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Moist

By: Betty Boo



Fee awoke slowly and stretched out deliciously remembering that today was the day that Gary would return. He'd been away for a week-long business trip and she had missed him terribly. She longed to feel his big strong arms wrapped around her and his hard, warm body pressing close against her own. She slipped out of bed and padded down the hallway to the bathroom.

In the shower the warm water coursed over her small, taut body making her nipples grow hard as her thoughts wandered. Hands soaping her small pert breasts, she absently began to caress the hard nipples, tugging them gently with her fingers. She could feel the heat growing inside her as her hands slid from her flat belly and began exploring her throbbing pussy, her face turned to the warm jet of the shower….

She heard the phone ring as she was patting herself dry with a big fluffy towel and she reached out and lifted the receiver on the third ring.

"Hi Fee, God I've missed you Angel" Gary's sexy voice sent little shivers down her back. He told her he would be flying in later that day and they arranged to meet in a nearby park so they could walk for a while and catch up before they had dinner out.

"Fee, I can't wait to see you, will you do something for me?" he asked, his voice husky with desire.

She assured him she would do anything he wanted.

"Remember the black silk knickers I bought for you before I went away? I want you to put them on right now and promise me you will wear them all day" 

Amused and curious, Fee agreed and put the phone on the side while she found, slipped on the flimsy knickers then returned to the phone.

"Ok Angel" he breathed heavily, "I want you to lay back and close your eyes. Imagine I am there with you, stroking your body and making you stretch. Imagine my fingers rubbing those beautiful nipples and making them hard and erect. My lips tugging and sucking on them hard, making you gasp out loud. Are you imagining it Angel?" he asked.

"Oh God yes Gary" she answered, her fingers kneading and rubbing her stiff nipples.

"Good," he said, "I'm so hard just thinking about you Fee. Imagine my fingers stroking your wet pussy lips, opening you up and probing into your wet hole. I bet your little clitty is all swollen isn't it?"

"Jesus Gary, I'm soaking – I want you now!" she panted as she fingered her aching pussy.

Gary had his stiff dick in his hand as he listened to Fee's heavy breathing. He badly wanted to touch her, to taste her but he would wait, he knew it would be worth the wait.

"I have to go Fee but promise me you will keep the knickers on till we meet?" he asked, "I'll phone you later, keep your mobile with you."

After he hung up Fee continued rubbing and stroking herself, imagining it was Gary licking and sucking her throbbing pussy until soon she came in great surges of pure pleasure. Mindful of her promise she kept the silky knickers on, the thin fabric now damp with her juices, clung seductively to her pussy lips.

After lunch Fee cycled down to the local supermarket for a few groceries. She was wandering around the aisles when her mobile phone rang. It was Gary.

"Hiya Fee" he said, "You still wearing them?" he asked.

"Of course" she whispered; careful to keep her voice down, "Though they are still damp after our little conversation earlier" she laughed.

"Excellent!" Gary purred, "That's just what I wanted to hear, I can almost taste you now. Can you give your pussy a little rub for me?" he begged.

"Gary! I'm at the supermarket" she exclaimed a little louder than she intended. He laughed.

"Ok, then how about pressing your thighs together as you walk, no-one will guess. You know how I love it when you are all slippery and wet." He suggested. Fee began to purposefully squeeze her thighs against each other as she walked making her hips sway and putting pressure on her clitty. She could feel the wetness seeping through her knickers as she whispered to Gary on the phone. She was sure that people could tell what she was up to but this only made her feel more excited, her pussy was throbbing.

By the time she reached home she just couldn't wait to come again. The cycle ride had only fuelled her passion and her knickers were drenched. She kept them on as she satisfied herself once again.

Fee had been in a constant state of arousal all day and by mid afternoon she was preparing to change to get ready for Gary's return. As she stood scanning her wardrobe and deciding what to wear the bedside phone rang.

"Hiya, still hot and wet for me Angel?" he breathed lustily.

"Oh yes Gary but I'm going to have to shower and change, these knickers are soaking." She complained.

"Noooo! That's just what I want Fee. Please, for me, keep them on Angel" he almost shouted.

"You sure?" she asked, puzzled.

"God, yes! More than sure, you should see my dick, it's been as hard as rock all day thinking about you walking around in those cum covered knickers all hot and ready for me" he explained.

Fee laughed, finally understanding his insistence and agreed to keep them on.

She chose a short summer skirt and a thin strappy vest top to wear. She loved to feel the fabric against her bare breasts and she knew Gary would love it.

She arrived at their meeting place in the quiet park; it was their favourite spot by the river. Not many people came here in the early evening and they had made love here many times before.

He was there before she arrived and she flung herself into his open arms when she saw him. He was tanned and looked good, she had missed him terribly. She could feel his hardness and his heat against her as he held her tightly, burying his face into her hair.

"Glad to see you have missed me too." She laughed, wriggling closer to him. He lifted up her chin with his hand and gently kissed her lips gently as he looked deep into her eyes. She kissed him back deeply and passionately.

Quickly glancing round to make sure there was no-one else about, his hands slipped from her face and cupped her breasts, fingers brushing over the already erect nipples. He heard her gasp as he began to gently rub them as he nibbled her smooth throat.

"I need to feel you." he whispered urgently. His hand slipped up her leg and caressed the silky, sodden material of her panties. Her thighs were slippery with her juices as Gary's fingers traced the outline of her swollen pussy lips through the thin sleek fabric and finally pushed it to one side as he slipped his fingers into her wetness.

Fee's senses were swimming as she panted and gasped at his expert fingers, she felt dizzy with lust and her legs impulsively parted to allow him access to her throbbing pussy. He rubbed and kneaded, stroked and caressed her dripping pussy and finally laid her on the soft grass and knelt beside her, looking down at the scene before him. Her skirt pulled up and legs open for him his gaze fell on her soaking crotch, the silk pulled taut against her pussy, her thighs glistening with her moisture. 

"I've been waiting all day for this" he murmured and began to lick his way slowly from her knees, along her quivering thighs to her burning, pulsating, silken wetness. 

He could smell her passion, a deep musky sweet scent that drove him wild. 

He breathed her woman scent deeply into his lungs and rubbed his face against the saturated material. His tongue snaked out and began to lick through the fabric, tasting her, absorbing her as she ground her pulsating cunt against his face. She tasted unbelievable! He couldn't get enough of her.

His hands on her hips gave him some control as he devoured her, licking, nibbling and sucking her into a frenzy. She was making whimpering sounds as her orgasm built, he could feel the tension in her thighs as it swelled inside. Suddenly she cried out and began to tremble and spasm as a huge orgasm ripped through her small body. He held on tight and continued to lick and suck as hot juices seeped from her pulsating pussy and through the sodden fabric of her silky knickers.

"Come for me Angel." He encouraged her, lifting his head to watch the expression on her face.

His swollen dick was almost bursting when he unzipped himself and began to rub it against her. Keeping the soaking knickers on, he pulled them to one side and lubricated his stiff pole with her juices. She felt the bulging head of his dick pushing into her eager cunt and raised her hips to greet him. Oh it felt so good to be home, he thought, as he slid deep inside her, stretching her wide.

"Fuck me hard Gary" she begged. He obliged willingly, slowly fucking her deep and hard. Her legs desperately tried to wrap around him as he thrusted into her greedy pussy, her muscles pulling him deeper. He could feel his own orgasm building, rising from deep inside, making him swell and as his pace quickened he felt the eruption. The feeling was so intense as hot cum spurted from his throbbing dick, convulsing him as he came long and hard. She could feel the spasms as his hot seed spurted inside her and he moaned loudly. Gary pulled out of her twitching pussy and aimed the last few spurts onto Fee's black silk knickers and sighed contentedly.

Yes, it was good to be home.

Moist Black Leather



I can remember it like was yesterday: Lorie and I strolled nonchalantly through the hotel lobby enjoying the attention we got in our formal wear. We passed the piano bar arm-in-arm, her hip brushing against mine with every step. I caught a glimpse of our reflection in the mirror over the bar. She was still flushed from her fast orgasm upstairs, but it was clear she was hungry for more. I had on a slightly lopsided Cheshire Cat grin. The gawking tourists had no idea her lacey red thong was in my jacket pocket, but we knew.

We stopped in front of the elevator down to the parking lot. We stepped to the side to let two businessmen out. They ogled Lorie as discreetly as they could. From her green eyes and inviting lips down to her black heels and across all the luscious curves hinted at beneath her short, black, sequined dress, they took it all it in. I made sure they saw my hand on her ass as we stepped inside and turned to the front. "Going down?" I asked her with a cocked eyebrow. "Of course," she replied sweetly as the elevator doors closed on their gaping faces. I pulled her up against me for a hard, fast kiss. She barely had time to get a breath before I was probing her mouth to feel her delicate tongue. She ground her mons into my thigh as I held her waist. My silk boxers were clinging to me from the precum oozing from my shaft. 

We were both breathing hard by the time we got to our level of the garage. I noticed the white security camera at the top of our parking level, right above the door to the stairs. My cobalt blue BMW convertible was in one of the recessed spaces on the back wall next to the stairway. I paused for a step to fish the keys out of my tented trousers. It was nearly midnight and our dress shoes echoed through the empty structure. Her dimpled back and swaying hips drew me quickly to her side. I switched my keys to my left hand so I could put my right hand on her ass. 

Lorie slowed down and wiggled her butt provocatively. I slid my hand between her legs from behind. Her thighs were slippery from her juice. I nodded toward the security camera up ahead. "Keep walking. Act natural." I slid my hand up to her pussy as she walked. My forefinger was nestled between her swollen cunt lips and they slid back and forth with each step she took. I lifted up hard enough so she would have been on tiptoe if she weren't already in heels. "They're going to think you're in terrible shape, breathing that hard walking up a little ramp like this." "Oh God, you've got to stop teasing me," she moaned. "Teasing you? I'm the one who's had aching balls since your little rope dance up in the ballroom. Just a few more steps and we'll be at the car."  

As we got closer I realized that my parking space was out of view of the camera. I casually looked back as best I could. No camera that way. Perfect. I thumbed the alarm on my key fob, then the button to drop the top. It did its little mechanical minuet. Lorie always said the hum reminded her of her favorite vibrator so I wiggled my hand to accompany the sound. When it finished I slid my hand out from between her legs. She gasped slightly as the cool air caressed her wet, swollen pussy. I couldn't resist bringing my hand up to my face to smell her warm womanly scent. I ran my tongue discreetly along my forefinger. God, she tasted so good. 

As we got to the car, I steered her over to driver's side. I slid off my jacket and pried her purse free from her grasp with a steady tug. She gave me her "I know you're up to something" look as I tossed them on the back seat. 

"What are you doing?" she asked. 

"Giving you what we both need," I replied.

She raised an eyebrow. "And how do you intend to do that?" She asked saucily. She was a bit of an exhibitionist, but we had never done anything in public. Seeing the effect she had on all the men at the party had turned us both on, but I hadn't realized just how excited she had gotten. 

"Like this." I guided her around like we were still on the dance floor until she faced the car. 

With one hand on her hip, I pressed against her back with the other until she was bent over the door, her head nearly resting on the black leather headrest. I flipped her dress up to expose her luscious round ass cheeks. From her black high heels up past her nice strong calves and creamy thighs everything came together at the gentle curve of her butt. Her tan lines drew my eye straight to the alluring shadows of her cleft. 

"Spread your legs," I growled as I unzipped my trousers. I can see the shiny wetness of her cleft. I gave a tingly slap to her right ass cheek. She twitched away from the shock, then eased back for another. The sound rang off the concrete walls. A warm flush rose on that spot in contrast with the night air. I gave a matching slap to her other cheek.

"Wider. Show me where you want my fat cock."

Lorie obliging spread her legs and arched her back. I dug my cock out of my sticky silk boxers. I wanked it up and down, smearing the pre-cum all over my smooth shaft. 

"Spread your ass." Her breasts were on the car as she reached back with both hands. Her ruby red fingernails dug into her tender skin as she pried herself open to my gaze.

"Yeah, that's it." 

Spreading her smooth pussy lips wide, she thrust back lewdly. Every line of her body begged to violated. I quickly bent down and ran my tongue from her clit up to her puckered rosebud. I stopped to probe around her ridged asshole for a moment, then plunged back down into the hot depths of her pussy. Her groans echoed around us as she humped back against my rough face. Her cunt clenched around my invading tongue. I rolled my tongue around the inside of her pussy lips. I enjoyed making her gasp with a thrust of my tongue or go weak in the knees by sucking wetly on her clit. My excitement fed off hers. I probed down under the hood of her clit with the very tip of my tongue. Tiny little flicks took her right up to the edge and left her trembling with lust.

Unable to wait any longer, I stood up behind her. I ran the spongy head of my prick up and down her cunt lips. "Are you sure we should do this?" I teased her. "I mean a car could come along at any moment."

She gave a frustrated growl and jerked back against me plunging me into her buttery depths. The fiery heat of her pussy enveloped me. I grabbed her hips and ground into her, screwing her hard and deep. She let out little "unh, unh, unh" sounds as I pushed down toward her clit on my strokes. The car rocked to our rhythm of lust. I thought I heard a noise from the elevator and looked over, but it was a false alarm. I shifted around on every stroke, trying to rub every single nerve ending in her cunt. Sweat dripped off my nose and onto her back just above her little black dress. I knew she liked dressing up and it made her feel sexy, but she was just as hot to me in flannel pajamas. I wiped my face on my sleeve as I moved my hands up to her shoulders. Lorie arched her back as I pullled her back hard onto my engorged prick for an extended grind.

"Maybe we should stop." I managed to choke out.

She lifted her head and said, "Shut up and fuck me, Nick." Her face was flushed and her cheeks glowing. She lowered her head again. I could tell from the way her legs and butt tensed up that she was on the edge. Trying to catch up I focused on deep strokes. I pulled out until her cunt lips stretched over the head of my prick. She braced against my thrusts as I slammed into her quivering cunt faster and harder. She ground all the way down to my balls as she came hard. She cried out through clenched teeth, her face buried in the leather seat to muffle the sound. I felt her cunt muscles rhythmically clenching my painfully swollen cock.

