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Melt

By: Viviene Valo



Midnight had come and gone. Megan still had no relief from the humidity. Her dark brown hair felt heavy and thick. It stuck to her bare back and shoulders. She cursed herself for not getting a shorter haircut for summer. Her family's country farmhouse was quiet for the night in the lonely, still field of corn. There was no breeze, just a wicked damp heat that would not lift. The only light that Megan could see were each of the nightlight candles in the windows. She paced at the end of her darkened driveway, pulling at her pink stripped tube top and black shorts, which stuck to her like wet leaves. Alexis had told her to wait there, and Megan knew Alexis was up to something good. It had seemed as though she was waiting all night for her. 

Finally she saw the bright headlights in the distance and the blue car pulled into the driveway. Megan climbed inside and was immediately blanketed by the air-conditioner, which Alexis had set at full blast. 

"I need my gloves and scarf in here," Megan said, hugging herself. She felt her nipples immediately get hard as the air found its way to them. 

Alexis smiled. "It's better than the house, right?" 

"Yes, that's true." 

The two girls looked at one another in the darkened car, exchanging a familiar knowing glance. 

"I'm sorry I'm late," said Alexis. "I was waiting for something to..."her voice trailed off and Megan couldn't hear the rest of her sentence. She didn't really care anyway, she was thankful to be out of the heat of her house. Alexis looked sexy in her jean cutoffs and white tank top with her black lace bra showing through. 

"Thanks for doing this, I was dying in there. Living in a historical house is great, I mean the house is beautiful, but this no air conditioning is tough." 

Alexis fixed her shoulder length blonde light blond hair, pushing it behind her ears. She took her hand off the steering wheel and then placed it on Megan's knee. Each girl leaned in, as if in perfect symmetry, creating a small slice of heat in the cold car. Their lips touched, gently for a moment. But the gentle kisses soon paved way for the exploring hands and tongues. 

"Bend over the seat" instructed Alexis. 

"What? I can't do that. What if someone saw us?" Megan looked around. 

"Out here? You live on a farm, no one is out here. Your driveway is a mile long, we'd see the headlights in time anyway. Bend over...and pull your shorts and panties down". Alexis said, unable to hide the small smirk on her face. 

Megan knelt on the seat, slowly pulling down her black shorts and pink panties. She slowly leaned over, positioning herself so her body was between the drive and passenger's seats. She felt enclosed and exposed. It was hard to move between the two front seats and this excited her. The leather of the seats was cool and rigid against the sides of her legs. 

Alexis took her time, admiring Megan. She let her fingertips slide up the back of Megan's smooth tan legs. She her slit open, inspecting, letting Megan wonder and wait was coming next. The heat inside Megan was building, with each deep breath she took. Alexis's fingers were pulsing, and pulling at Megan's skin. It was heat upon heat and soon the car began to fill with a sweet smell of woman. Megan shivered occasionally as a blast from the air conditioner would pass upon the backs of her legs, up her thighs, across her ass, and up her back, like a slithering snake. Up Alexis's fingers went, as if following the gusts of artic air, closer and closer to where Megan needed to be touched, but never reaching it. She continued to circle like a shark going after its prey. 

Alexis licked her fingers, the sound overpowering the gentle hum of the air conditioner. She let the wetness on her fingertips mix with the wetness dripping from Megan and slid her fingers easily inside, her thumb resting on Megan's clit. Megan arched forward, gasping, her head turned and she looked back, staring at Alexis and biting her lip. 

Megan returned to the bent over position, her thick dark hair spilling over the leather seats, feeling more open and exposed, as if she were a pierce of art on display. Alexis continued to admire the slick skin, touching its rosy color. Megan's lips felt like day old rose petals, slippery yet firm. She returned her thumb to Megan's clit, tapping it softly. Alexis felt Megan begin to move back against her fingers and thumb and she leaned over her friend, licking the small of her back.

"Spread your legs more," Alexis whispered, her hot breath slicing the coldness of the care. Pieces of her light blonde hair fell into her eyes, bit she didn't seem to notice. 

Megan felt something cold, placed right before her opening. Before she could think of what it could be, Alexis replaced her fingers with the object. Megan felt bumps and ridges. She felt filled, spread wide. It was large, thick, and solid. It was icy and crisp, it made her get so wet, that she began to drip down her legs. She shivered repeatedly. She shook, mostly from pleasure, but also from the shock of the raw cold. Megan looked down and noticed the large green piece of produce. A cucumber. She looked back at Alexis, who was now working the chilly vegetable in and out slowly. Megan pushed her body down on the cucumber, taking it deep inside of her. 

She enjoyed the mixture of her warmness and the cucumber's coldness, and she let herself go in moan after moan. Her body pressed against the leather seats, squirming, as she came. She sighed loudly with her hair in her face. Alexis stroked Megan's hair.

"So that's why you were late?" Megan whispered.

Alexis grinned. "Yeah I had it in the freezer before I left. I wanted to make sure it was extra cold."

Melt



I worried the drugs would run out. They kept a pleasant drumming beat in the back of my head, and I worried I would miss them. But maybe I only worried because the paranoia had finally set. It was too soon to tell.

Norah hit the pipe one more time before passing it back to me. She was passing the wrong direction, but I didn't say anything. Sitting up on her bed, gazing down at the other two, we both knew it was best not to interrupt. What if we broke the fragile balance they'd finally found here?

So I took her pass in silence and lit up. As I exhaled, I arched a stretch through my back, pushed my left leg forward—and let it come to rest against Norah's hip. She turned a lazy, indulgent smile at me and picked it up, placed it in her lap. Traced a swirling pattern across my bare skin.

We'd been watching this dance for weeks now, and it felt a little strange to see it finally unfold on the floor of her bedroom. The two below us—Sam and Abby—let their voices drop with intimacy, and we wondered if we weren't meant to hear them.

"I think you were the best one," she said. She sounded breathless, but I guessed that might have been deliberate.

"I don't know about that," he answered, eyes dropping to the hands he kept folded in his lap.

"Well, you didn't see yourself perform, did you?" she asked, teasing. She had moved almost imperceptibly closer to him, and with that small space now closed, she touched his knee. He looked down at her hand, then back up at her face, his own betraying an interest rife with fear.

