn’t keen. He called it a mortal sin.”
“What’s Giovani’s fiancé like?” I said trying to change the subject.

“Oh, as you might expect. She is tall, elegant, beautiful, aristocratic and best of all, fucking loaded.”
“She sounds perfect.”
“Oh she is, if you enjoy screwing a porcelain doll. And I can’t see her taking it up the pooper either.”

“Perhaps she’s-”
“She’s a cold bitch and still a virgin….apparently.”
“Really! You mean he hasn’t….?”
“Nope. Astonishing isn’t it. By dear brother has fucked women, married and single, the length and breadth of Italy and he chooses to settle down with the only one who won’t share his bed. ”
“He must love her a lot.”

“The only thing Giovani loves is her father’s millions, and the fact that she’s probably the only twenty-something virgin in southern Italy. Their children, if she lets him between her thighs after they’re married, will be very beautiful. But I have a feeling she isn’t the type to allow anything to push out her flat belly, let alone stick it’s bloody head out of her tight vagina.”

“Giovani does want children, I take it.”
“He hasn’t said. But he’s Italian, and you know Italian men.”
“Not really,” I said quickly, recalling Marco the Sicilian.

She laughed softly and lowered her voice slightly. “Nobody knows this, not even my husband, but I wasn’t a virgin when I married. I had five men in the thee years I was at university in Milano.” She sighed, a smile of memory spreading over her face. “First there was Paolo, then Michel, Aldo, Cesare and best of all Franco. Carlo wasn’t the best lover, nor did he have the biggest or nicest cock. That prize goes to Franco. I fell for that handsome bastard, in my final year.  I still pray that he catches something really serious and that his beautiful cock falls off. So I know a little about Italian men. They are mainly dominant in the bedroom, as well as being sensitive lovers. They love their daughters, but wives have to give them sons. They can also be lying, cheating sons-of-bitches.”

“Carlo isn’t dominant I take it?”
“Hardly….most of the time I’m on top. I married him because he made me laugh, because loves to go down on me, and isn’t the type to chase other women. Not like my dear philandering brother. I’ll be surprised if he isn’t off screwing some other woman within a month of getting married.”

“When is the wedding?”
“Next June. It’d be nice if you came, but Isabella is likely to take one look at you and mark you down as trouble, with a capital T.”

“Why? I’m no threat to her.”
“You might not be, but my brother might find it hard to explain the bulge in his pants when you are in the room.”

It started with a kiss

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The second bottle of wine had come and gone. I told myself that if I returned to the office, my concentration level was going to be well below par. I wasn’t drunk, or even tipsy, just not in the mood.

So after a quick phone call to the office to lie to my secretary about my state of health, Ingrid and I tumbled into a black cab and she gave the driver the address of Christian’s waterfront apartment.

“We’re sleeping together while I’m in town,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice. “It’s okay, I know he sleeps with you too.”

I saw the searching look the driver shot into his rear-view mirror, his eyebrows raised as he stored away the information to be shared and laughed over with his friends later.

“Has he ever suggested you and he actually do it?” she asked, placing a hand casually on my knee.
“A few times,” I half whispered.
“Have you ever been tempted?”
“No. Have you?”
“We did try to once, but he couldn’t make it stay hard. It was OK while I was sucking it, but once I stopped and he tried to stick it in me it just went soft. He does have a lovely cock though. I’ve never seen anything so smooth and white. It’s a shame he’s such a queen.”

It started with a kiss. But that’s how it usually starts. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t expected something like that to happen. I could see the desire in her eyes. I don’t know what she could read in mine.
By the time she inserted the key in the door of Christian’s apartment and pushed it open, I could feel that familiar knot in my belly and the tightness in my spine.
Excusing myself I disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door. I sit down on the toilet, fighting the feelings and the fears that had been creeping up on me all through lunch.

I was no lesbian virgin, my best friend and I had made love together many times while at university.
This was different somehow. Back then I’d been nineteen, and it had been….what had it been? Something we did without asking too many questions or worrying about the consequences. Like so many things people do when they are full of youth and ignorance and hang-ups and alcohol and marijuana. Though the drugs and the alcohol had not been the excuse after the first time.

Since then I’d never really had….. (almost never, there had been that one time of which I have already spoken during my gap-year) any kind of sexual attraction to another woman.

Sitting there my analytical mind weighed the pros and cons of what I knew for certain Ingrid wanted to happen. What I was afraid was likely to happen. This was no light flirtation for her, something to be done, enjoyed and giggled over afterward. All though lunch I’d looked into her eyes as she told me of her life – she was damaged goods.

I couldn’t deny the attraction. It had been there from that first kiss. It had been there as I watched her being eaten by that woman against the wall. At first I had been appalled, and then intrigued, then sad and finally jealous.

I’d refused to talk about it when Christian had tried to the following morning. But he’d known that something had gotten under my skin. That had been his plan all along. He was a game player, a puppet master, who enjoyed setting up situations and then sitting back to watch the situation develop and the carnage that sometimes ensued.

She was waiting sitting on the settee when I came out of the bathroom, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand. I sat down beside her.