She was having her second orgasm in fifteen minutes, but I wasn't quite there yet. The champagne was slowing me down. Her breathing slowed down and she let out a long deep, sigh. She could feel my full length as she pulled away. She turned around and cupped my heavy balls in her hand. 

"My poor baby still has a raging hard-on." 

Lorie made that little pouty-face she knew turned me on. Her wet lower lip stuck out invitingly. "What ever shall we do?" Her small hand barely made it all the way around my cock, but her grip was firm despite the coating of pussy juice. Her soft hand skinned the foreskin slowly over the crown of my cock. I maneuvered her to the side and opened the driver's side door so she could sit down. With her short dress hiked up I could clearly see her pussy as she sat with her legs apart. 

I stepped up close to her. She stuck out her pink little tongue and flicked it along the underside of my cock, right where the ridge makes a V. 

Lorie didn't waste any time after that. She tossed her hair to the side and went straight down on me, taking as much of my fat shaft as she could without gagging. I felt myself swell up even more as she sucked on me. I closed my eyes to focus on the sensation. She gently kneaded my balls. The slight roughness of her tongue on the underside of my cock felt exquisite. The wet, slurpy sucking sounds were a huge turn on, too. But it was when I opened my eyes and found her soft green eyes looking into mine while my shaft disappeared into her lovely face that it really hit me. 

There was something incredibly sexy about her expression: sweet and impish and horny and loving all rolled up into one. All my pent up arousal suddenly burst forth. I could see the surprise on her face as I flooded her mouth without warning. I felt like a fire hose as she swallowed repeatedly. My balls were empty and aching by the time I came down. With her fist, she milked the last few drops onto her tongue. I leaned down to kiss her. We mashed our lips together hungrily. I could still taste the salty tang of my load as we swirled our tongues around each other. God, she was so hot. I wanted to fuck her again right there. I gave her a couple of soft kisses before diving back into a deep kiss.

We heard the ding of the elevator arriving on the ramp below our nook. I stood up as the doors opened. Lorie deftly slipped my suddenly deflating member back in my pants and gave me a dangerously quick zip. I turned around to see a security guard coming up the ramp. I blocked his view as Lorie rearranged herself and tried to wipe off the remainder of her smudged lipstick. 

"Are you folks okay? We saw you leave the elevator, but no cars left the lot." 

"There's no problem," I gestured vaguely toward the back of the car, "We had a little trouble getting it to go down, but it's fine now." He stopped and glanced at Lorie sitting primly on the driver's side -- desperately trying to look unfucked -- and back to me. He still had some questions. I put on my bland, slightly puzzled look and waited him out. 

After a moment he said, "Nice night for a ride in convertible." It was hard to say if he was more envious of Lorie or the car. He could have the keys as long as I could keep her.

"It certainly is." I helped Lorie up out of the bucket seat, she hurriedly smoothed down the back of her dress. I saw the moist black leather where she had been sitting. 

It surprised me that he couldn't smell the sex from the moment the elevator doors opened. Lorie walked like a nun over to the passenger side and slipped in. 

"Well, we better get going. Sorry to drag you out here for nothing," I told him. 

"That's our job. You folks have a good evening and drive safely." He started back down to the elevator while saying something intelligible into his walkie-talkie. As I got into the car, I could see Lorie's dainty teeth-marks on the black leather. They eventually faded from sight, but they're still clear in my memory.



Moist Encounters Ch. 1



It is 3:12pm on a Thursday afternoon, and I have been staring at the clock for the last 2 hours. Wishing, praying that the day would end so I could come to you. All day I have been fantasizing about being with you, touching you, fucking you. The thoughts have been driving me absolutely wild! Picturing us together having the sex of our lives for hours on end. Just enjoying every inch of each other, repeatedly.

Finally, the pain got too real for me to handle. I sprang from my seat, said my good nights to the group, and left for the day (an hour early). I jumped into my car and drove as fast as humanly possible to your work. As I was driving I was remembering the tight security at your building, but I was so horny for you that I was determined to find a way around it. I just had to have you now!!!

Pulling into the visitor's parking lot, I step out of the car and adjust my clothes. It was very hot in the car and I noticed that my blouse had become a little transparent from the perspiration that was forming on my chest. I could see my breasts clearly through my blouse and bra and was thinking I should probably put on my jacket, but then decided against it as it may work in my favor to get me past the security guard. As I walked towards the gate, I noticed that the guard was already watching me approach. I assumed that he didn't get very many female visitors and that was why he was watching me, I was wrong.

As I got closer, it became obvious that his eyes were fixed on my now erect nipples. His glare made me a little self conscious, but I didn't let him see my nervousness. I spoke your name softly and asked where I could find you. I explained that I was your "cousin" and that you had forgotten your wallet in my car the night before. He was so busy staring at my tits that I don't think he heard a word I said he just nodded and opened the gate. With a sweet smile I thanked him and continued to walk towards the building, thinking to myself, "1 down ... 1 to go!!".

Once inside the main lobby, there was another gentleman blocking my path. He appeared friendly, but horny would be better as it would help me more to get passed him. He asked me if he could assist me, so I repeated the same story I had told the front gate guard. He looked at me a little suspiciously, eyeing me carefully, almost as if he were trying to read my body language. After a few seconds he smiled, leaned in close and whispered, "I really shouldn't let you back there, but I have a feeling that Bruce is going to be very happy to see you. I know I would be!". Smiling back at him devilishly, I responded "Well Sir, I hope he's horny to see me too, as I've got something for him that I can't wait any longer to give him". With that, he pointed me in the right direction and watched me walk away.

The warehouse was large and filled with isles of merchandise. There were several people walking about, but no one looked familiar. Although we had never met, I had an excellent idea of your appearance and was confident I would recognize you. However, I had no idea the plant was so large, I was going to have to ask for assistance. The first man I came across told me that you were straight ahead and to the left. He offered to escort me, but I politely refused explaining that I wanted to surprise you.

As I walked towards you, I noticed that you had your back to me, so you weren't able to see me approaching. This was perfect. I could come up behind you and do pretty much what ever I wanted without you seeing who it was. The thought of this excited me even more then I already was, and I could feel my nipples growing harder with each step I took towards you. Standing right behind you now, I quietly undid one more of my blouse buttons, showing a little more of my cleavage. A couple of other men nearby were watching now, smiling and obviously wondering who I was and what I was up to. I'm sure they had a good idea, but from the looks

on their faces, they appeared to be shocked that it was going to happen here. I smiled back at them, winked suggestively as I slowly leaned against your back, and slide my hands around your waist. My actions definitely startled you, as when you turned to look at me your face was ghost white. "Shit Adrienne, what are you doing here? This warehouse is full of men, you scared the crap out of me!!! I though it was one of these guys trying to grab my dick!!"

I apologized softly, but after the initial shock wore off, you smiled at me sweetly and it was obviously to me that you were happy to see me (for the first time). And when I looked down at your crotch, I knew for certain you were horny to see me too! You could tell by the expression on my face that I was very hot and bothered too, so you quickly suggested that we find a place to go ... fast!!

As you hurried me down one of the isles, I mentioned that I had noticed a maintenance room door on my way in to see you. I suggested it might be a good place to go as it would be noisy enough in there to muffle any noise that we were absolutely going to make. The though of this made you walk quicker, dragging me behind you as you raced for the door.

Once inside, you flicked on the light to reveal a crowded room with lots of boxes and mechanical equipment. You locked the door and stood there in front of me staring and licking your lips. I wanted you more then ever now, the wait has been far too long, so I kicked off my shoes and started to remove my blouse. You followed suit and began to do the same. Within seconds, we were both completely naked and aching to touch each other.

I could feel my insides churning with the thought of your hands on me. I instinctively leaned back onto a box and lift myself up on to it, spreading my legs in front of you. Without hesitation, you come to me, positioning your hips between my legs, pulling me closer to the edge of the box. Pressed up against you now, I run my tongue slowly, gently along your bottom lip, tasting your sweet mouth. Your hands are softly placed on my hips and you can feel my body quivering under your touch. Sensing my nervousness, you kiss me passionately and whisper that everything is going to fine. Your voice is soothing and I feel myself relax immediately. It's strange, but even though I don't know you (in a sense I'm fucking a complete stranger), I feel so comfortable with you, like our bodies were made to fit together. Your arms are embracing me, comforting me as we slowly explore each other.

Your body is so firm and tight, the feel of it under my hands is enough to send shivers down my spine. I run my hands down your sides to your waist and eagerly move forward to grasp your cock. As expected, it is rock hard and swollen, throbbing in my hand. I bring my hand back up to my mouth and lick each finger before placing it back on your cock. You begin to moan softly as my hand caresses you slowly but firmly. With my other hand I run a finger down your ass and cup it in my hand, kneading it, squeezing it tightly. It feels so good, I just want to bite it!!!

As my hand steadily rubs your cock, your mouth moves down to my breasts. You are sucking them hungrily, biting the nipples. It hurts a little, but at the same time, it feels so wonderful that I push your head further into me, encouraging you to suck harder. You willingly comply. My back is completely arched now, raising my tits to your face. Your forceful sucks are making my pussy tingle with anticipation;

I can feel the juices starting to stir inside me, aching to escape. I take this sensation for as long as possible, until I force you back, leap of the box and slide down your body to my knees. Still looking up at you, I kiss the head of your cock ever so gently. Licking the tip while my hand works you. You are so hard now, I want you inside me, but I want you in my mouth too!! I stick two fingers into my pussy to subside my need while I take the swollen head only into my mouth and suck it anxiously. Your hands are now on my head, forcing me to suck you harder, faster. Not that I need the encouragement, but I love the way you grab my hair, pulling my mouth deeper on to your throbbing cock. I can feel it hitting the back of my throat with every thrust. Your moans are getting louder and more frequent. Not wanting you to cum just yet, I slow down the pace and use my tongue to lick up and down the shaft. Once down at the base I take your balls into my mouth and feel their fullness. While I roll them in my warm, wet mouth, I use my hand on your shaft to keep you hard and ready. Your cock is completely erect and parallel with your stomach, twitching with every stroke of my hand. Pre cum is forming at the head, so I hungrily suck the sweet cream off before it drips down. Not wanting to waste a drop.

Moving your hands from my head to my shoulders, you lift me to my feet. You kiss me hard and force me down on my back on top of the box. My fingers are still deep inside my pussy, working feverishly. You yank them out, telling me that my fingers were no longer necessary because you were going to take over now. I close my eyes in anticipation as I feel your tongue slithering up my inner thigh. My body is shaking with excitement, I feel like I'm going to cum just with the thought of your mouth on my pussy. Your slow pace is increasing my need, teasing me with every slow lick. Finally you reach my pussy, but instead of lick me, you start to blow softly on my lips. Holding it open with your fingers and blowing inside. OH MY GOD!!!! It feels so wonderful I can hardly contain myself!!! I squirm with delight, not wanting you to stop. You're trying to hold my hips still but you can't, my body is out of control and all I can feel now is your breath on my pussy.

I lift my legs up, hooking my arms behind my knees, lifting and separating them as far as they will go. My pussy and ass is completely open to you now, damp with my juices. After seeing my eagerness, you begin to lick me, plunging your tongue deep inside my hole. With one hand you're rubbing my clit, with the other you're plunging two fingers inside me, right along side your tongue. You can feel my muscles contracting as you pump me harder. My hips raising off the box to meet every thrust you deliver. My juices are escaping now, just enough for you to get a taste. I can see the top of your head from between my thighs, moving frantically, feeling your tongue lapping up every drop. I'm so close now,

I squeal your name, begging you not to stop, "I'm gonna cum now Bruce!!!!" Instantly your tongue moves faster, licking, sucking, plunging my pussy. My body convulses into a multiple of orgasms, releasing my juices on to your face and tongue. You continue to lick until I cum again. I can't stand it anymore; I have to taste you too. I beg you to 69 me so I can have you too. You climb up unto the boxes and straddle my body, sticking your still hard cock in my face. I grasp it quickly, ramming it into my mouth as fast and as hard as I can.

You continue to lick me as I begin to suction your dick. I'm sucking so hard now that you feel it in your stomach, pulling and aching. I'm moaning as I suck you, wanting you to cum in my mouth so badly. You know this is what I'm waiting for, what I'm dying for you to do, so with one last thrust you explode. I immediately feel your warmth in my mouth, running down my throat. I swallow it all and continue to suck, to make sure I get all of your cream.

Feeling spent, but not yet completely satisfied, I roll you off of me and on to your back. Pleasantly, you are still rock hard and standing at attention. I sit up, get on to my knees and straddle your chest, pinning down your arms with my hands. I bend forward and kiss you softly, parting your lips with my tongue, tasting my juices still lingering in your mouth. You try to reach up to touch my tits, but I won't release my grip. "Sorry sweetie, no touching just yet. I want my way with you first. Just lay back, relax and enjoy". I didn't have to tell you twice.

As soon as I let go of your arms, you folded them behind your head, closed your eyes and just lay there smiling, waiting for what I had to deliver. I stayed still for just a moment, looking at you, not wanting this to come to end. I wanted to fuck u for hours, but I knew it was only a matter of time before you were missed and someone would come looking for you. So, I snapped out of my daze and slide my body back towards your waiting cock. I lifted my body, moved back and lowered myself down on you. My body tensed as your stiff prick entered me. It feels so powerful, filling my hole. As I continue to take you in, you open your eyes and grin. I can tell by the look on your face that you are pleased with my tightness.