"I need to put something else on," Norah blurted out. I kept my eyes down, and while Norah played around with her technology, I watched Abby's hand slide up—just a little bit, just enough. Enough not to threaten.

Norah's song change seeped through the room, rolling out a lilting pulse, a hypnotic flow. When she flopped back down on the bed, her body lay next to mine, almost touching all the way down. Her hand lingered when she took my pass.

"My shoulder is killing me," she sighed on her exhale. I watched her red lips part, smooth dark skin opening up for smooth dark smoke.

Thinking only that I wanted to touch her skin to see what it felt like, I reached out and let my hand run down her back. Her head fell immediately to the side, a happy sigh escaping her curving lips. My hand dragged back up, slowly, pressing little circles into her muscles along the way. As I worked, I watched the machinations of her face—relaxation spreading, melting over her features.

Down below us, Abby had charted out her own new territory. She had one hand on Sam's face and another trailing down his neck, popping open the first button on his collar. Of course, she'd seen him perform just like the rest of us, so just like the rest of us, she knew what lay beneath that cloth. Scars across his skin, marking the site of the mastectomy, his own personal ground zero. I wondered what she thought, knowing that the ground she now tread was, in so many ways, new for him.

I lost track of them again as Norah pulled my attention back to her. She reached up to touch my hair, tuck it behind my ear, then pushed me lightly on the shoulder, letting me fall back. In one fluid motion, she rolled her body over mine.

Her knees on either side of my hips pinned me down. She sat up to take her hit, pulling it out slowly. Then she reached her hands above my head, leaning down, letting her wrists rest on the headboard. Her lips came down to mine, the lightest brush of skin I had ever felt, and when my own lips parted, her breath came softly. I let my eyes fall shut as I surrendered to it. I heard a little sound, just to the right of my head—something hard touching down on the windowsill. The next moment, her hands had found mine, fingers interlaced. And her lips, again—pushing, at first gently, against mine. Like she was testing the waters, even after all this time.

She tasted like salt and smoke. Or maybe she reflected my own taste back to me. The next time her lips came down, they pressed with more vigor. They urged against mine. It was all I could do to grab back at her, to grasp fists into her shirt and let my hips lift ever so slightly against hers. Her hips found their response faster than her mouth did, and she ground down into me. A shiver rushed up my spine as she found her purchase. We rocked together, the press of our bodies spurring our momentum.

As she tilted her head to bite down gently on the naked skin of my neck, I felt a wave of lightheadedness crash over me. I could sense the edges of my perception start to blur, and I decided to concentrate my remaining attention on her. The feel of her lips, her teeth, her breath. With more than a little desperation, I grabbed at her shirt, pulling and pulling until it came free from her body, sliding over her head and onto the floor. Maybe just to make it even, she pulled off mine in turn. When her body came back down to mine, I savored the feel of her smooth skin sliding down every inch of mine. She kissed her way further down my neck, to breasts still cupped tightly in fabric. I let my wandering hands grasp and claw their way up her perfectly muscled arms, then wind into her thick, tightly curling hair, falling in a wild spray from her head.

She came back up to kiss me on the mouth, and I couldn't help but press into it, press into her. I wanted to feel all of her at once, in all possible and impossible ways. My body moved against hers as I kissed her, desperation and oblivion speaking for me, taking me over. She groaned in response, forcing me back down to the mattress with a playful push.

Her mouth found me then, and slid with bites and licks all the way down my stomach, until it met the artificial barrier of cloth. As her hands snapped to attention, jumping to the little brass button so they could rip it open, my head fell momentarily to the side.

Below us, Abby and Sam sat suspended, floating on their own tide. They faced each other like mirror images, each holding up a hand, their fingers laced together in midair while their mouths met briefly, over and over, touching lightly only to flutter away. Slowly, Sam's hand came up to touch her face, to guide her into a longer kiss. I could see him shaking as he opened himself up, as he let himself fall into this soft intimacy.

I lingered with them only a moment more. Norah had found her way past my jeans, which now lay somewhere out of sight, and as I watched, my simple black underwear disappeared along with them. In a moment, her mouth was back on my body, starting at the inside of my knee and drifting slowly upward. The softest parts of my skin lay exposed and unprotected before her, subject to her every whim. Her wet tongue went to work, swirling and teasing, sending shivers through my body, pushing my desire over the edge. Right when I thought I could stand her distance no longer, she slid one arm under and around my leg and brought me right to her mouth. Her tongue slipped smoothly over my clit, eliciting a sudden moan from deep within me as I felt that sudden pleasure.

Her pressure was soft and sweet, spreading small rivulets of sensation through my lower abdomen, building them slowly. My legs came up over her shoulders, giving her greater access, and I couldn't help but wonder what a strange thing it must be for the comparatively chaste couple below us, to hear me groan and gasp under the power of an experienced hand.

While her tongue kept up its glorious dance on my lips and clit, her fingers pressed with gentle insistence just below that, exploring the outer evidence of my wetness. After a teasing hesitation, she entered me, pressing expertly into the soft sponge of my flesh. Three fingers worked at me, in and out, in and out, fucking me with vigor, reaching ever deeper.

"Fuck yes," I gasped, almost involuntarily.

She only fucked me harder at that. I grasped at her hair, needing to increase our contact, needing her to keep fucking me. I didn't look down to see, but I wanted to imagine that, at least a little bit, Sam and Abby watched us.

Her expert mouth pushed down on my clit, her tongue swirling fast. I could feel my pleasure building to a head. I groaned again, shifting my hips up, offering myself to her as best I could. She doubled down, grasping at me, pulling me closer.

"Oh my god," I breathed. I could feel her inside me, pushing deep, over and over. She sent another shiver through my clit and I tensed, knowing I was near the edge. Her fingers worked at me hard, and she pushed, harder, harder, harder—until I bucked my hips up to meet her on her last thrust and felt it all crash down over me.

"Fuck yes," I breathed out my last as the final wave of pleasure cascaded through my body. Norah came up to kiss me lightly on the mouth, and I savored the taste of myself on her tongue.