I’d made my decision. Or to be more accurate, I’d decided to stop fighting my nature.

“I thought you’d be hiding in there forever,” she said.
“Was I hiding?”
“Yes. But were you hiding from me or yourself?”

I half smiled as I looked into her blue eyes. There was something so vulnerable in them. She was an extremely beautiful woman with her blonde hair, fine Scandinavian features, white, even teeth and lips that would be described as provocatively pouting.

“I could pretend that I don’t know what you are talking about, but that’s a lie,” I said, my eyes focussed on her mouth.
“No, let’s not pretend. Let’s just come straight out and say it. I want you.”

Lunch with Ingrid 5

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Packed and ready. He’s gone to deliver the dog to his sister. Butterflies are on the march again in my belly. I might need to go pee again in a minute. The cats are sitting on the back of the sofa looking on, taking it all in, judging me, and finding me guilty of desertion. It’s the same every time we go away.
His firm is sending a car in a couple of hours to transport us to the airport. There’s nothing quite like being chauffeur driven by a man in a uniform.
I wrote the final piece of my lunch with Ingrid a few days ago but haven’t had the will to put it up. There are bits of my life that make it hard to look myself in the face, when you sit down and recall the details. I have absolutely no trouble recalling details. That’s my curse.

*

….continue from Lunch with Ingrid 4

“After that there were other men,” Inga continued, slicing carefully across the centre of a thin cucumber. “A black male models with a cock like an aubergine; we banged everyday for three weeks, till one morning he told me he loved me.”

She’d sliced the cucumber into small slithers and was pushing them around on her plate.

“He was nice, but I didn’t want nice, not any more. After him there were a couple of photographers, one Russian the other French. I nearly fell for the Frenchie, but what would have been the point, he was married too. Then there was a well known designer. That lasted two months; before I found out he was also screwing his assistant. Then I had a threesome with two handsome studs I met at a club. They were a couple of professional fuckers who hung around fashion shows, hotel foyers, bars and restaurants in the hope of bagging one of us. Just about every country has them – some more than others. They are an occupational hazard. They look at us like items on a gigolo menu; blonde, brunette, red-head – turn up, take your pick, take it to a hotel, fuck it stupid. The sex was generally good and often fantastic. But everybody knew that it was only ever going to be a one time thing, kissing and fucking and goodbye before daybreak.
Most of time I was slightly drunk or slightly high or slightly both when some good-looking guy made a point of catching my eye. I was smoking more and more dope, and snorting thousands of pounds of coke a week. I recall that I had the deluded view that it was purely medicinal.”

She laughed, more bitterness coming through.

“Then one morning I woke up next to a woman,” she went on. “I didn’t recall how she’d got there, or what we’d done in the night. Initially I tried to convince myself that we’d just shared a bed and that I – we hadn’t done anything. I was still there deluding myself when she woke up. Have you ever….?”

I shook my head emphatically. “No,” I lied.

“Neither had I, till then. What was more surprising was that it turned out that it wasn’t she who’d picked me up, but the other way around. I’d kissed her first, and made the suggestions that ended with us going back to my hotel room, getting naked and making love.”

Inga put a piece and lettuce in her mouth and chewed slowly. “She had lovely deep brown eyes and a cute button nose,” Ingrid went on after taking a sip from her glass. “We talked, had breakfast in the room, shared a bath and made love again. Then she dressed and walked out of my life. I never saw her again. She was married as well. I just fed a need for pussy she had now and then.”

This time her smile wasn’t bitter, only sad.

“I hadn’t realised that I had any such feelings toward other women, and for a few weeks I managed to convince myself that it was a one off; that the dope and the booze had caused me to act out of character. I picked up a couple of stray men to try to prove my point; the first one was only interested in pleasing himself; the second was a hard worker and had me climbing the walls. But even after multiple orgasms, I knew something wasn’t right. So a couple of days later I walked into a lesbian bar and walked out with a red-head. She was nice, slightly plump around the middle, with a soft belly and she still had a thick fringe of pubic hair. We ended up spending the afternoon at the Hilton. After that there other women – many, and men too – but fewer.”

I could see she was trying to judge what effect her words were having on me. I smiled and kept my expression as neutral as possible.

“I rarely use a man these days,” she said after a minute, “I’m almost a complete lesbian, but I still have a very small craving to be penetrated by an amateur; someone hard and brutal, with big hands and a rigid cock. Dildos and vibrators are great, but we ladies make love to each other in an equal opportunity sort of way; whereas a man can generally be relied upon to make a woman feel like second-class citizen when he spreads her legs and shoves his cock into her. Even the best lover among them will have the wild look of the beast in his eyes as he slides in and out of a wet pussy. And the more we cry out and rip at their backs the wilder the best becomes.”

She stopped as the waiter approached again with another bottle.

We ate slowly while Inga continued to talk. Christian had been right – she needed someone to talk to; someone who would listen and not interrupt; someone who didn’t look at her as though they were judging her; someone on the verge of admitting to herself that the woman on the other side of the table got her juices flowing.