You wonder if I will be able to get it all in, and are quite satisfied when I do. I begin to rock back and forth with a steady rhythm, grinding my pussy down deeper. You close your eyes again and begin to moan, enjoying the feelings I'm stirring inside you. My eyes are closed too, my back is arched all the way back with my hands on your knees supporting my body. My legs are bend and close to the sides of your chest, keeping you still as I ride you. I'm moaning with pleasure as I feel you throbbing inside me. It feels so wonderful deep in my pussy. I begin to move faster as my body begins to tighten around you. I know another orgasm is just around the corner, but I'm not ready to give in yet.

I lean forward and take one of your hands from behind your head, placing it between my legs. "Please rub my clit for me Bruce, I'm almost there". You respond to my request instantly, rubbing my hard swollen clit with your thumb. With your other hand you cup a breast and knead it firmly. The pleasure I'm feeling now is so overwhelming, I can't possibly hold it in any longer, but I want us to come together. I begin to move more quickly now, really grinding in to you and gyrating my hips in a circular motion. "I want you to cum with me baby, are you ready to do that?"

The expression on your face says it all; you are more then ready. With a few more quick thrusts, we were shuddering together, juices flowing out of me and down your crotch onto the boxes below us. The cum seemed to flow forever, forming a small puddle between your legs. When I finally felt the vibrations stop, I lift myself off you, lying down beside you. Grinning at me, you slyly ask, "Aren't you going to clean that up Adrienne, we wouldn't want anyone to come in here and find that mess." "

You're so right Bruce, what would people think?!" With that, I drop to the floor, place my head in between your legs, and begin to lap up our love off the cardboard box. It's still warm and ever so creamy. I take it all, leaving only a wet spot behind. My enthusiasm excites you and I notice you getting hard again.

"Since you're still ready to go Bruce, my ass could use a little of your attention. I would love you to fuck my ass to finish me off. I promise to cum again!!" I slowly turn my back to you, reach down and grab my ankles, raising my ass in the air for the taking. Knowing that this was your first anal experience, I could only imagine what was going through your mind. I was hoping that you truly were interested and not just trying to please me. Either way, you come up behind me and rub your cock up and down my ass, slowly and repeatedly. The feel of you excites me. I push back on you, letting you know I'm ready for you to enter me.

Taking my forward hint, you inch your way in to my ass slowly. It has been at least 7 years since I have been taken this way, its quite painful but incredibly pleasurable at the same time. I let out a long sigh as my body relaxes to allow you to enter me more easily. Your cock feels my hole loosen, so you continue to go all the way in. I can feel your finger nails digging into the flesh on my hips. I can tell by your grip that this is exciting you, and your excitement makes me hotter. I begin to slam back on you with every thrust, driving you further into my ass.

Suddenly I feel your hand reaching between my legs and into my pussy. Using at least three fingers, you finger fuck me while you're ramming me. I'm going to cum for sure now. The things you're doing to me are making my body shake with pleasure.

Uncontrollable waves are coming over me, making my legs tremble with weakness. Tears are rolling down my cheeks now, I can't hold back any longer. I love the pain you are inflicting on me so much, so much that I start to cum instantly. I feel it flowing out of my body on to your fingers, which are still deep inside my cunt. You are still probing them in and out, making me cum repeatedly. I feel like I can't stop myself, my body just keeps convulsing with every movement of your fingers and cock. My legs are shaking under me, I can hardly stand. You sense my weakness and wrap your arms around my waist to keep me from sliding off your cock. You keep me balanced on you, long enough for you to cum too. One last push, a long hard groan, and I feel your cum filling my ass. I smile satisfied as your warmth fills my hole.

Exhausted now, I slowly pull away from you and sit on the floor panting in heat. You gather our clothes, and come to me on the floor. Kneeling beside me, you carefully slip my blouse on to me and hand me my skirt. As I slide it over my legs and hips, you stand and also get dressed. Nothing has to be said we just look at each other and know that it was the best sex either of us has ever had. You lean down to me, kiss me gently and take my hand as you walk towards the door. Opening it quietly, we both slip out and walk casually towards the exit. The manager at the front door smiles knowingly and winks at you. You smile back at him and turn to kiss me good bye. As you do, I slip you my tongue one last time and whisper, "Until next time sweetie, and I promise it will be soon".



Moist Lips



I'm not sure who I am looking for, so I sit in the darkest part of the room, which is in the back, at a small two-person table behind everyone else. I expected the hundred or so people to be largely middle-aged creepers and sketchy greasers. Instead, they are fashionable men and women. Mostly couples and groups of couples clustered around tables. Very respectable, upscale. I am here alone.

The first performer steps on the small stage promptly at midnight, with the nightclub now completely dark but for a single spotlight on her. She begins dancing to bumps and grinds music, wearing a turquoise bodice, bikini panties and garters with black sequined hose. She's also somehow balancing a two-foot high feathered headdress. She has a killer body. Her moves are suggestive, jutting her hips from side to side. She shimmies, makes her breasts quiver. She smiles and winks.

After several minutes of mildly naughty poses and moves, the buttons open, the bodice comes off. She shakes her ample breasts that are covered now only by nipple pasties of some sort. The song, I think, is "Every Baby Needs A Daddy." Her breasts are so heavy they swing from side to side. Whistles and yells erupt in the darkness. Her name is "Velvet Valentine."

She isn't the one. So I sit through more five-minute routines of the seven-member Bon Ton Burlesquers, who are resurrecting strip shows from vaudeville's golden years. Most of the performers -- they are young, glamorous and busty -- finish in pasties and minuscule panties. In the audience, the men of course are ogling. The women look on with secret envy, wondering what it would feel like to parade on stage, like Velvet Valentine, under a white hot spotlight with bare breasts sweating and swaying, their naked ass in full view of a hundred pair of eyes as they bend over and show themselves. Each woman is thinking, if they were on stage, would the men have to shift in their seats, as they're doing now, to hide their growing arousal at seeing them nearly naked? 

For me, even more erotic than looking at the sequined performers is watching the women watch the performers. You can see their hesitancy, mixed with shameful desire. These women, at least some of them, are sweating nearly as much as the dancers.

And then she finally comes on, next to last. I know it's her the second she steps into the spotlight. She's different. The crowd applauds politely, but they, too, sense something askew. For one, she's a little older. Instead of a burlesque costume, she wears a simple black mini-dress, barely long enough to cover the top of her thighs. Something you'd see on the dance floor at a late-night club. She's sporting a black wig, fishnet hose, fuck-me heels. Though attractive, she's not bosomy or curvy, at least not enough to match the other dancers. And the dress doesn't quite fit her, a bit too large and loose for some reason. It's all just slightly off.

She begins dancing, not to a traditional burlesque number, but to M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes," a loud but catchy urban down tempo rap song, with anarchistic lyrics, where about every 20 seconds, a heavy and loud drum beats four times quickly -- dum, dum, dum, dum -- which is meant to mimic gunshots in the song. On each drumbeat, she arches her back and pushes her pelvis out lewdly. The only problem is that her timing is off by a half second. The audience applauds anyway.

But something else. The other performers make daring dips, sways and naughty bend-overs, all the while teasing with completely innocent "Who Me?" smiles. Her look -- and it seems as if she's peering intently into the eyes of each audience member -- is coolly non-committal. There is only a slight smile. Nonetheless, her eyes get the point across: "Watch me."

She sits down in a straight-back chair at the very front of the stage, picks up a sheet of white paper from the floor, crosses her legs and, though seated, continues moving in rhythm to M.I.A's song. She folds the sheet into a paper airplane, taking her time as the audience waits, then cocks her arm back and launches it, sailing into the darkness over their heads. Everyone chuckles. She holds her index finger up, clearly indicating "Wait a minute." She picks up another sheet and does it again, still rocking to the beat of the song. The audience seems confused, a little uncomfortable. She lifts her arms out from her sides, parallel to the floor, with her palms up, and shrugs her shoulders, arches her eyebrows at the crowd. The look on her face says it all: "This is what I do. This is who I am. Accept it."

She flies a few more paper planes into the audience, then stands up, and with her back to us slowly pulls the short black dress over her head, inching it above her arms. She turns and her breasts, somewhat small, are bare but also tipped off with nipple covers. She dances harder, taking few steps, mostly just swaying and rocking, then jutting her pelvis out four quick times with each new dum-dum-dum-dum. She's moving so fast, those small breasts, which droop and look surprisingly heavy, move all over the place, weaving quickly right to left, and then up and down. At times blurridly bouncing before us. She isn't teasing. She's putting it out there for everyone to see. Each man in the place is fantasizing about peeling those sequined nipple covers off her creamy white breasts with his teeth. Maybe some women are too. As the song winds down, there's no grand finale. She calmly slips the dress back on over her head, kisses the air to say goodbye and walks off stage.

I can see it in their eyes. Most women in the audience, in their Jovani cocktail dresses with Charlotte Olympia clutches, are shocked at someone so average in endowment giving us such a tawdry display. She's defying the rule: if you don't have it, don't flaunt it. But it's envy that's really eating at them. She's not slick, not as graceful, nor as pou-pou-pi-dou as the other dancers. There's no pizzazz. What she has is something else, a subtext, a sexuality that's not playful. It's raw sex. Rather lewd. The women can see that. She will do what they are too afraid to do. She's dangerous. And they know it. They talk among themselves quietly because their dates and husbands wouldn't understand.

Her stage name is "Moist Lips." I slip out after her performance.

* * * 

It's two days later, a rainy Sunday morning, and I'm still thinking about "Moist Lips" as I sit in Mellow Beans, my favorite coffee shop in Hoboken. I live only a few blocks away in an apartment. I'm reading The New York Times and waiting for Alexandra, hoping she won't stand me up. This place is a favorite of mine, partly because of the front window view: on this morning a foggy Manhattan skyline across the Hudson River in the distance.

At 27, I'm already a creature of habit. I like cozy coffee shops like this, which is why, when I met Alexandra some three months ago, it was at this very table on an identical foggy, rainy Sunday morning. By 10 am, its wooden floors and simple tables are always crowded with families, along with old men who live by themselves and drink their coffee hot and black. Then there are young couples usually sitting beside me, sipping vanilla almond lattes. You can tell they stayed up all Saturday night having ridiculously raucous sex. It's written all over them. I can smell their sex. Or maybe it's just that I can tell because any and all raucous sex has escaped me for a long time.

But everything has changed now. I have met Alexandra. Life has become complicated.

On that morning three months ago, my table had the only vacant chair when she came through the front door. She asked if it's okay to sit. Since I'm painfully shy and haven't really talked to an attractive woman in weeks, I'm already flustered. "Well, sure," I say, moving my newspaper to make room for her. My eyes are on her briefly, then back down on the article that I'm now only pretending to read. 

She said I look like a regular, so what could I suggest to drink? I panic. What if I pick something awful. "The Guatemalan Chajulense is a decent fair-trade drink." Excellent, she says. But I'm totally guessing. She heads to the counter to order it and a vegan muffin. 

It gives me a chance to check her out since she's preoccupied. Everyone else, I realize, is doing the same. It's because she's like something from a Greta Garbo movie of the 1930s. She's a good 10 years older than me, maybe a little tall, a little thin, has sandy blond hair, pulled back behind her ear on the right side, but on the left side falling down her face beside her eye, hair that's covering up the entire left side of her head. And this side of her hair is in finger waves, very popular in those early talkies. She has only one earring, something large and dangling on her right side, bright green lipstick and heavy kohl around her eyes, that ancient cosmetic made of lead sulfide fancied by Egyptian queens. It's what Jack Sparrow wears in "Pirates of the Caribbean." Keith Richards too.

She's wearing a low-cut, knee-length vintage dress, slightly exposing her smallish breasts. The dress is thin, she has on no bra, so you can see her nipples protruding through the fabric from 50 feet away. And her fingers are in skin-tight, black leather gloves running up to her elbows -- all very bohemian, a bit art deco and in a strange, almost eerie way, seductive. We all look because we've never seen anything quite like it. Not on a real person. And, in truth, taken as a whole, her outfit looks careworn, a little shabby. She was strangeness, indeed.

We are such opposites. How did this mismatch happen? I'm average, conventional, one to blend into the woodwork. I wear glasses, live alone, teach American history at a community college, but admittedly am only part time. I know what you're thinking. I'm not very successful and probably don't have many prospects. The women I wind up with are much like me, a bit boring if I have to be honest, and that's always been okay. At least until this moment.

Over coffee that first day -- and she did like the Guatemalan Chajulense -- she introduced herself as Alexandra. She sees that I appear to be poring over a story about the stock market. 

"Are you a player?" she asks.

"Not much. I have a little invested. Don't move it around much though." I'm proud that I got the words out without stumbling over them. I give her the rundown of my portfolio. Before I even finish, she's shaking her head in disapproval. "Get rid of the first three stocks you mentioned." She writes down two others to buy instead. "And start paying close attention to the Consumer Confidence Index and invest in Brazil. Anything in Brazil." And keep in mind, she says, "The S&P's P/E is now 13, well below the 20-year average of 19."

I stare at her.

"You don't have the faintest idea of what I'm talking about, do you?" she asks.

"You're right. I don't." She laughs. I laugh. But she's laughing with me, not at me. I liked that -- a lot. 

We both looked at each other and knew. We would become fast friends, despite the age difference. We just clicked -- kindred spirits. The conversation flowed. We began by meeting here once a week, then gravitated into Manhattan for Sunday brunches, jazz clubs on Monday nights or some off-Broadway productions during the week, maybe a few art galleries.

We were lolling on a steamy summer evening, I believe it was a Wednesday, at a sidewalk cafe on the East Side, having chilled white wine to cool us down. It's kind of a hipster place. This was our third date. She's wearing a vintage dress, as usual, something very thin, The table is small, so she sits with her legs crossed and sticking out from the table, so that I can see. We are talking, looking at each other eye to eye. 

Every few minutes she slowly uncrosses, then just as slowly crosses her long legs, each time showing me her thighs, almost to her panties -- if she has any on. Each time I glimpse down at her. She keeps talking but she knows. Twice she bends over, to fiddle with her shoe, each time letting me see down her scoop neck. She's not wearing a bra. Her breasts hang down. I catch a glimpse of her nipple. It's all on purpose, to arouse me. It worked.