"You're so beautiful when you come," she whispered in my ear. "You're like a goddamn painting."

"You're beautiful when you make me come," I answered her, slipping a finger through her bra strap to guide her closer. Of their own accord, my legs wrapped themselves around her waist to keep her. "You're like a goddamn superhero."

She kissed me again, and I melted into us.

Below us, our counterparts made the small soft noises of new lovers, still shy and uncertain. I envied them that first discovery, that initial push. But as Norah kissed me one more time, that envy slipped instantly away. All I needed was the feel of her skin and the smell of her hair, and she gave that to me freely.



Melted



Kyle eagerly raided Brenda's freezer for the secret stash of ice cream she always kept there just for him. Brenda was lactose intolerant and pure ice cream didn't sit well with her stomach, but Kyle had absolutely no problems eating it for breakfast lunch and dinner and would if it had provided enough sustenance for him to do so. Rocky Road – his favorite – was tucked behind a sweet potato pie tightly wrapped in aluminum foil and a bag of frozen vegetables. He smiled as he pulled out the cylindrical container and sat it on the counter. He then searched the cabinets and drawers for a bowl and spoon respectively.

"Find it okay?" Came the soft feminine voice from another room. Kyle hadn't told her what he was in the kitchen for, but he certainly wasn't surprised that she'd figured it out on her own. Whenever he had taken to rummaging through her freezer, there was always only one thing he was looking for.

"Yep!" He said just before digging up a spoonful of the soft cream and placing it, upside down, in his mouth. He figured she shouldn't care that he would dunk his saliva covered spoon into the tub, he was the only one who ever ate from it anyway.

"Are you sure?" Brenda asked, her voice lower now and closer in proximity than before. Kyle stopped for a moment pondering the odd question before answering. "Mmmhmm," he said turning around to face her when the spoon he was holding in his mouth suddenly hit the marble tiling with a clang. Kyle's mouth lay on the floor right beside it. Every inch, every pore of his body flushed in an instant. He stood frozen, not really comprehending what was going on. The sudden swelling in his pants quickly made them too tight and for a moment, he couldn't think, move or breathe. When his senses returned momentarily, he attempted to pick up the lost utensil from the floor but banged his forehead on the kitchen counter on the way down. He couldn't take his eyes off of the most succulently erotic view he thought he'd ever seen. His hands trembled, almost viciously, trying to pick up the spoon causing him to drop it yet again. Brenda bent down in front of him to pick it up, and in the process, exposed the tops of her incredibly luscious breasts tightly veiled in a red lace brassiere. Kyle stood up with her, his eyes transfixed on the beautiful mounds that were bursting the seams of her bra. She looked up at Kyle and handed him the spoon. 

"You okay?" Brenda asked looking up at the area of his forehead he was rubbing right well knowing the answer. Kyle's mouth watered and he swallowed hard. He finally brought his eyes up to hers fleetingly as if to ask, "What the fuck do you think?" His eyes dropped down the length of her body again. She had on a red, waist length see-through shawl that she wrapped around her bosom in a futile attempt to cover her ample assets. It didn't work, but that was the point. Just beneath her navel was a pair of matching silk bikini panties that hugged her hips like they were painted on. She looked good in red, Kyle thought. The color brought out something so seductive in her velvety brown skin that it sent spiraling tingles throughout his entire body.

"You like?" She said spreading out her arms in a mock fashion model pose. She then switched positions, leaned forward and pursed her red lips in her hand and blew him a kiss in classic Marilyn Monroe style. Kyle's mouth still hung open, his eyes wide as dinner plates. He felt like a little boy getting his very first dirt bike for his birthday. He stood there, silently gasping at the scene. All his faculties could seem to muster in response to her question was an ardent nod.

"Good!" Brenda said as she turned and walked out of the kitchen revealing the sexy thong panties that disappeared deliciously inside the crevice of her smooth, cocoa colored cheeks. Kyle's knees suddenly went weak and the counter behind him was the only thing keeping him from hitting the floor. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, just a low guttural moan from somewhere in the depths of his soul. His whole body suddenly ached and his skin felt like it was on fire.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," He whispered finally and to no one in particular. He unconsciously followed behind her, reveling in the most exotic view he'd ever seen.

"Good?" He asked closing in on her, grabbing her arm and spinning her around. He resisted the urge to throw her to the floor and ravage her like some kind of wild animal like he wanted to. 

"What do you mean 'good'?" He asked trying desperately to meet his green eyes with her brown ones, his manhood still throbbing relentlessly in his jeans.

"I just wanted your opinion. I plan on having my way with Randy for the first time tomorrow night and I thought you'd be the perfect person to test my new outfit on. I know you'll be completely honest with me." 

"Randy." Kyle softly whispered to himself and nodding, almost berating himself for thinking anything else. Of course this was for Randy, he thought. Who the hell else would it be for? Brenda certainly wasn't in the habit of prancing around in devilish lingerie specifically for him, now was she? The disappointment in his eyes was lost on Brenda as she gushed, giddy with an innocent school girl grin. 

"I thought I'd run it by you first to make sure it was the right choice." She slowly spun herself around with her arms spread giving Kyle one final look before thinking she'd retire to the bedroom to put on something more appropriate. She demurely draped her shawl off her shoulder and looked back at him with her lips pursed again before heading toward her bedroom door.

What the fuck is she thinking!? Kyle thought to himself. What makes her think she can just parade herself, half naked, out in front of a man without any consequences? 

As soon as he thought it, the answer as he knew it, sprung immediately to mind. He wasn't really a man to her, not in the carnal sense anyway. Yes, she knew he was male but he was just a guy – a friend, and nothing more. She treated him more like a gay friend than a red-blooded heterosexual male with carnal desires for women – for her. The thought probably never even crossed her mind. Kyle stood there feeling foolish with his rock hard cock poking out from his pants and Brenda not even bothering to notice. She'd already disappeared behind her bedroom door while Kyle languished, helplessly locked in the very spot in which he stood.