At the end of our date, I tried to kiss her. She set me straight. 

"Oh, Albert, I absolutely adore you. You know that. And I just sense you'll become the best friend I've ever had. But there's one thing you have to know. I don't want you to physically touch me. It's my rule. You just have to accept that. Don't ask questions. And don't delve too much into my past. That's rule number two. Just accept me for who I am right now. With me, one has to live in the moment. But being in the moment is what it's all about anyway, right?"

A shattering night for me. Standing there on a street corner as we flagged her a taxi, I realized these weren't dates. Just friends getting together. I was, in her eyes, the equivalent of her gay best friend. Only I'm not gay. Maybe she sees me as her "asexual" best friend. It hurts even more because I'm rapidly falling in love with her. 

As she was getting into the taxi, she stopped, turned and told me: "You can't touch, Albert. But remember. I'll always let you look."

Is that why she put on the show for me at the sidewalk cafe?

Despite all of that, I still see her. I simply can't help myself. These days, we go late into the night talking, talking, talking in bars and restaurants. We always meet in mid-town Manhattan somewhere. Never at her place or mine. Incidentally, I've already made $3,000 from the stocks she suggested on that first morning. 

I know I should back away. This will lead to nowhere. How can you have a relationship when you can't kiss or touch -- much less, make love? But it may be too late. She's the most exciting woman to enter my life. I am absolutely captivated by her eyes and mouth, the contour of her face, the curve of her hips. The sex is always there, she exudes it. But it's just out of reach. There's a kind of madness in me for her exotica. I want to inhale her, to absorb her into me. 

We have such fun in the city on our days and evenings together. We laugh, we confide, beat a quick path to any off-beat movies, we read obscure books and marvel over Gustav Klimt's paintings, all of that. She's smart, has a wicked sense of humor, tells the bawdiest jokes. She, in fact, talks a lot about sex -- she tells me she wakes up almost every morning with "girl wood." Never heard that before. She lives out her dream to be herself, no matter what others may say. She cares not the least if they look at her fashion statement in disbelief. Let them laugh.

She loves to be photographed, so I take pictures of her often on my phone camera and on a Nikon I bought. In the park, on the street, in The Village, in the subway, on city buses. On all of our sojourns, she is dressed in her usual early-talkies attire with an old, rumpled fedora on to boot, which she now wears everywhere. Since I have known her, she is seen only in black and purple. She is strikingly photogenic, sometimes more attractive in photos than in real life. I download, then print out the photos and keep them in a scrapbook.

I cannot stop seeing her. But I have kept my distance physically, not asking too many questions. To this day, I still do not know where she lives. I've considered following her home, but can't bring myself to deceive her like that. I don't have a clue as to where she's from, who her other friends might be, or what she does for a living. Maybe she's a married. Maybe a Park Avenue call girl. She ought to be an investment banker. 

But I do know one thing, a secret of hers. And she doesn't know that I know. Just about every Friday night you can find her somewhere around town, on stage as a member of a group called the Bon Ton Burlesquers. Her stage name is "Moist Lips."

* * *

It's early evening and we -- Alexandra and I -- are taking a night flight from Newark to Norfolk, and from there will rent a car and drive to Hatteras Island off the North Carolina coast for a long weekend at a rental condo overlooking the ocean. I do this every summer, sometimes with girlfriends if I'm lucky, sometimes by myself. I was surprised that she accepted my invitation. But I knew it might happen after she began complaining about the Manhattan summer. We were taking a sweltering summer Sunday walk recently on the High Line from Gansevoort Street.

"What awful heat, Albert! I feel like these sidewalks and buildings are closing in on me . . . . I'm truly weary . . . . I need rejuvenation . . . . We have to find a way to flee the city -- somehow." So I told her about my upcoming plans, inviting her to go along. "It's two bedrooms and two baths, so you'll have privacy." 

Now off the plane in Norfolk, I'm driving the rental car in the darkness, heading to Hatteras Island. Alexandra, beside me, is using a small flashlight to read erotic French poetry to me from a paperback in her hands. Of course, I understand not a word of it, but love listening to her read in a sultry voice, and what sounds to me like perfect French. Sometimes she halts in the middle of a stanza, with a long pause, and I just know that she's timing out to imagine the sex scene she is describing that is so unknowable to me. As she reads, she's turned toward me, one leg bent at the knee and resting up on the car seat facing me. She's showing me her thighs again, up her skirt, just occasionally a glimpse of panties. But I can't see much in the dark, just enough. She planned it that way. Just a peek. It has both of us aroused. 

The next morning, after we've slept in our respective bedrooms in the condo, I fix breakfast for us, then walk by myself on the beach for a few minutes. I come back to the condo and see Alexandra with a one-piece swimsuit on in the living room. Even her legs look beautiful to me now. Only she's let the top part of her swimsuit covering her breasts fall down to her waist and she's rubbing lotion across her chest, massaging it into her exposed breasts.

She looks at me. I look at her.

Does this bother you? she asks as each hand simultaneously strokes a breast, ending by pulling on her nipple. If it does, she can do it in the bedroom, she says. "But I told you that it's okay to look, Albert."

No, it's fine, I say, trembling a little. "I'm just surprised at how beautiful you are. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to stare."

"You're welcome to stare," she says. "That's what I mean by the rule we have. Looking is fine, if you like what you see." And with that she is spreading the lotion -- it smells of coconut, which I love -- over her stomach now, which makes her soft white breasts and rather sizable brown nipples jiggle. It flashes through my head that these are the same breasts those of us in the audience saw her shaking violently, almost obscenely, that night at the club.

I know about the nightclub only because some weeks ago she was again telling me several stocks to buy and others to sell -- quickly, she says. "Do this right away." But I can't remember them all, so she hurriedly pulls out a small card from her purse and scribbles the names. It's only after she left that I turned the card over to see that it's a business card for the Bon Ton Burlesquers and their upcoming club dates. A sixth sense told me to go see the performance.

But I'm not telling her I watched "Moist Lips" dance. Best not to, given rule number two.

"My breasts are small, I know, but I still like them," she says as she fondles them tenderly after rubbing the lotion in. "They suit me. And I like massaging them. Do any of your old girlfriends have tits like mine?" 

I don't know what else to do but sit down on the sofa and watch. "Some were small, but none in the same league as yours," I say.

"You're so diplomatic," she says back. "I'm not fishing for compliments." Her breasts really are exceptional. They hang heavy but are perfectly round. Their smallness is actually quite striking. Her skin is flawless, the nipples a dark brown and hard, sticking out noticeably from her caresses.




Moist Lips and The Sacred Monkey



"Passion rules us all," someone once said. "And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments."

And I know, in my time with Alexandra, these are some of those finest moments. Also, the most terrifying.

Summer. New Orleans. She and I are facing each other, lying on a bed in our second-story room at a small European-like pension. We're here for the week. It's all dark wood but with French doors leading to a small balcony overlooking the narrow street below. Not very elegant. A bit shabby. The building must be a century old. Everything creaks. But then all that is down here in the French Quarter is from another time, a bit eerie and otherworldly. 

Alexandra invited me. I am Albert, and I am unable to resist her. We flew down from Newark. She lives in Manhattan. I'm across the Hudson River in Hoboken. We've been friends for months now. And we have been eating and drinking our way up and down Bourbon Street for much of the week. 

She is lying on her side in her white slip -- that's all she has on -- her nipples hard and very visible underneath the silk fabric. She wears no underwear. The slip, which has intricate lace at the hem, is hiked up higher than mid-thigh. She knows my eyes are riveted to her slender legs. They remind me of fine English porcelain. She knows that too. She's more than willing to let me look. I just can't touch. It is something I may have to explain in more detail.

But first, she pulls out from the top of her slip, between her breasts, this little curio, attached to a neck chain. It's no more than three inches tall, made of some kind of sandstone, a carving of some sort. I lean in closely. It's the figure of a monkey, crouching down, with a rooster beside it.

"It's The Sacred Monkey and Cock," says Alexandra. It's good luck. A talisman, she tells me. It looks sinister to me.

"You don't buy these, Albert. You have to find them down here. They're usually left beside tombs in some of the old, haunted cemeteries, in high grass or at some crossroads," she says. "And when you find one, you keep it for three years. Each birthday -- that's the exact day you come across it -- you make one wish. It comes true sometime during the year. So you get three wishes while you have it. But at the end of the third year, you have to 'abandon' it for a new owner to find."

Her three years are up. So she asks me to spend a few hours on my own while she finds "the monkey" a suitable new home, where someone else can claim it. I'm not allowed to be part of this. She dresses, opens the door to leave, just as I ask:

"Is this from some kind of religion or something?" 

"This is New Orleans, Albert. It's Voodoo."

* * * 

I have written of Alexandra before. You need to know what she looks like. It's because she is quite different. Tall, slender, dishwater blond hair that falls to about her chin. It's pulled back behind her right ear, but on the left side is falling down, covering that half of her face, almost to her eye. All of it in finger waves. She may be in her early 40s. I'm only 27. 

You'll find her in vintage 1930s dresses, and only in blues and blacks. Add to that a pair of black leather opera gloves that reach to her elbow. Her eyes, set wide apart, are rimmed with heavy kohl, complimented by long black lashes. She wears green lipstick and a large cat's-eye earring in her right ear. Only in the one ear. Her skin is very fair. She speaks softly but with authority. She reminds me of a runway model, albeit a bit older. And her clothes are a bit time-worn.

Oh, yes, and she wears an old brown fedora that looks as if she's retrieved it from a dumpster. She may have. She wears it nearly always, even when in just her underwear -- if she wears any at all. Much of the time she is naked under her thin dresses. Most people can tell. All of it is an extension of her personality. You can see why she draws attention.

She's street savvy and alarmingly smart. Far more so than me, and probably you too. I know almost nothing of her past. She keeps herself secret. She's restless and elusive. There is no way to know her logically. But we have fun, with her leading us on various adventures to keep herself from being bored. This is one of them. 

* * * 

It's early evening before Alexandra and I rejoin each other in our room. With her back to me, she pulls from a sack something resembling stuffed toys. But I only glimpse before she tucks them in her shoulder luggage bag. As she's taking a pee in the bathroom, I quickly open her luggage and see they are unmistakably Voodoo dolls, old and musty looking, wrapped in rough-hewn paper. I close the bag, cover my tracks. When she comes out, I ask about The Sacred Monkey, but she doesn't want to discuss it. I'm growing concerned.

We head to Bourbon Street as sunlight disappears altogether. We are walking, browsing really, past all the pastel buildings, the clubs and restaurants, wrought iron balconies, old street lamps, now turned on. Small sidewalk tables-for-two and greenery hanging down from just about everywhere. Jazz and Dixieland playing, always within earshot. And, of course, crowds of people. We stop to have a beer. We walk some more. 

Suddenly, she takes my hand and steps up her pace, hurries around several people. "See the woman in the floral print summer dress walking ahead of us? I like her. She looks like she could be fun, don't you think, Albert?" 

We hurry to catch up, or at least to not lose her as the crowd thickens. Even on this hot, late-summer evening, the street is full of walkers, gawkers and hucksters. From college goths to swinging retirees. Street musicians everywhere, panhandlers, sidewalk artists, roaming white-faced mimes too. We dodge horse-drawn carriages and a cluster of pedicabs. They're all here. After all, it is New Orleans.

In my few past trips here, The French Quarter always seemed like drunken fun, very trashy touristy and a little naughty. Silly ghost tours and women flashing their breasts, teenagers making out in alleyways. This trip seems darker, more forboding. I notice more Voodoo shops and cemetery tours. More creepy characters in the bars. Maybe I'm just a little on edge because of Alexandra's Sacred Monkey and those two Voodoo dolls. But she is not one to answer too many questions. I have learned to go along.

It probably doesn't help that I just this afternoon ran across an odd magazine item: It has been said there are more people reported missing from New Orleans, without explanation, than from any other city. That should tell you something.

Still holding my hand, Alexandra leads us up near the woman we have been following, or about 10 feet from her, as the woman stops to look into a restaurant. She's trying to choose one. We see her face. We step away.

"I don't get it, Alexandra. What is it you want with her? She looks like a nice middle-aged lady?"

"Precisely. That's what would make it fun," she says. "It's the challenge, Albert. I want her for you. She's by herself."

* * * 

That brings us to something else you need to know about Alexandra. Once a week, on Saturday nights, she performs with a burlesque group in New York under the stage name of "Moist Lips." She's somewhat of an exhibitionist. 

That aside, she's primarily looking for an audience of one, a single person to exhibit herself to, someone she's not sleeping with. That's the eroticism for her. Showing someone, but not doing it with them. Suffice it to say, she chose me.

In private, I get to see her display herself in tantalizingly lewd ways. The trade-off is that I just can't have sex with her. But she wants to occasionally find a woman for me to fulfill my own needs, if you will.

I love our friendship and her perverseness -- the vibrators, the cucumbers, the beads. I've watched her do them all in the most private, intimate moments of her life, the nastiest really. I've written about all of that. 

As you've probably come to realize, with Alexandra, you never know what's going to happen. And so it is with this woman we are pursuing. 

* * * 

Though Alexandra has seemingly selected this woman for me, I tell her this is ridiculous. "She looks like she's 50 years old, Alexandra."

"You have a problem with older women?" she asks, with her eyebrows arched. Her look is stern, unforgiving. Her smile suddenly gone. Alexandra herself is, as I noted, probably 10 years older than me, maybe more.

"No. It's not that," I say, backpeddling as quickly as I can.

"You don't think she's nice looking?" she asks more cheerfully. "I certainly do," she says. "I like her face. She has young skin, very creamy. And I can tell you, there's a body under that dreadful dress."

"She's very nice. But I'm 27. She won't see anything in me? 

"Oh, she will. We'll introduce her to so many things," says Alexandra. "We'll make her like us. I have my ways. And that, dear Albert, will be the fun we have. I predict a very memorable evening."

We follow the woman to a narrow, back-alley bar that for some strange reason is called La Trinidad, a few blocks off Dumane. There's lots of chipped brick and mortar on the facade. The alleyway is dank and now in dark shadows since the sun has set. Soft music -- it sounds Caribbean and a bit old style -- flows from the open door. The menu on the outside sandwich board sign is in French. The woman stops to gauge the prices.

"Ces prix sont élevés" the woman says quietly to herself.

"Bingo!" whispers Alexandra, who's fluent in French. It's an opening. She turns to her. "Bonjour!" And then, "Les prix sont élevés partout." They are discussing the high prices, I later learn.

Her name is Mary Anderson. She tells us she's a high school French teacher from Tennessee, here for a three-day conference. By herself. She's on her own tonight, looking for an interesting place to dine. Then call it an early evening. It's her first night in The Big Easy. They switch to English for my benefit.

"Do join us," says Alexandra. "Albert and I would love your company. If anything, this is a town to meet new people. It should be against the law to come here and not get acquainted with at least one new interesting face. Now, don't you agree?"

Alexandra looks at me. And I know. We are about to play. But I have an uneasiness about this.

I see the woman now from much closer. Yes, she's probably early 50s, slender, especially her waist. She has ash brown hair in a short bob, with a sideswept bang above one eye, black Prada eyeglasses. It's kind of fashionable, but not flashy. Dressed casually but, oh so conservative, that floral print dress down to her knees, and nondescript sandals. Not flattering enough to catch anyone's attention -- except Alexandra's. She's very proper middle-class. Very reserved. But overall, definitely nice looking. 

The woman is quietly happy. And why not? She's found some people to be with. The French Quarter can be depressing if you're alone in the crowd. She's guarded, though. After all, we are strangers. But once she gives you her attention, how can anyone -- man or woman -- resist the gleam in Alexandra's eyes? It can be hypnotic. 

* * * 

One inside the restaurant, the three of us see it is not a large place, and there's only a smattering of people, many of them look like locals. We sit along a side wall, scooting into a small, semi-circular booth with red Naugahyde upholstery. We're sitting one on each side of Mrs. Anderson. It's fairly dark. The decor is suspended somewhere in time. But I'm not sure exactly where. 

Alexandra ratchets up the charm, looks directly into Mrs. Anderson's eyes. They talk back and forth. She asks Mrs. Anderson a lot about her teaching. And then her hobby, which is collecting conch shells at the beach. They huddle over something called the bio-mineralization processes and crystallisation that help give shells their color. Mrs. Anderson is spellbound. Enthralled by Alexandra's interest and knowledge. My partner's intellect is formidable. I'll give her that.

Mrs. Anderson and her husband are recent empty-nesters. Alexandra empathizes, as if she knows anything about children. But then maybe she does. I know so little about her. 

At the moment, Mrs. Anderson is the center of Alexandra's universe. Warmth and affection surround her. It's a first for her, at least in a long time. You can tell she feels it. She's flattered. And thrilled. It's aided by the chilled, pink prosecco we are all three sipping.

Alexandra gives us a short story. 

"So, Mary dear. Try picturing me in the shower this morning at our second-floor walkup, a cozy pension. Albert is in the bedroom reading one of those scary Dante Valentine books, "Working for the Devil." I get out of the shower and, without thinking, say quite loud, 'Honey, do you want a quick fuck before we hit the streets?' Just as I say that, I open the bathroom door, and Albert is nowhere to be found. But standing in the middle of it all is a young room service guy who's brought us a couple of vodka martinis." 

"Now get this, Mary. I'm naked as one can be. He freezes. I freeze. So he says, 'A fuck? Well sure,' with a big smile on his face. The kid couldn't have been more than 18. 'I've got a few minutes,' he says, bigger smile on his face now." 

"I stand my ground. I say, 'Okay, but it'll cost you 500 bucks.' 'I don't have that kind of money,' he complains. 'How about I give you these drinks for free?' So, I say, 'What do you think I am, some ten dollar street whore?' And he says back, 'We've already established what you are. Now it's just a matter of negotiating price.' "

We all laugh, me putting my hand in a friendly gesture on Mrs. Anderson's bare shoulder, Alexandra scooting closer, her thigh up against Mrs. Anderson's thigh, and she lightly touches Mrs. Anderson's knee with one hand, just below her dress hem. Very lightly, nothing more than an act of friendship between two women caught up in drinks and an exciting conversation.

Of course, the story isn't true, just made up in a split second by Alexandra, whose cerebral neurons, when called upon, can interact at rocket speed. And she's recycling part of a time-worn hooker joke. But Mrs. Anderson doesn't know it. And she tries to hide her shock at Alexandra's casual use of the word "fuck." 

More stories follow, only one or two of them true. More laughter, and more touching goes on as we move onto our second bottle, a pinot grigio. The waiter brings us file gumbo with chicken and sausage. He lights three candles on the table.

With three glasses of wine, Mrs. Anderson loosens up a little, relaxes, talks a little more. Tells us how amazed she is at the openness and, what she calls the "unbridled pleasures" that go on in this sultry town. She smiles, rolls her eyes as she says it. We think it's cute. 

A torch singer comes onto a small stage and begins some French songs. But they seem to have a Creole flavor to them, best I can tell. Songs that are kind of dark and mystical. A bit odd. She's young, pretty, has a kind of Caribbean look to her, and wears a nearly floor-length sequined black gown. But we pay little attention, that is until the third song. She begins taking off the dress. Unbeknownst to us, we've apparently landed in a strip club. 

Alexandra takes a tiny black transparent bottle from her pocket. I can see an elaborate glass design and a small cork that she takes out, then dabs something on her fingers, touches behind each ear. It seems curious to me, since she doesn't often use perfume. She leans an elbow on the table and moves her face in front of Mrs. Anderson, still talking, as if she's completely oblivious to what is going on behind her on stage. I pick up a very faint smell, a muskiness, something I don't remember ever having come across. I ponder whether it could be Alexandra's perfume. It's interesting but a little off-putting. Maybe the smell, if it can be described, is akin to some old root or plant that is decaying.

Alexandra has situated her face so that Mrs. Anderson is looking right at her. But just to the side of Alexandra's face is a view of the singer, 30 feet away in the background, now taking off her panties. The crowd oooohs and aaaaahs. Mrs. Anderson is trying to give her attention to Alexandra but is visibly unsettled by the now-naked woman, who is still singing at her microphone. Alexandra's eyes dart quickly to me. That's my cue. She wants some help.

"Do you think she's pretty ... the singer on stage?" I say right into Mrs. Anderson's ear. She turns toward me, her eyes widen with a bewildered look, and maybe a little appalled, as to why I would even ask her such a question. She looks at the singer, then looks down, says diplomatically, "she's . . . striking."

I ask if she's ever seen a strip show before. Her voice is so quiet I can't hear her words. But she mouths a "no." Her cheeks are flushed from embarrassment since it's almost impossible for her to avoid seeing the singer, who's now moving suggestively, very slowly, back and forth. That causes her breasts to shake. Her nipples are big and hard, easily seen by us all. Just about everyone is watching now. Even Mrs. Anderson, though only for a few seconds at a time, before lowering her eyes, then raising them again. More than likely she is surprised that the singer's pubic area is completely shaved. You have to wonder if she's ever seen a woman without hair between her legs.

For me, time seems to pause. The singer's voice, the unusual music and our conversation begin to fade into the background as I wonder more about our Mrs. Anderson.

She's married, we know. She's told us of two nearly grown children and a 25-year teaching career. Her husband is back home tinkering in the garage. I wonder if he ever tinkers with her. I'm guessing not.

From the corner of her eye, she can see me examining her. We're all sitting very close, our faces less than a foot apart. She's even more flushed now, as if along with the singer, I'm seeing her naked too. In a way, I am. Her pink-lipsticked smile is genuine, her brown eyes have a shyness to them. She has a few typical middle-aged blemishes on her face, covered with subtle makeup. Her shoulders, part of them modestly bare in the summer dress, are nice. Her skin delicate. Her breasts, though all but hidden away, have a gradual yet very defined curve to them in the dress, but you can only see it from a certain angle. 

You can tell something else. Whatever love life once was there, has faded, probably years ago. She's frustrated, a face in the crowd, one among thousands of middle-aged women. She feels overlooked, ignored, invisible.

But now, after all these years, here on this night in the depths of the French Quarter, nestled between us in this dark corner of a strange little bar, she finds herself wading in a sea of sensuality. She's overwhelmed by my eccentric, bewitching partner who seems to have stepped right from the pages of Vogue in the 1930s. She smiles and laughs, but is quietly unnerved by our off-color tales, as well as the curious Caribbean-like songs, the singer's naked breasts, the refilled glasses of wine, the musky scent, our gently roaming hands. 

Alexandra stops talking for a moment, gazes deep into Mrs. Anderson's eyes. They say nothing to each other. Their knees touch side-by-side. They stay there. Alexandra's left hand is now permanently resting on the inside of Mrs. Anderson's leg, just above the knee, at the start of her thigh. Though our light is dim and the three candles constantly flickering, I can still just barely see from my vantage point, looking down into their laps. Alexandra's fingers are lightly caressing her thigh in little circles as she begins chatting again, this time about the file gumbo and how sensuous it smells and tastes. 

A wave of pent-up emotions consumes Mrs. Anderson. I can see it in her eyes. Do all women who are good friends touch like this? It's a little confusing to her. But Alexandra's caressing fingers feel sublime. Beyond that, I'm not sure what Mrs. Anderson thinks any more. But she must have a pretty good idea of our intentions. 




Moist Lips and The Sacred Monkey



"So, tell us more of your impressions of this mysterious city, Mary?" asks Alexandra, with an emphasis on "mysterious." "Does it live up to your expectations?"

Mrs. Anderson clears her throat, tries for a moment to concentrate, and ignore Alexandra's fingers. "It's more than what I thought," she says, looking at Alexandra, then me. "It's so intoxicating. I had no idea. I wish I weren't a little afraid of it all. I wish I could be more like the people who live here. I think everybody here must have a story."

"Well," says Alexandra. "You know what Bob Dylan once said about this town: 'There's something obscenely joyful behind every door.' And he's right."

With that, Alexandra slides to the edge of the booth to stand up, saying, "This town is a place of dark seduction. It is what it is. Let's walk."

So I pay and we leave, passing a few street buskers, then heading down the narrow, dark side streets with balconies overhanging, almost right on top of us. Our surroundings, as we head away from Dumane, are all of the sudden almost too quiet, secretive. There are few people, fewer street lamps. The summertime night air thick and oppressive.

It may have been the cobblestones, and partly the pinot grigio, but Mrs. Anderson's right ankle gives, just a little, but enough to warrant both Alexandra and I to put our arms around her waist. One of us on each side of her. We walk on, my arm just below Alexandra's, my outstretched hand resting at the top curve of Mrs. Anderson's hip. To her, it must seem quite by accident. Or maybe not. She makes no move to stop me. But then her buzz from the wine, I'm speculating, is much farther along than ours.

We walk quietly for a moment or two. Then Alexandra says, "Mary, we have some delicious Bavarian mousse croissants and a yummy bottle of dry champagne just waiting for us back at our pension. Come join us. It's only one more block. And it's still early."

Mrs. Anderson tries to be polite. "I shouldn't. I've intruded on your evening too much already. And you've paid for everything."

I look at her. "If you try to argue with Alexandra, you won't win. Besides, we have a nice little balcony we can sit out on and watch the people below and the night sky above. You haven't experienced the French Quarter until you've sat on a balcony and watched the world go by below you."

"Absolutely," rings in Alexandra. "And feel that fresh breeze that's just starting up. Do you feel that? It's coming in off the Gulf. It'll cool things down for several hours. A perfect end to a sensational evening. Don't you just love it? Think what you'll be able to tell your friends back home."

* * * 

An hour later I find myself on the divan, lips to lips with Mrs. Anderson, seated beside me on our balcony, both of us in hot embrace. I'm running my hand up and down her side, from shoulder to breast, to her waist, her thigh, her calves. Her body is warm to my hand. We are fully dressed but flooded with desire even still. And our clothes are damp from the day's heat and humidity. 

At first her kisses were hesitant, she seemed lost and unsure. She was surprised when I first kissed her. Shocked, really. But I had to. Alexandra was expecting it. You see, she brought her here for me. But now, a few moments later, Mrs. Anderson is returning my kisses, meeting my tongue with hers. I find her lips especially soft, her mouth spicy from the file gumbo. Beads of sweat line her brow, probably from the wine. Her face, arms and legs are moist with perspiration. I smell a little perfume. Her hands are moving on my back. I can feel the pull between us. She wants more than anything to be seduced. Let the guilt come later.

Alexandra had gone to the bathroom, but she returns, dressed now in a thin, silken Japanese kimono-like robe. I don't need to wonder if she is naked beneath it. As we break our kiss, Mrs. Anderson is met by Alexandra leaning in and kissing her lips once, lightly, then sitting back.

Mrs. Anderson leans her head back on the divan, closes her eyes. Slowly shakes her head back and forth. Very slowly. "I can't believe I am here, doing this," she says. "Things like this don't happen to me. I'm a high school teacher, for God's sake. I have a family."

"Would you like to leave?" Alexandra asks in her quiet voice.

"I'll be glad to walk you home," I say just as quietly.

Her eyes are still closed. She is quiet for the longest time. It is a moment of truth. She knows it. She is about to cross the Rubicon. Slowly, she shakes her head, no. She will stay. She's aware, with this single gesture, that she has surrendered her fate to us. 