Brenda had quickly dashed back into her bedroom, and in her haste, she didn't realize that she had left her door ajar. The opening wasn't very wide at all, but it was still large enough for Kyle to notice. Kyle eyed the open door and slowly lifted the legs that now felt like lead in the direction of her bedroom. At first he stood just outside the door, daring himself to peek inside, to watch the forbidden fruit in front of him undress completely and change into something respectable. He laid his back flat against the wall beside her door having a moral battle with himself about what he should do. A true gentleman would quietly shut the door so as not to embarrass the lady dressing inside. Listening to Brenda happily humming some unfamiliar song, he thought about if he really wanted to be a gentleman tonight. After watching Brenda dressed in her slinky (and very well fitting he might add,) lingerie, all gentlemanly thoughts had gone right out the window. He closed his eyes and hoped that someday Brenda would be able to forgive him for what, he was convinced, his libido was about to force him to do.

Kyle quietly lurched forward and peeked his head through the narrow opening, not really sure what state of undress Brenda was in, but hoping he hadn't missed much. His left eye was about all he could sneak through without being noticed right away, and his fingers unconsciously leapt themselves to the center of the door and gently pushed it open a bit further so he could see any and everything Brenda may be in the middle of revealing at the moment.

The door lightly creaked beneath his hand and Kyle froze, certain that Brenda had heard. The opening was big enough now so that he could see clearly inside with both eyes and waited for Brenda to slam the door in his face.

She never did. 

Kyle looked in her bedroom. The light was dimmed by a floral shawl that blanketed the top of her lamp revealing a large shadow of Brenda on the adjoining wall. She was undressing with her back toward him, still humming her pleasant tune, completely oblivious to Kyle's conspicuous stalking.

Brenda was on cloud nine for the past few weeks. She'd met Randy at a blues concert she and some friends had gone to downtown. He was everything she thought she'd ever wanted in a man – handsome, smart, funny and as she had just learned a few nights ago – an incredibly talented kisser. They had had several late night heavy petting sessions, but nothing had ever gone beyond that although, not for a lack of effort on Randy's part. He'd been trying to get into her panties since their first date, but Brenda had clearly set her boundaries even though she enjoyed his pursuit just as much as he did.

Brenda unhooked the front closing clasp of her bra feeling the material retract and quickly wind up the curves of her back as her breasts finally broke free of their restraints. She let the dainty material slide from her arms while her hands cupped her full, voluptuous breasts. They felt firm and heavy in her hands; the smooth silkiness of them sliding beneath the sensitive skin of her fingers. She twisted her newly hardened nipples between the thumb and forefingers of each hand, imagining it was Randy's warm lips fondling her bosom. She let her head fall backwards, her back arching as a soft moan escaped her mouth. She licked her lips, biting the bottom one hard - not really hard enough to cause any real pain but enough to leave a dimpled impression. She let the palms of her hands mold and knead her breasts, in her mind they were Randy's strong, masculine hands relentlessly assaulting her body. Her sighs were replaced by longing whimpers, her body suddenly in heat at just the mere thought of his hands on her skin.

Kyle was dying inside. He knew exactly what she was thinking about and the thought sickened him; this new intruder into their lives. Everything was perfectly fine until "Randy" unapologetically dropped himself into the picture. Kyle had been harboring feelings for Brenda for months now, planning how skillfully he would make his feelings known. He was now kicking himself for waiting so long. Brenda hadn't dated in months, but Kyle was too afraid to make his move. Now it was too late. He couldn't compete with "Randy". Kyle was no troll, but he certainly didn't have the aesthetic movie-star looks of Brenda's new boyfriend. Kyle's short, brown hair, pale skin, green eyes and his small but evident pot belly that lightly protruded above his belt buckle couldn't compare with Randy's thick, black curly hair, blue eyes and tanned and chiseled body that rivaled Charles Atlas. Kyle thought Randy must spend every goddamn day in the gym to get a physique like that. He looked down at his small belly and immediately drew in a breath, trying to suck in his gut. He exhaled deeply watching his paunch come back from its hiding. Too much ice cream, he suddenly thought to himself.

Kyle looked back up at Brenda again with a longing that would break the heart of even the most hardened criminal. He quietly reached down over his jeans to massage the stiff and aching rod between his thighs.

One of Brenda's hands had found its way to the front of her panties, and although Kyle couldn't see what her fingers were doing from behind, he had a pretty good idea.

Brenda removed her hands from the inside of her thong and let her fingers slide underneath the thin material clinging to her hips to pull them down. She bent over to pull them down her legs while Kyle watched the red string burrowed between her cheeks slowly peel itself from its hiding spot and rest at her ankles with the rest of the material. Brenda stepped out of the thong and left it on the floor where it lay. It seemed she had other things on her mind at the moment.

She walked over to the bed and rested her right knee on the side of the mattress, her hand finding that sacred area between her legs again. Kyle watched as Brenda let one finger dip inside her pussy, while her other hand relentlessly mauled one of her breasts. Her hips moved back and forth with an unrepentant slowness that threatened to bring Kyle to his knees right at her doorway. He knew she still didn't notice he was standing there while she violated her body in so many obscene ways right in front of him. In his mind, Kyle could taste every inch of her body, her chocolaty brown skin beneath his lips and tongue, her warm body beneath his, her hot breath on his neck. His cock struggled to break free from his jeans and he, feeling the need to let it do so, unfastened his button and unzipped his pants right there in her doorway. He reached inside his briefs and slowly stroked himself, easing some of the discomfort but not nearly enough of it for his liking.

Brenda's hand had picked up speed in the last few seconds Kyle had spent trying to free himself from his clothing. She was even more excited now, her breathing heavier and faster than just a moment before. While her one hand invaded her pussy with wreckless abandon, her other hand had long since abandoned her breast and the middle finger had found a new, warm and wet home between her lips. Her finger slid in and out of her mouth with such seductively slow ease that it brought a muffled growl up from Kyle's throat. He thought the sound would surely give him away, but he was past the point of caring. Even if she saw him, he was sure he wouldn't be able to stop watching and touching himself beneath his pants. 