Alexandra, who is seated with us, parts her own legs, letting the bottom of her kimono fall away. She brings Mrs. Anderson's hand to her upper thigh, placing it there, only inches from her sex, that top part of the thigh where Mrs. Anderson can't help but feel the heat from Alexandra. Mrs. Anderson opens her eyes, lowers her gaze to look at her hand, but makes no attempt to move it, one way or the other. We think she's probably never touched a woman's thigh before.

We both stand her up, and there, on the balcony, we begin undressing her in the darkness, Alexandra in front of her, me behind. There's a dim light fixture at the corner of the balcony, almost certainly illuminating us for the few strolling partiers below. Mrs. Anderson probably doesn't realize that. Or more likely no longer cares. She is in a haze.

"Mary," says Alexandra, as she stands very close, face to face with Mrs. Anderson, unbuttoning the top of her dress. "Do you know what Tennessee Williams once wrote?: 

"When you love somebody, you musn't listen to what they say. You must look at their eyes ... and feel their heart."

"Tonight," she says, "Albert and I have looked into your eyes. And we feel your heart. Let us fulfill all of your desires. Just for this one night."

Mrs. Anderson is, I guess, emotionally flooded, unable to respond.

We unbutton the rest of her dress, lift it over her, then take off her bra, and her rather modest panties. Finally, her glasses. She is naked, the breeze enveloping her body, making her brown nipples hard. Her breasts, which perfectly fit her slender figure, slope just slightly downward, and look as if they've not been loved for years. I think right now she would give anything to have them touched.

Alexandra, instead, reaches down and lightly brushes the inside of Mrs. Anderson's thighs with her fingers. This woman is so wet, she is dribbling down her legs. Alexandra wipes them, then licks her fingers, letting Mrs. Anderson watch.

We each take a hand and walk her into our room, easing her down on the bed. I reach over and kiss her for a long time. She likes it. I marvel at the taste of her and the heat between us. The smell of her skin. She closes her eyes. Another kiss lingers. Her tongue feels so willing. When our lips finally separate, she opens her eyes. It is Alexandra, not me, who is now climbing on top of her. They are both naked.

Mrs. Anderson's look is startling. But Alexandra affords her a warm, loving smile that says everything will be all right. She lightly strokes her face.

Alexandra, lying full length on Mrs. Anderson, braces her arms on each side of Mrs. Anderson's face, then looks into her eyes. Mrs. Anderson feels Alexandra's breath against her ear. Alexandra's tongue reaches out to lightly touch her eyelids. Then Alexandra moves her lips, heavy with green lipstick, to Mrs. Anderson's lips. I can tell their tongues are darting, playing together. Alexandra pulls back, then kisses her again. 

"Mary," Alexandra says with deliberate slowness and calmness, after she has pulled back yet again. "Have you ever had a woman kiss these adorable nipples of yours?"

Mrs. Anderson's afraid and can only shake her head slightly -- no. She's breathing too heavy and can't talk.

"Well," says Alexandra, "If you don't like it, we'll give you your money back."

Mrs. Anderson is terrified that a woman is seducing her. It is all over her face. Even more, she's in disbelief that her own body is betraying her, giving in to every touch and every kiss on her skin. Each touch making her heart beat faster, the kisses heating up her skin. She knows she should make Alexandra stop. But she doesn't. 

Alexandra makes love to her for a half hour, me sitting across the room, watching in the dark. But the light on the balcony shines faintly onto the bed. I can see them. They can't see much of me.

I'm not surprised, of course, that Alexandra is a skillful lover. I've come to learn never to be surprised by her. And she obviously is no dilettante with other women. I watch as she continues with soft little kisses up and down Mrs. Anderson's skin, gently blowing, then kissing down her neck, the top of her chest, all along her waist, then below to her thighs, lingering there for many moments with more sweet kisses, then behind her knees. She curls up at Mrs. Anderson's feet and kisses her toes for the longest time. Licks them too. Sucks them. One at a time. She works her way back up to her breasts. In each kiss, her lips hardly touch. 

Through all those years with her husband, and whatever few earlier boyfriends had her, nothing compares to this for Mrs. Anderson. Sometimes you can just tell things like this. In her world, this is so forbidden. She is beside herself with shameful arousal, her body now moving a little with every caress. Each kiss inflames her loins a little more. There's an unquenchable fire building in her. There's a look on her face -- am I really letting this happen to me?

Still, she's quiet through the endless pecks and licks. That is until Alexandra grabs her nipple between her lips and begins alternately sucking, then pulling. Even gently biting. Deep sighs, then low guttural moans begin. Mrs. Anderson grabs Alexandra's neck with her hands, holding on and now beyond any point of return. The fire in her is raging. Alexandra lifts her head up and asks:

"Mary, have you ever had a woman lick your pussy?" 

Mrs. Anderson still can't speak, probably because in her mind what Alexandra is asking is so unspeakable. She's too hot, too excited. She shakes her head, no. Her eyes focused on Alexandra's eyes, not even blinking.

Alexandra moves down, gently blows on her dark, curly pubic hair, using her tongue to find Mrs. Anderson's vagina. With the first tender swipe of her tongue, the woman erupts, her body shaking, cries coming from her, tears streaming down her face. Heat shooting through her. It comes quick, is shattering. I'm thinking this is the first completely out-of-control orgasm Mrs. Anderson has ever had.

It takes a few moments. She turns her head and looks in my direction. Her eyes are again glazed. She's looking but not seeing. Alexandra gives her almost no time to savor the moment before going down on her again, this time her tongue on her clit, circling, blowing, licking, then circling again, repeating each little erotic move, all with a woman's touch. I want Alexandra to teach me this. Mrs. Anderson comes again, harder, longer, louder. But the tears are gone, replaced by pure intoxication. And for a few moments, ecstasy. It shows on her face.

"Mrs. Anderson?" Alexandra finally says, leaning her face close in. No response. She tries again. "Mary?" 

Mrs. Anderson opens her eyes. Alexandra -- still lying on top of her -- gently runs her fingers through her lover's now matted hair.

"Would you like to feel Albert's cock inside of you? He has a beautiful dick and tonight it's all for you, if you want it?" 

Groggily, as if coming out from under anesthesia, Mrs. Anderson says quite simply: "yes."

Alexandra moves her face in a little closer to Mrs. Anderson's. "Would you like him to fuck your brains out like you've never been fucked before?"

Mrs. Anderson very slowly shakes her head, yes.

"Then turn over on your knees and get that nasty, delightfully beautiful ass of yours up in the air." Alexandra commands.

Alexandra walks over to me and uses a hushed voice. "I've primed the pump for you, Albert. Make it dirty. She wants it dirty. I can tell. Go ahead. Get your clothes off."

And so I do, practically leaping onto the bed and ramming into her, slamming against her for a full 15 minutes, not letting up. You may know that I'm not very experienced myself, but I try my best. I try to be rough, brutal. But I'm on the edge of ecstasy myself, all the while fighting to not lose control. Her ass is just so beautiful to me. I have never been this excited with a woman. She feels so good. We fit together so well. All silken, and wet and warm, as if our bodies were made for each other. 

I pause for just a second to shift my knees a little on the bed.

"Don't stop," Mrs. Anderson pleads, and she is crying as she says it. "Please don't stop. Fuck me. Fuck me . . . hard." I continue, somehow knowing, sensing, that this is the first time she has come close to being sated. Completely fucked. It's probably the first time she has ever said the word "fuck" out loud. She has, for the time being, tossed all shame aside. I no longer want this for me. I want it for her. I want to give this night to her.

I move in and out, in long, hard strokes. Pulling out very slow, pushing in fast and forceful. She pushes back, hard, wanting more. When it seems she can take no more, I suddenly decide to spank her ass, hard, twice. Real burning slaps. Very loud. She will have marks on her buttocks for days. I don't know why I did this to her. I can't explain it, but I like it. I push my thumb into her moist asshole, moving it in and out, as I move my dick in and out of her pussy, giving her no choice in the matter. She groans, but keeps pushing back, now even harder, hungrier than ever.

Eventually, I turn her over, then I stand up beside the bed and lean down a little, my very hard dick in her face. She knows I want her to suck on me. She's frozen in hesitation. I think maybe she's never actually done this before. Maybe she doesn't know how.

"Just put his dick in your mouth, kiddo," says Alexandra, who is sitting now in the chair I was in earlier. Mrs. Anderson touches my penis with her lips, opens and lets me slide my dick in. She's hesitant still, not sure of anything. Still frightened.

"That feels good," I tell her, reassuringly. She moves her mouth up and down my shaft, slowly. She gags a little, but resumes, gets used to it. She opens her eyes, looks at me. She's getting into it. I can tell she feels dirty and vulgar and -- for once in her life -- she loves it. 

She sucks hard, goes much faster, grabs my balls with her other hand, stops and licks me a few minutes, then sucks me again, just the very head of my penis, then deeper in her throat. She can't get enough. This time I come, her swallowing me, nearly all of it. She closes her eyes and continues sucking. She's enjoying the last vestiges of this, not wanting it to end. Probably it's not so much me, just the act itself she has a need to complete.

I lie between her legs and move my tongue to her vagina, smelling the sweat in her curly soft pubic hair. As delicately as possible, I lick her clit until both she and I are excited again. It takes only minutes. Her hips start twitching, I enter her again, moving back and forth, slow but hard. She pulls her knees up to my side, letting me go a little deeper. We both keep building up and up, until we crest, then climax. I spurt my seed into her. "Oh God, I can feel you come," she says, louder than she should. She comes herself, her body shaking, she herself groaning, then gasping for breath.

She's through, but she holds onto me. Kisses my neck. Squeezing me hard with her arms and her drawn-up knees. I think she fears sinking into some vast abyss if she lets go. I hold her too, my chest mashing her small, beautiful breasts, both of us feeling each other's racing hearts. 

But eventually she does relinquish. She collapses, her body limp. 

She is done. Finished. Sweating. Panting. Aching with exhaustion. Ravished. Satisfied. Maybe for the first time in her life.

I lie on my back and Mrs. Anderson lies at my side, her head on my right shoulder. Alexandra crawls in bed beside us but goes to sleep almost immediately. We do not. With her fingers, Mrs. Anderson strokes my chest and shoulders. I caress her back, pull her closer, then reach down and begin smooth strokes on her soft hips. We are quiet, talk only in whispers, say nothing really of importance. Mostly just how good it feels. The quiet moments of carnal love. We want more moments. We know we won't have them.

"Passion," said Ralph Waldo Emerson, "makes all things alive and significant." It has, for me, been a significant night.

It's probably around 5 am when we walk her slowly back to her hotel, a half dozen blocks away, us with arms around her waist. Almost no one is on the street at this hour.

There's not much talking until Alexandra sniffs the early morning darkness and says what wonderful smells The French Quarter has. She begins rattling off: the bakeries, the jambalaya from the kitchens, barbecue shrimp, fireball whiskey shots, all smells left over from the night before. 

"Spilled beer." I can smell it on the curbside, I say.

"I can smell the Jasmine from the courtyards," says Mrs. Anderson. "And the dead moss, too." She's serene now, but still exhausted. 

We pass the corner of Royal and Governor Nicholls Street. We walk down the middle of the street. In the darkness, I recognize the three-story gray building I had read about earlier in the week. It's the LaLaurie Mansion, the most haunted in all of New Orleans. A beautiful, huge home with arched doors and windows, a second story cast iron balcony, and supposedly a beautiful courtyard in back. Actually, it looks more like an apartment building.

Delphine LaLaurie and her husband, back in the 1830s, were atop the city's social scene, their home the gathering place for balls and lavish parties. Only later did the world find that she had turned the attic into a chamber of horrors to practice Voodoo and witchcraft on her slaves. Mangled bodies shackled to the walls, bodies crammed into small cages, decapitated heads and severed body parts everywhere. Police found it all. Since then, the place has had a long history of hauntings.

It's been said that whenever anyone who possesses real Voodoo powers walks on the sidewalk past the front door, the house gives off a low, agonizing moan. It's the grieving of the lost souls in Delphine LaLaurie's attic. I tell them the story. Mrs. Anderson shudders. Alexandra seems to not pay attention. We walk on.

We reach Mrs. Anderson's hotel. "We'll be here until tomorrow afternoon," says Alexandra. "You know our pension. So, find us again and let's enjoy each other's company. Albert and I won't ever give you a dull time." 

Mrs. Anderson says nothing. She hugs us both, with real affection I might add, then kisses us -- first Alexandra, then me -- gently on the lips. She strokes my face. Lingers a little looking at me. She seems sad. Then goes inside the hotel. The two of us walk back. Along the way, I speak first. 

"She won't come see us, will she?" 

"No," says Alexandra. "By daybreak she'll be mortified at what she's done. Then she'll feel shame and guilt as she flies home to her husband. She'll go to church regularly for six months, at least."

"You think she'll ever forgive us?" I ask as we walk down the middle of the empty street.

"You don't understand women, do you Albert?"

"The guilt will fade," she tells me. "And when all is safe and back to normal, then very secretively she'll feel a tinge of pride -- or at least a certain satisfaction -- that she was able to experience something that most women like her only read about. And after that, you know what?"

"Do tell," I say.

"For the rest of her life, last night will become the focus of just about every sexual fantasy she will have until she's an old woman. She'll revel in its deliciousness. She may write it in some key-locked journal, but only in vague terms, and probably not tell even her closest girlfriend. It will always be her best-kept secret, locked away in the corner of her heart. She tries to be a good woman and she is. But for one solitary wicked night in her life she let herself be a complete whore. The soul inside of her loved it."




Moist Lips and The Sacred Monkey



We walk another block, then just before we get to our door, Alexandra says: "And for the next two weeks, she'll close and lock the door in her bathroom at home and examine and re-examine her naked ass in the mirror, as the slap marks fade. And she'll think of you and your marvelous dick until the day she dies." 

* * *

Since we never got around to the Bavarian mousse croissants and champagne, that becomes breakfast for us late the next morning as Alexandra and I sit again out on the balcony. The sky is covered with low, ominous charcoal black clouds. A steady drizzle commences. We sit watching. 