If Brenda heard him, she gave no indication as her fingers continued their journeys in the two of her hot and wet orifices. Her hunger only seemed to intensify with each stoke of her hand. The silent silhouette that the shawled lamp left on the wall beside her danced a silent tango with Brenda. Every move she made was amplified into a graceful shadowy twin. As Brenda arched her back reveling in the luxurious feel of her fingers inside her, the twin danced the same dance for Kyle on the wall. Kyle leaned his head against the frame of the open door and let his hips pump gently in and out of his hand. He imagined he was deep inside Brenda now. He closed his eyes and imagined her crescendoing moans were the result of him fucking her like she'd never been fucked before. 

Just as Brenda was on the verge of an orgasm, she suddenly stopped. She removed her soaked finger from her wet slit and abruptly opened her eyes. She moaned as she walked over to the nightstand next to her bed and opened the bottom drawer. She reached in and pulled out a red, medium sized dildo, gently laying it on the bed as she closed the drawer again.

Kyle's heart nearly jumped into his throat at the sight of it. Was she really going to do what he thought she was going to do? How could he get so lucky as to watch this incredibly gorgeous woman get herself off with her own personal toy? Kyle held the base of his cock tight, desperately trying to prevent himself from cumming too soon. The mere sight of her pleasure rod nearly sent him over the edge.

Brenda laid herself on the bed, not bothering to pull back any of the sheets, not even the comforter. She propped her head up against the covered pillows as she softly toyed with her clit again. She adjusted herself in the center of the bed, trying to find a good comfort zone to accomplish the daunting task ahead.

She then grabbed the dildo and smoothly slid it in and out of her mouth with one hand, while the other continued to play with her love button getting herself wet and ready for its subsequent invasion. She sucked the rod intensely, making loud slurping noises as she did. She looked as though she was enjoying one of the most succulent lollypops in the world. Her eyes were closed and her hips were writhing beneath her hand. Every now and again she would push the plastic cock as deep into her mouth as she could, then slowly release it with an intense slurp and a sigh.

Kyle's hand was still tightly coiled around the base of his incredibly hard dick. He knew that if he let go, he would come instantly and he didn't want that. 

Oh no. 

He wanted to watch Brenda pleasure herself with her toy and he was going to do just that, come hell or high water.

Once she felt her toy was wet enough, she removed it from her mouth and paved a damp southern trail with it. Between her succulent breasts, down her soft belly and past the lightly trimmed mound between her legs. She let it linger there for a moment, sliding it up, down and around the slick front of her opening, wetting it once more, this time with her womanly juices. Her hips rose and collapsed with every stroke the toy made over her love button. Her eyes were tightly closed and her breathing was heavy and intense. She slid the rod once more over her clit before pursing it at the opening of her pussy. It pierced her opening with excruciating slowness, the much larger head almost forcing its way into the smaller opening. She pushed the base of the dildo harder until its head slipped into her hole causing Brenda to arch her back and moan at its entry. She let it sit there for a moment, letting her body adjust to the size before pushing on further. Bit by bit, she pushed, then paused attempting to take the entire length of the shaft into her soft, wet folds.

Kyle's forehead was supporting the entire weight of his body on the doorway now as little beads of sweat glistened on his face and neck. The smell of sex was heady in the air. Kyle finally roughly pushed his pants and underwear down around his ankles and was eagerly stroking his cock once again. He didn't care if he came now, he had just witnessed the stuff his dreams were made of. All that was left for him now was to watch his beautiful angel come.

Brenda moaned as she pulled the shaft from her womb for the first time. Kyle watched as her brown folds gave way to the pink that lay just beneath them. She once again pushed the dildo deep inside her then pulled it out once again, her hips matching the shaft stroke for stroke. Her free left hand found her nipple and toyed with it while her right hand pleasured her nether regions, releasing soft moans that slowly increased in intensity and volume as she found a comfortable rhythm with her hips. The pace increased as her moans became screams and her body rocked from side to side.

Her legs were wide open now, she was trying to take in as much of her pleasure rod as she could, her hand furiously racing the shaft in and out while it made erotic slurping noises as it entered and exited her body. The faster the pace she kept, the more feverishly her hips writhed, her back almost completely lifting itself from the bed. Brenda's orgasm was racing to the surface and once it finally hit, her entire body lifted from the bed held only by her feet and shoulders as her back arched her almost entirely off the soft surface of her comforter.

Her body and soul crashed in unison, her orgasm escaping her as her body fell back down to the bed below.

Kyle timed his climax to match Brenda's exactly. His body jerked as his semen spurted out in little white pools around his hand and dripped down to his jeans that lay on the floor around his ankles. He rested his entire body against the door frame now, not sure he could even stand on his own if he tried. When he finally looked up again, Brenda had already withdrawn her toy from her pussy and it lay on the bed next to her. She was rubbing the soaked mound with her fingers, easing the intensity of her orgasm as her body slowly came back to Earth.




Melted Music



*Author's Note: The usual "this story's mine" and "only sample if you're old enough/ it is lawful"copyrights and warnings apply. This story came out of a short flash that had much more chocolate and was even more incoherent than this piece of fancy is. This is what happens when I succumb to my flowery literary impulses. Enjoy, and feel free to drop me a line.* This story has also been posted by the wonderful and charming Simon over at the EMCSA.

Does he know I'm here in his house, getting melty on his stash? His speakers, anyway. The stuff they spout is far more potent than from my mp3 player, I don't know why. I twist and the world shutters sideways like the click of a camera and I'm off a frame...I sway back in, I giggle. Where is he, anyway? Usually when the music tells me to come here, he's already waiting. He's usually got something planned. Did I do something wrong?

I watch me slip my hand back up, closer to my mouth; I take a full chomp of my chocolate bar. Melty *god tear it out of me!* and slick, mmm! "I never used to take such big bites before," I thought. I never used to spend whole afternoons getting lost in the flow and fucking before either, but everyone goes through those little changes and transition periods. "Such an explosion of flavor this way; allegro, allegro!" 

Hee, a tempo with the tone...

I twist again and spin and the mirror really does go away this time; I fell off the stool. Clatter clatter, pots and pans and papers falling all around me like a fluttering, silvery-white snow. It's not like him not to clean up before my visit; usually it's spotless so we have room to play, or so I have room to play and he has room to watch, or, you know, whatever else happens here. I'm not so sure all the time. Some records let me remember, and some force me to forget. Some make me forget I forgot, but others let me remember that I did. So confusing, so *forgetting's not good, get out, get ou--* so totally worth it because he's such a wonderful guy and a sweet master with a voice to make a girl cum out her ears or wherever he wants her to...I'd do anything for him. Hee, I might have anyway with how cute he is. His snake charmer voice, leaves me without a choice...

I barely remember how I got here, or the words that slipped into my nose and ears and mouth on the way, filling me up past bursting until I leak and leak and leak, spill and spill and spill to the sound, slide to the sharps and fall before the flats. Programming, yes, but pleasant. 

As if he thought I wouldn't find this playlist, ha! Well, actually, I made it. I made it, built it, filled it with all the songs that make me fuzzy and gooey and melty. They're *my* triggers, so why shouldn't I use them unsupervised? Yum, they make me yummy and dance, twist with my ear-timbrel, no drum, ear*drum*, pounded into shape and dance to the drum, tumble with tune, moan with melody, writhe with rhythm, oh, I still know all the notes! Numbing notes that make me tickle under my skin, melt me from within...

Sometimes there are words, too: some singer's voice, or his...They say and I know and I do, even if I don't remember. Sing my melody, master, and make me your own! *Master? Wait a second, I--* I recall the first time, at least. The time he called into my radio show with a request I couldn't fulfill, and offered to bring me the songs...

So I dance and sing, sing the scales and roll to the repeats, stagger for every second ending, triumph every third, oh, I'm just a minor third! I try not to get snared in the strings of the staff, the spider's web where notes close in on me, rush into me and make me glow, and flow, and oh! Drink my essence live, not blood but nectar, not pain but breathless ecstasy! Momma G, don't let them C, just let me B a dancing D for master, it makes me feel such E, such ecstasy, and I have to *run, no, run, don't--* have to be A singing girl for master or F, I'll fail! Fail and fall off the scale, so I'm just a little clef, a little cleft, oozy and warm and here to be used, slick and singing little cleft dancing my drained mind away, writhing out of something, is it my clothes? My mind? 

My fingers dance and sway, down my sides, time to play! Each tap of the metronome is a tap of my finger, makes me click deep inside. His speakers gush forth the magical, irresistible sound *that oh god won't stop why did I turn them on* as I gush forth my own sticky influence. Tongue licks lips as hands dance, conducted deep inside, scales in and up and so far, grasp the end of every bar and swing, pulsing and pushing and pulling. I don't even know where my jeans went or how I got them off in my falsetto fever, but I think they're up on the couch, somewhere next to the tumbled stool in this cramped apartment, kitchen running into living room like my memory running into my mind into my programming into my compulsions into my cumpulsions into my hand reaching over to turn the volume up and arching my back against the cool tile. 

My mind flies back to myself at hand in hand under his hand, his invisible absent conducting hand like the wand in my mouth, foot tapping a beat on my folds, tongue counting rests in me, oh, the arias of pleasure! I don't understand it, it's so beyond me, but the emotion is pure cuntfelt tone and it sings through every vacuole and vein. 

Building, building, every red blood cell has abandoned oxygen for notes, carrying them through my arteries and up to my heart, shocking it silent. I've become music, melted into the melody as my hands play the counter strain of my little death, eyes bulging up at his ceiling. The notes fly thick and fast in the air, winging like flocks of birds come back from winter to nestle on my writhing frame, perch and tease with feathery wings breathing cool air over vibrato skin. Shiver, shudder, shake, and snap! I'm pure tone pure moan pure groan, pleasured out and prone...

He sounded cute, so when he invited me over to his house to listen to some records, I went. He even offered to lend me a couple to play on-air; so thoughtful. So thought*less*, but that was just me a couple hours later, drooling and sighing and writhing and singing along, singing to the subliminal words that only I could hear, that were so much more poignant than the lyrics but complimented them in such a fundamental way. 

And now I'm *marcato*, marked; accented by his hands, his words, his music.

*DC al fine*.

My hand slides back into the steaming song that is my sex, the fuckable fugue that is my focus of attention. Damn, that feels like home. I've spent so much time inside there lately, it might as well be. *His* home, too. Let's all just make ourselves at home in my---ohhh, there's the fantasy and a change in dynamics and my eyes shut against my will, close me into the hallucination...

*There I am, shooting my mouth off in the station, stretched out languidly with my feet up next to the soundboard. I smooth down my skirt, I adjust my garters. I stretch out one pale arm and push up a slider on the board, reach a toe up to the CD player and let the music run. Simultaneously, he appears in the door behind me. I can feel his presence, his taking precedence to everything...He doesn't even need to speak as the intro ends, just takes two steps into the booth and pulls me out of the chair. He spins me around and shoves me, I have to grab the sides of the board so I don't mess up the sliders. As the music jacks up in intensity, he flips up my skirt and grinds against me, making me feel his zipper before he pulls it down, before he pulls out that glorious conducting cock. He strokes one finger down my spine and I arch my back with the shiver, half impaling myself. He brings himself in the rest of the way and the music starts to build, build as he pushes himself in and out, in and out, as he flicks his finger over my clit like a flutist's tongue flicks her notes. In and out, in and out as he slides his hands over my body like a jazz drummer's brush slides over the drumhead every cool beat. In and in, higher and higher, up and up and--* crack! My climax crescendos unexpectedly, bringing me back to the cool reality of the floor and the empty, aching *morendo*, dying away in tone and time, *morendo, morendo*...

*DC al fine*.

I kind of want to cry; another cum alone. Not a soul but me at home and I might have sold my soul sometime back. Shiver shudder shake. Will this ache ever be slaked? *Not as long as the music's on, turn it off, turn it—not up! No!* And again, there I go. My hands pick delicate chords up and down my sides, over my nipples burning through each bar, over my skin sweating with each successive *stringendo*, pressing and accelerating, *stringendo, stringendo!* I swear when I sweat, but bad girl!

My hands move faster, down and down because it's my undoing, I must be *dolce*, sweet and delicate for him, I am but a *diminuendo* and I *decrescendo* daily...