I'm mostly dressed. Alexandra has on the kimono, not bothering to tie it closed. She wants me to see her exposed. Her pale breasts and dark nipples peek out from the front opening as she leans this way or that on the divan. To avoid the rain's mist, she pulls her feet up on the seat and sits cross-legged, deliberately letting me see her pussy and blond pubic hair. Her body is beautiful. I never tire of seeing it. And I can still smell the sex and sweat on her from our night with Mrs. Anderson. It is divine.

As she's pouring us refills on our champagne, I ask again about The Sacred Monkey. She's not going to tell me, she says. I don't give up.

"Alexandra, you don't seriously have some fascination with Voodoo, do you? I mean, isn't all that bad juju stuff a bit sketchy?"

"In New York people laugh about Voodoo, if it's ever mentioned at all." she says. "But not here, not in New Orleans. Here, you laugh at your own peril."

"You're too smart to believe in that silliness," I say.

"You think?" she asks. She's not smiling.

"How do you think we got your Mrs. Anderson to let us seduce her last night? You think it was luck?" Still no smile.

"Didn't you see me dabbing my ears with the potion? It was Kus Kus and musk oil. You were watching, weren't you, when I stared into Mary's eyes as we talked during the stripper's songs? She couldn't take her eyes off mine. Why do you think she was so willing to do anything after that?"

I am horrified, a little angry, and for the moment speechless. We later pack our two shoulder bags to head to the airport and back to Manhattan. We head down the stairs and are out on the street, walking toward a line of taxis a few blocks away.

Still, I had to ask. "Are those real Voodoo dolls? And that musk oil you put on? Surely you're not saying you put her under some spell to let us fuck her? . . . Alexandra?"

She can see the dread on my face. She stops her walk, looks at me in exasperation. "Oh, Albert. The dolls are for my Moist Lips act. And the musk oil wasn't musk oil, just Gucci -- my perfume. I'm just jerking your chain. You've been reading those old Anne Rice novels about vampires in New Orleans, haven't you?"

She's right. I have. Thought I'd bone up on The Big Easy for our trip down here. Guess my imagination got the best of me. She begins laughing. She can't stop, laughing so hard she bends over, drops her luggage on the sidewalk and just guffaws at my fears. I laugh too. I have to admit, it is funny. And I like to see her laugh. It makes me laugh even more.

"You are so gullible," she says, wiping tears from her eyes. "That's what I love about you."

We walk on. We stop at the first taxi in line. Alexandra slides into the cab's back seat, I toss our bags into the front seat next to the driver, then walk around to the other side of the taxi and open its rear door. I think to myself that it's been a great trip, after all. 

I'm standing by the open taxi door. I hear it. No, I sense it first. Then hear it. Just now. Very low. Guttural. Yes, I caught the end of it. It sounded like someone in the last stages of agony. But I know it's not a human sound. I look back over my shoulder and see -- the three-story LaLaurie Mansion. The haunted one. We had just walked past it on the sidewalk, without realizing. And the noise coming from it was a long, low moan. No one else is around to hear it. Only Alexandra and I walked past its front door.

I'm flooded with coldness and nausea, just all of the sudden. I look up at the old, gray house in the misty rain, wipe droplets from my eyes, wonder if those upper floor windows are looking back at me. I swear they are, but not exactly at me. Instead, looking beside me, into the taxi's rear window at the back of Alexandra's head with her fedora. It was definitely a low moan.

"Albert, the driver's waiting." 

I slide into the car seat, can feel and see myself shaking. Alexandra scoots over to be beside me, not seeming to notice. Uncharacteristically, she puts her arm through my arm and surprises me by actually holding my hand. It is nothing other than affection. A first for us. I should be thrilled. She kisses me on the cheek. As I turn to ask what brought this on, she pecks my lips with hers. Pulls back and smiles. Her eyes are warm and loving.

"I am so smitten with you Albert." She rests her head on my shoulder.

As we pull away from the curb, she lifts her head, glances behind us and out the rear window at the mansion. Then, she turns back. Her eyes meet mine. No words. We are momentarily wondering what the other is thinking. Surely, she can sense my fear. If so, she doesn't acknowledge.

"Let's go home," she says, puts her head back on my shoulder. I nod my head in agreement, slowly but more cautious than ever before. I say nothing. What else is there to do?

But with her head on my shoulder I begin to smell a faint muskiness in her hair. Like some old root or plant that is decaying.

end



Moist Lips



With her standing there, she looked so naked, so vulnerable. I ached to hold her, to kiss her neck, smell her hair and perfume. But, of course, if I did any of that our relationship likely would be over. She probably would want to fly home. I accepted it. For the moment, there's no other choice.

We head to the beach and spend a rather marvelous sunny day reading under an umbrella, taking long walks, and splashing in the surf. But it's her breasts that I can't get off my mind. The idea that she let me watch. I felt naughty doing it, as if I was 10 years old and watching my mother through a keyhole. We drop by an open-air fruit and vegetable market in the afternoon, then eat dinner at a raw bar, sitting outside right on the restaurant's awning-covered deck that overlooks the ocean. Even there, as we are sucking down oysters and drinking chilled white wine, I'm reliving the naughty feeling. I know that when I am old, I will remember that moment, maybe with my last breath.

Back at the condo -- and it is very nice, modern and comfortable -- we sit on the deck that looks out onto the night ocean. In the shadows below, people down on the beach are taking walks, most of them holding hands, a few kissing. We watch. In the darkness, they are like ghosts.

At dinner we had talked mostly about the stock market, or rather, I listened as she explained her theories, which I would never argue with since I've now made even more money from her tips. I still think maybe she's a broker in real life. But I don't ask. 

But here, back on the deck, the conversation shifts to me as we talk in the dark. Who are my past girlfriends? I tell her. Am I seeing anyone now? "No, not for awhile." What kind of women do I like? "I don't know." I want to say "her" kind. Who among them was best in bed? I don't answer, knowing that she won't be on the list, ever.

"Albert, are you frustrated that I'm not sleeping with you?" she asks as we sit in the dark.

She's beside me in a lounging chair with her legs and feet pulled up against her in the chair, arms around her knees. Her summer dress is falling to about mid-thigh. In the dark, my view is muted but I can sense that the dress is loose and could slip even further exposing all of her ivory thighs. I feel a nakedness about her that is making me hard.

"Am I frustrated? Yes, and then some," I finally answer as I'm sweating, even in this breeze. "But mostly I'm just mystified." I say nothing more, just sit in silence and listen to the waves 300 feet away. At this time of night, the surf and wind mix into a salty and slightly fishy smell that I have over the years grown to love.

"It really is just who I am," she finally says. "But did you at least like watching me show you my breasts? And my nipples, I made them stiff just for you?"

"I loved it, Alexandra, which probably means I'm on the road to become a creepy old voyeur."

"Would you like to see more?"

There's no waiting for an answer. She leads me to my bedroom and tells me to sit at the end of the bed. She takes off her summer dress, and there's only wedding-white panties beneath them. They look like underwear from the '50s, high-waisted and slightly loose. But on Alexandra, they are somehow erotic.

"What do you think I look like with my panties off?" She asks me this, sitting on the edge of the bed.

I think this is all a game, her game, and asking me these questions is part of it. So I play along. 

I feel more open to her, probably because she's in front of me nearly naked, she's been talking about sex and reading me erotica for hours, and we're both a little buzzed by the wine we've had at dinner. So, I speak my mind, saying things I would never allow myself otherwise.

"I think your vagina is probably small, since you're slender. And I'd guess it's smooth. And perfect. Are you going to show me?"

"In a minute. And do I have hair?"

"I think not. I'd say you prefer clean shaven," I'm merely guessing on that one.

"What do you think I smell like between my legs?"

"I don't care. Whatever it is, it is you, and nothing else matters," I say. 

She smiles her approval. "Like I said, you are so diplomatic."

"Let's see," she whispers.

She stands beside the bed and, with her eyes not wavering at all from mine, she slowly pulls the panties down to her knees where they drop effortlessly to the floor. I stare. She does have hair, but just a bit above her slit, which is indeed small, and a little more hair is curling lightly around the edges. It's all blondish with a hint of brown. I am past getting an erection. Every bone in me is now aching for her. My heart is skipping beats loud and hard. I can sense my own pulse.

She sits on the bed, leans back against the headboard, raises her knees up and parts her legs wide for me to see, sitting just three feet from me. Just seeing her open thighs adds to my weakness. Her panties on the floor are wet in the crotch. Her slit even wetter. With the middle finger of her right hand she begins tracing around the outer edges of her vagina. Very lightly, barely touching. She looks back and forth from me to her sex, making sure I see it all. I can tell that everything between her legs is slippery. Then she moves her finger inside a little and with her other hand, opens herself up for me to look more. It is all pink. She dips a finger deep inside and pulls out clear liquid, rubbing it in circles around her clit until it gets stiff and I can begin to actually see it.

"I love doing this," she says, in a voice that's now getting raspy from her own desires that are building. "I can sit back and explore my pussy for hours and never get tired of it. Sometimes I do this in front of a mirror. There are so many nerves, so many good feelings that I can conjure up. Nothing like it. So good, so good . . ."

Her words trail off, her head leans back, eyes closed as she transports herself into some other dimension, where no one else is invited. I watch her fingers now start very lightly tapping her clit in rapid fire movement. She works her fingers faster, licks her lips with her tongue. Her eyes flutter. She's not really seeing anything. She comes, jerking her pelvis back and forth on the bed, breathing heavy, groaning, at first quietly, then unashamedly loud.

She lies silent for a few moments, her dark eyes gazing somewhere off in the distance. Little after-shocks are still cascading through her. It's amazing to watch her body tremor. There's a wet spot on the bed under her. After a while, and still not moving, she looks at me. "Any thoughts?" she asks. I shake my head no. "I don't know what to say."

"Do you want to masturbate?" she asks. "You can. I don't mind. I can watch." I tell her no and she doesn't force the subject. She leaves the bedroom and doesn't seem to come back. Eventually, I undress and go to bed, masturbating by myself into her wet panties picked up from the floor. I decide that she deliberately left them for me to do just that. But at some later point, as I'm lying in the darkness replaying the event, she comes back in, dressed in panties and a pajama shirt and crawls onto the bottom of the bed at my feet. She lies down.

"I just want to be near you tonight. Is that okay?" she asks. We sleep like that. My dick is very hard most of the night. 

* * * 

Breakfast and then the beach on a bright sunny morning. Everyone's out in the waves early. The sun and surf are totally rejuvenating for both of us. We read, talk about where else we'd like to travel, honing in on Europe. We sneak wine onto the beach and sip it in plastic cups. A good hour is used up people-watching. I note mentally that Alexandra's eyes wander as much toward attractive women strolling past us on the beach as they do toward men. I've grown to really like the fedora she is wearing, even with her swimsuit.

By early afternoon a summer storm bears down, coming east from out in the Atlantic, driving everyone indoors. We sit on the sofa, watching the rain through the condo's glass doors leading to the deck. The gentle waves of the morning are now snarling and breaking wildly. The sea and the sky are both gray, making the horizon indistinguishable. The rain is heavy and unrelenting. 

She has changed from her swimsuit to a simple white slip. She has nothing on underneath. It reminds me of my mother before she aged, but I don't want to think about that. Alexandra reads more erotic fiction to me, this time really explicit poems that are 300 years old, from the Ming Dynasty in China. Where she gets these books I don't know. Her nipples get hard as she reads, we both are flustered. The book has erotic line drawings for each poem. She leans over to show them to me. I feel the warmth of her nearness, smell perfume. Her breast rubs against my arm. It's okay for her to touch me, I guess. I just can't touch her back. We ponder what all is transpiring in the drawings.

After reading a half hour, she opens her laptop and punches in Beethoven's Symphony No. 7, Allegretto, which she thinks is sensual and eerie at the same time. She's right about that. The orchestra fills up the whole condo, reaching crescendos and sweeping around all the rooms. She's playing it loud, and seems lost in the music for awhile. But then . . .

"Let's play," she says.

She leads me this time into her own bedroom, sitting me on the bed, my back to the headboard, then takes off her slip -- each time I lose my breath when she lets me see her naked. I could write endlessly about how intoxicating her ass is to me: soft, delicate, and that long thin divide between her hips so full of dark mystery. She climbs onto the bed on all fours with her ass facing me, as if I'm supposed to fuck her from behind. 

Alexandra rests her head on the bed and, looking back at me, uses both hands to reach around behind and caress her hips, lightly stroking all around, then just as lightly gliding her hands down between her hips. She bends over a little farther, which somehow opens up her ass so that I am looking at her small anus. She is so relaxed about all of this.

She tells me to open the top drawer of the dresser and bring her the white towel that's wrapped up. As I give it to her and sit back in my place, she unfolds it, bringing out a bottle of baby oil, which she pours onto her fingers. I watch as she begins caressing, spreading the oil up and down between her hips, then to her anus which she circles over and over, until it gives way and her finger slips easily into the dark hole that is now slippery. She sighs. 

"It feels so exquisite, so exquisite," she says. "Can you tell how good it feels, Albert?"

"Exquisite" is the only word I can get out as I'm transfixed on her finger sliding in and out.

"You like?" 

"Absolutely," I say.

"Good. There's more."

Now, she pulls a string of anal beads from the towel, gives me the baby oil and asks me to lubricate it for her. I pour the oil on my hands, then grab the beads, about a foot long, and run them through my hands over and over to oil them up. They are a soft plastic and feel good, even in my hands. I've watched this done in porno movies. But it's the first time I've even seen this contraption in person, much less prepped one for a woman.

She takes them and puts the end with the smallest bead at her hole and pushes in, every 10 seconds or so pushing in another bead, each one a little larger until the largest, about the size of a golf ball, is inside. Only the holding ring is outside her ass.

She's already sighing. I'm speechless. Her ass still looks delicate, but now defiled. I am hard but am breathing too heavy. I try to calm down. 

Not done yet, Alexandra unwraps a fold of the towel and takes out a vibrator, nothing fancy, just a simple straight-on vibrator. It's something else I have seen only in movies and web sites.

"When I start coming, Albert, you begin pulling the beads out one by one, slow at first, okay? I'll tell you when."

How can I say anything but "Okay." 

As she lifts her head up and braces herself with one arm, she takes the vibrator in the other hand, reaches down between her legs and puts it on her clit. She can somehow keep her head turned to see me and my face as I watch. I realize she needs to see my face whenever I look at her body. For about three minutes she works the vibrator, with no sound other than Beethoven, the hard rain and the buzz of the vibrator surrounding us. As she gets close, she turns the speed up, prompting almost immediate groans and inarticulate words from her. She stiffens, arches her back and opens her mouth in a silent scream. 

She tries to speak but it comes out only in a whisper. "Now." I reach up to grab the ring, mindful still of the rule not to touch. I pull out the largest bead, then the next. "Faster" she says softly, so I pull more, doubling the speed. She moans, says a few more words. "Fucking sweet" are the only ones I can decipher. "More. Faster," she then says, but now it's almost inaudible. She's incoherent. Losing all contact with this world. I begin pulling out in a steady stream, watching and listening to the little "pop" as each bead is freed of her tight anus. She is in the throes of an enormous orgasm. I can tell from her facial contortions. But she's soaring through it quietly. The last few beads are expelled by her own internal muscles, that she's lost control of, pushing them toward me. Her body tremors for a few minutes.

Then she's still, resting. I, on the other hand, am in agony. In a few minutes, she sees this and orders me to stand up beside the bed. She's up too, unsnaps my shorts, which fall to the floor, then pulls down my boxers. Reaching down on the floor, she picks up those delicious vintage panties and lays them on the bed in front of me.

"Jack off onto them," she says. It's the first time that I'm naked with her.

She doesn't hesitate. "Now!, Albert." It's a command and I'm too weak, too far gone to resist. I pick up the panties to wrap them around my very hard dick. She tells me "no." She lays them back on the bed. She wants to see my sperm shoot out. I'm in no condition to argue. There's no modesty left for me. I stroke myself no more than three times, then shoot my sperm strongly onto her panties while she watches. It seems like I keep coming forever, days' worth saved up for this moment. For some reason I feel ashamed. "You needed that," she said.

Alexandra begins to walk away, turns and comes back to me. She reaches over and kisses my cheek. 

"By the way. You have a delicious looking dick. I love its thickness."

And with that, she heads into the living room, puts her slip back on, picks up her cellphone and begins rummaging through the latest stock news. I'm back on the bed lying in absolute shock.

* * * 

We sleep through the rest of the afternoon rain, talk about cheesy horror movies, then walk the beach for a quarter mile to a seafood restaurant for lobster and white wine. She asks me a lot about my course teachings, but I can tell she knows almost as much as I do about American history. I realize she's much smarter than I am. On the walk back there's no moon, so it's especially dark. And the surf is pounding loudly. We're holding our sandals and walking barefoot on the still-wet sand after the rain. There are some other people also walking, but not many. 

"You know, Albert," she says. "I saw you a few weeks ago at the club. I could see you in the audience sitting in the back. You know I'm 'Moist Lips.' And I'm okay with that."

"I didn't think you'd want me to know, since it's part of your private life."

"I deliberately left that card for you that showed our burlesque group," she says. "It was no accident. I wanted you to know who I am. To see if you would still want to be friends. I thought you might be put off. But you weren't, were you?"

We're best friends, I say. "Nothing else matters." I'm lying, of course. My heart feels like it's dying, I want her so bad.

"But you still don't really get me, do you," she comes right back at me, seemingly frustrated.

I ponder it a few seconds, then say: "You like me to watch, you just don't want to have sex with me."

"It's more complicated than that," she says. "I have sex with men, always have, though not very often right now. It's nice, it feels good, but it doesn't really do it for me. It doesn't ring my bell." I smile at her analogy.

She tells me that exhibiting herself, as naughty as possible, is what gets her off. 

"But not to just anyone, not flashing," she says. "What I want is to show myself to someone close, a best friend, someone I can trust, yet someone whose friendship is totally incongruous with me being naked and having sex with them. That's the thrill."

"Don't you understand. If I do these things with you, then turn around and fuck you, it takes away the thrill. For me, it becomes just sex. I can have sex with anyone. But the real excitement, my only orgasms are from being with you, being wicked and vulgar and naughty with you, someone I'm not supposed to be doing this with."

"Don't you see, Albert? You're my personal audience of one. If we become lovers, eventually I'll have to find another Albert. And I don't want to. I like the one here now."

But, she acknowledges that this probably can't work for me. 

I nod in agreement. "I don't exactly know what to with my own needs, Alexandra?" 

"I'm not easy am I, Albert?"

"No. You're not." We leave it at that. 

After a few minutes of walking quietly, I say this: "If you have no desire to flash the public, why do you go on stage as Moist Lips?"

"I want to see," she says, "if I should branch out and face an audience of strangers. What I've found is that there's no particular thrill in showing my ass to a crowd of men. But, I realize that I kind of like doing it in front of women. I've only recently begun admitting it to myself. I want them to watch me. I like to think I shock them, maybe make them wet. Make them want me. It's a new impulse, one I haven't had very long."

You do have that effect on them, I tell her. "What I saw in their eyes that night at the club was desire to do what you're doing, to have the guts enough to expose themselves to a lot of people. They weren't just lusting after you, they were jealous."

"You think?" she says. "God, that makes me so hot."

We walk on. She's quiet awhile. I can't go any farther. Too much wine. I have to take a leak. Is that okay, I ask. "You think I'm going to complain?" she shoots back a little too gleefully. She watches as I unzip and pee onto the sand. I kind of like her watching. I'm almost hard and I like her seeing that, too. I wish she would reach out and feel my dick. She doesn't.

When I zip back up, she gets playful. "Hey, you know what? I can write my name in the sand."

"I'm supposed to be impressed?" I ask.

"No, no. I mean I can pee in the sand and write my name. Or at least I can get to 'A-l-e-x-a-n.' I stream out before I get to the last three letters. It's quite a cool thing. Want to watch?"

She hikes up her dress to her waist, no underwear of course. Alexandra, I tell her, there are people walking toward us. "Okay, as soon as they pass," she says. She drops the dress just as the couple get close, but they both get a glimpse, probably enough to see her pussy, and both knowing exactly what she is getting ready to do. My guess is she was doing it for the woman, to get her reaction. I'm beginning to understand her better.

And after they walk by, she raises her dress again, telling me to stand behind her and look over from behind her shoulder so I can read her "writing." She's holding the dress with one hand, using the other on her pubic hair, with her fingers dipping below, magically manipulating herself. She pushes her pelvis out. A startling huge burst of pee shoots out at first, arching maybe two feet in front of her, spraying the sand. Then comes a steady stream and she gets to work, spelling each letter out loud. Sure enough, she makes it only to the last three letters and runs out. She dribbles some on her thigh and doesn't bother to wipe it off. For some odd reason, I'm turned on by that.




Moist Lips



"We'll have to work on that," I say. I turn and see if I can still see the couple that just passed us. The woman is looking back at Alexandra. That's the power I'm beginning to realize she has -- even over women.

Alexandra turns around to face me and immediately shoots out one final spurt onto my bare foot -- deliberately. She laughs, gets right up in my face. "So there," she says. "Better watch out, mister. I have impeccable aim." Her eyes are wide and smiling, almost laughing. She is having a splendid evening.

For most of us, the days often run together. To Alexandra, every day is a personal adventure. It's no longer a matter of just lust. This woman has stolen my heart.

That night, our final night at the beach, she crawls into bed next to me and falls asleep. She trusts me now. There is something about that -- her lying in nothing but panties and a T-shirt right next to me -- that at least makes me feel good. 

* * * 

The next morning we are reluctantly packing to make the trip home. In the kitchen, I see the vegetables we bought at the market. "What do you want to do with them?" I ask. 

I have an idea for this, she says as she picks up a fairly large cucumber, grabs my hand and heads into my bedroom. We're going to play again.

Alexandra tosses the cucumber to me. "Oil her up," she says.

I don't have to ask. I think like her now. I pick up the baby oil and stroke the cucumber back and forth until it's covered. She points to the bed. I sit, cross my legs, and watch. She grabs the hem and pulls up her summer dress, lies on her back, spreads her legs wide and begins rubbing the tip of the cucumber on her vagina. God, her thighs are gorgeous, milky white and inviting. I watch, taking in the contrast of the dark green cuke against her delicate pink slit and the blondish hair in small curls on each side. 

The cucumber seems massive -- really thick and a good 10 inches long. The vibrator is beside her and ready. Alexandra works the cucumber back and forth, until her moist lips start to part, and the cucumber's tip slips inside. She pushes gently in, pulls it back, pushes again. 

"I've never done this before," she says. "So bear with me."

This goes on for five minutes until she's stretched her vagina to get it almost totally in, all the while giving off almost silent little grunts and groans as she's working the thing back and forth. Then come soft sighs. She keeps her eyes directly on mine. Then she surprises me.

"Albert," take your dick out and jack off for me. See if you can time it to my orgasm." I freeze.

"Please do this," she begs. "Please."

I'm uncomfortable and embarrassed but do so. My penis is already hard as I unzip and it practically leaps out of my shorts. I leave it weaving there, back and forth. "Stroke it," she says. "Come on, I want us to do this together." So I begin slowly stroking myself in front of her, terrified at who I've become.

She starts the vibrator on her clit and within a few minutes she's in full orgasm, dropping the vibrator, grabbing the cucumber and ramming it in and out, hard as she can and fast. I'm fearing she may hurt herself. Her eyes again fluttering as she begins that entry into her own secret world. I stroke harder, and still watching her, come easily, shooting sperm all over her, and over me and the bed. I had no control of myself. For a moment or two I feel awful that I have done this.

Eventually, I begin seeing the tremors in her again. I stay silent. Her inner muscles contract so tightly that the cucumber begins working its way out. She pushes back in. But it works its way out again, finally falling on the bed. We're both quiet for a few minutes. It takes time for her to come down.

"You know, Albert. I've been thinking." she says, still lifeless on the bed, her vagina totally exposed to me and still dripping wet. I know she relishes my fixation on what is between her legs. She's fixated on it as much as I am. 

"Maybe I could get a woman for you. Or maybe one we could share." It could be an interesting experiment, she explains. "The kind novels are written about." She sits up, and shocks me by leaning over and, in a show of affection, lightly touches the head of my now quickly wilting dick. "What do you think? Another woman?"

Before I can answer, she hands the cucumber to me. "Here, want to lick it off?" she asks. I do exactly that, tasting her for the first time. I will never forget that sensation and the accompanying aroma. "I'll take it home and cut it up for a salad," I joke. She thinks this is hilarious.

"I know!" she exclaims. "We'll throw a dinner party and start with drinks and the salad!" * * * 

That keeps her laughing on the drive all the way back to Norfolk, where we are in the air before we know it. Alexandra falls asleep in the seat beside me on the plane, her head against my shoulder, still wearing her fedora. I'm thinking of what lies ahead. I haven't told her about Melanie, a young grad student who teaches at the college. We're casual friends, have bumped into each other in the food court several times. Before this trip, I was thinking of asking Melanie to dinner. She's nice looking, with an air of intelligence about her, and a warm personality, the kind of girl you could have a long relationship with, maybe marry. A nice, normal woman.

Think what you will, but I don't cheat. It doesn't suit me. There has to be a choice. So it's down to this: I can no longer imagine the rest of my life without Alexandra. But I also can't imagine the rest of my life without actual sex. 

Alexandra's is a life with a different set of boundaries. Why am I so drawn to it? I imagine because she makes me feel so alive. I'm Doctor Watson to her Sherlock Holmes on all these wanton adventures of hers. And I know there could be many more ahead. After all, she's a creative person. 

Melanie, I'm certain, has so much to offer. She laughs at my jokes. She seems genuinely interested in me. And, by the way, there haven't been very many Melanies come my way recently. I think about how good it would feel to find myself spooning with her on Sunday mornings when we wake up, fucking each other's brains out before we make our obligatory trip to my coffee shop to read The Times. Normal may not be so bad.

But how can it not get dull up against the likes of Alexandra? I mean, how many women are really into anal beads? How many are going to let me watch them do really naughty, lewd things? What woman would even consider peeing her name in the sand at the beach while I watch? And would any other girlfriend, or wife, even consider letting me share a woman with her? Won't happen. Not to me, anyway. 

You know what Alexandra told me the other day, as she was reading to me on the beach, sitting under our umbrella?

She put her book down, and said, "Albert, I've done the vilest things... the foulest things. But I've done them -- superbly." No, wait. She realizes it's actually a quote she lifted from June Miller, the wife of writer Henry Miller, who we've both been reading diligently. But you get the point, she said. And I did. 

After we land, we're on the tarmac waiting for a departing plane to clear our gate, everyone still seated. Alexandra wakes up, leans over and begins to whisper to me. Except a flight attendant walks by, so she stops. I'm wondering what's on her mind after her nap. She starts up again, still whispering.

"Did you know, Albert, that I'm teaching myself how to squirt. It's a real talent and I think I've got it down. By the time we get to Europe this fall, I can show you. Do you have any interest in this?

"Alexandra," I say, "There is no one else on this planet like you. No one." She brushes it off.

"Say, why don't we fly straight to Amsterdam to begin the next trip," she says. "The Moulin Rouge club, I'm told, has live sex shows, such a fun spectator sport. We see the sites, smoke a little legalized pot, drink Danish beer and practice squirting. Maybe find us a girl. Does it get any better than that?"

No, I don't believe it can get much better than that, at least on the one hand. So I ask myself -- Melanie or Alexandra? Which one? What is right for me. What should I do?

What would you do?