The music works itself back into my mind and the guitar strings wrap their way around my neurons, they have become my dendrites and only they decide what I hear, what I remember, oh so hot! This is a memory wipe, this is your resistance swept away in a fury of *fortissimo*, a rush of red-hot *ritard* and your brain's going nowhere for a while, doing no heavy lifting for the foreseeable future. My breath is coming in gasps, my hands are running up and down my body, twisting my nipples, squeezing my tits because they need to be hurt just a little, clenching my muscles and pumping in and out of my tight little music-maker, my moan-maker, moaning because it made me, because he made me, because the notes are rising and drowning me in a tide of, a tide of, a tide of ohwhitehotlove!

*DC al fine*.

I try to raise a hand, but it drops back to the floor. I feel empty, lightheaded, satisfied. Heavy chested, heaving chested and burning lungs, I need a rest...but the music is still playing, calls no slinking off to sleep. The chocolate bar lies half melted just beyond my reach. A silent tear rises to my eye and falls slowly off my face. The rush feels so good every time, but there's never a quiet moment. There's only volume, rising louder until I scream with it in pain, can't stop, repeat, first ending, second ending, third ending, never ending! No double bars in sight but they're all around me, taunting, must, must continue on into the night! My hands attempt to play, legs spread askew on his kitchen floor, moaning and shuddering, hands shaking chords in the air I can't play, can't play, can't...play...can't...pl...

..."--at are you doing?!" he yelled as he ran at me, slamming the door, dropping his books. The volume of my wailing cunny sinks to a low moan. Still throbbing, still needy. But he, he takes precedence over the music. He's talking, waving his hands, strong and lightly calloused for hitting my high notes...hands, scrabbling? Pulling, pulling out...wires? He's talking, pleading, sobbing indistinct words too fuzzy to hear, pulling and—the speakers go dead. 

My world explodes in white light and the silence is the most beautiful noise I've ever heard.

"*dance*..." he breathes into my ear through the mist. Into my ear, into my mind. Spiderweb fault-lines appear. A squeak escapes my vocal cords and I twitch...and calm. I'm in his arms, cradled in his arms. Cleaned, fully clothed, wrapped in him. In his love? Maybe he'll sing me a lullaby.

"*sing*..." he rasps into my ear, into my mind. Sound as penetration, imagination, impregnation; piercing. So much powerful than visuals could ever be, that's how he was able to reach me...The chasms yawn. My puzzled eyes peer up at my protector, my comforter, my torturer, my...friend? I snuggle into his arms and chest, soaking up comfort from the rhythm of his heartbeat.

"*love*..." he commands, and the world shatters in a blinding calliope kaleidescope of symphonies and shock rock. 

Music as my lifeline. Mp3's as meds, earbuds as Iv's. 

The confusion clears and soft music pulses lightly in my ears. I tense—but nothing. No compulsions, no reflexes, no instructions. No nothing. 

I don't bother to open my eyes; I can feel the radiance of his smile on my skin answering the spread of my own joy across my face. I'm plugged in, buds in my ears but...the wires stretch only lightly, out to my hand. He's given me back to myself.



Melted



Kyle had pulled up his clothes, his hands and pants still wet from his orgasm. He attempted to reassemble himself, he pushed his softening cock back into his pants and zipped and fastened his jeans again.

Brenda was up off the bed now. She'd walked over to her clothes drawer, found a nightie, slid the cotton gown on and wrapped her robe and its belt tightly around her body. She then disappeared inside the master bathroom, quickly re-emerging with a small, damp washcloth in her hands. She walked over to where Kyle was standing and handed it to him. 

"Did you like the show?" She asked standing on her tiptoes and kissing him lightly on the cheek. The stunned expression on his face puzzled her. 

"Oh, come on! You certainly didn't think I didn't know you were standing there, did you?" She asked smiling. "You're not the most stealth observer in the world, you know," she added.

Kyle didn't know what to say. He took the towel from her and wiped his hands and what he could of his clothing of his spilled seed. 

"I'm sure it's melted by now," Brenda said just before closing her bedroom door in front of him and trotting off to bed for the night. Kyle stood looking at the closed door, not really understanding what she'd meant. Then, all at once, it hit him.

He dashed back to the kitchen and sighed as his much cherished tub of Rocky Road ice cream was leaking from all sides of its container, the spoon now buried in the soggy white and brown mud. Kyle simply shook his head and chuckled. Even though he would miss his favorite treat tonight, he was comfortable with the fact that he had gotten an even better one in its place.



Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 01



Copyright 2009, All Rights Reserved

Chapter 1.

The family together at Christmas was a joyous occasion. The tree lights on, our children and grandchildren running around the room like the proverbial 'Wild Indians' your parents always called you when you were young and full of too much energy to be contained. 

At our house, we had a particular set of gift-giving traditions. 

On Christmas Eve, we would eat a sumptuous dinner, usually a prime-rib roast, with potatoes, dressing, a dish that we called a 'spinach soufflé' but which was really a casserole, and all the rest, pies, raspberry Jell-O, more than I can even remember. 

Wines for the adults, sparkling cider for the kids, after-dinner chocolates, all consumed with that rare intensity that a holiday brings. 

We would all eat too much, and at least the adults around the table were quietly desperate to go to bed and overcome the lassitude of digestion.

We would give one gift to each family member after dinner, to be opened, and then bed for the little ones. For some of us, there was still work to do that could only be accomplished after they had, despite all of their most valiant efforts to remain awake and vigilant, fallen off to sleep.

In the morning, the children (now grandchildren) would wake up and demand to be allowed down to where Santa had left his gifts, under the tree. We older folks would grudgingly give up our warm and cozy beds, put on robes and slippers, and surrender to the children's desire to attack the gaily attired presents under the tree. 

Even then, though, we limited the satiation of greed. 

We had stockings full of small presents, and everyone opened their 'stocking stuffers' — often food, or books, CD's, DVD's and other small presents.

Then we all sat down at the table and had a breakfast made of handmade cinnamon rolls. Made by yours truly's own hands, several days ahead of time, as it took most of a day to make them.

Then back to the tearing and ripping of Christmas paper, bows and ribbons thrown hither and thither, as Mother (also known as Grandmother to some, and Martha to me, at least) handed them out, one at a time, making sure that everyone would have roughly the same number opened, and the same number remaining.

When virtually all of the other presents had been opened, and the special Christmas wrap around the base of the tree was visible again, I reached into the pocket of my robe, and withdrew a small box that I handed to Martha.

She looked at the size of the box, and then up at me, with an expectant gleam in her eyes.

"Good things," she proclaimed to all in the room, a huge smile on her face, "come in small packages!"

I smiled back at her, and sat back in my chair, while she contemplated the box.

"Hmmm..." she murmured, shaking the box close to her ear, to hear any movement.

"I think it's too small to be an elephant," she confided to the grandchildren, who all laughed, knowing how silly Grandma was being.

"And I doubt that your Dad wrapped it," she said to the adult children, "since the paper is so tight on the box." This was an inside joke with the family. I could fix almost anything, but don't ask me to wrap a gift.

"Not to mention, there is a jewelry story label on the back of the box!" she exclaimed with a laugh, as if this was somehow a mystery solved. At that, the adults laughed, including me. Like Sherlock Holmes, she had solved the case of the anonymous gift box. Deduction, my dear Watson, simple deduction.

She finally opened the box, and drew out the 14 carat gold chain with its pear-shaped diamond pendent, which she held up for everyone to see. Everyone oohed and awed as they were supposed to.

Martha looked at me and with the smile still on her face, said,

"Oh Mark, this is lovely! You are so good to me. Thank you."

And then turned away to show her daughter'ss her gift. The day continued on, once my gift to my wife of thirty-plus years was given, the rest of the day anti-climactic for me. 

Finally came the end of the day, the piling and stacking of suitcases, and duffel-bags, and with the added crowding effect of the gifts, into the cars and minivans, as our children and their families pulled away into the evening.

We stood there in the doorway, Martha and myself, my arm around her waist, and waved as the cars pulled out of the driveway and into the street, and with the hint of smoke coming from the exhausts as drivers stepped down on the gas peddles, the family departed, leaving us alone once again.

As soon as the cars were out of sight, Martha pulled herself away from my embrace, to head back into the house and begin the task of straightening out the residual trash, returning our domicile to its more or less natural (meaning just the two of us) condition.

There were bags and bags of paper and trash to be left out for the garbage collectors, and this was one of the only weeks of the year when loose bags could be stacked next to the large plastic containers for pick-up. I dutifully hauled out the entire load, since tomorrow, the day after Christmas just happened to be our pickup day this year.

Dinner was quiet, as both Martha and I were talked-out after having all of the family back in our home for two-days straight. In some ways, the leftovers for dinner were even better the second time around, for one thing because all we had to do was microwave them to heat them up. Much easier than the cooking process the first time.

We cleaned up our dishes, and resealed the plastic containers of left-overs that now filled our refrigerator to its maximum capacity. The day was, at long last, done.

I went into my once again free office, the trundle bed no longer occupying a large portion as we used it for our younger son and his wife. I checked out my email, and looked at a couple of the news sites and brought myself up-to-date with what was going on in the world. 

Martha was out reading her latest mystery novel in the living room, no doubt feeling a certain relief that having the house empty again.

I joined her, catching up on the newspapers that I'd set aside while the family was here.

When Martha stood up, and said that she was going to get ready for bed, I stood up as well, and halted her progress by putting my arms loosely around her waist.

She looked at me curiously, as if she couldn't imagine what I was doing.

"Martha, I thought that maybe tonight, we could, well, you know...make love," I started, my voice almost pleading, betraying my emotions.

Her look could kill, as she jerked herself out of my arms.

"Is that what that pendent was about? You think that you can bribe me for sex?" she almost hissed.

"No, Martha, I just remembered that you'd seen it and admired it..." I backed off, in an unconsciously defensive movement.

"You know how I feel about sex. We've had our children, and there's no reason that I should have to accommodate your animal desires anymore. We're not that young anymore, you know," she was now walking away from me, back towards the bedrooms.

"If that's what you think, you can take your pendent and get your money back," she told me loudly so that I could hear her even though she was facing away from me.

"Honey, we're not even sixty yet; it's not like we're on death's door. Most people our age..." I stopped trying to talk to her, because it was clear that she wasn't listening.

Then in a quieter voice, from her bedroom, I could hear her talking to herself.

"If he can't control his urges, then I wish he'd go find someone else to take care of it, and not expect me..." came her angry voice until I heard the bathroom door in the bedroom close.

I had sat back down in my chair in the living room, completely shocked at her response, even though by now I shouldn't have been. This had been the reaction I'd been getting for a long time. Like five years or so. 

Even then, we had made love at least once a month; then as time went on, maybe six or seven times a year, and now — well, I seemed to remember having sex — six, or was it nine, months ago.

Shortly afterwards, Martha came back out into the hall to informed me,

"Well, I hope you're happy. You've just ruined what was until then, a wonderful day! And Christmas Day, no less," Martha concluded, as she closed the door.

I sat there, my face in my hands, ready to ... to ...oh who cares, I'd had it.

Once again, I had begged my wife, her royal highness it seems, for what should have been a natural and necessary part of our married life. Instead of her acquiescing or at least listening to me, I'm sitting here, humiliated, angry, and most of all, sad. Sad with that feeling of loss, that once I had a marriage, and now I have some sort of pale, phony imitation of the real thing.

I'm not sure how long I sat like that, leaning over, my elbows on my legs, my hands supporting my face, but I decided then and there that I would not accept it again. I would not allow her to hurt me this way. I had given up. I would never ask or expect Martha to make love, or 'have sex' as she phrased it, again.

How had things come to this point, anyway?

***

As a young man, I had always wanted to be an engineer. The kind that used slide rules (then), not the ones who ran a train — although I always thought that operating a train might be a hell of a lot of fun too!

I was good at math, and when I graduated from high-school, I entered into the engineering program at one of the state colleges, Cal Poly. I loved the program, although it was tough. The science and engineering students were a pretty bright group, although we did tend to resemble the prototypical image of the 'geek.' 

My particular area of study was in electrical engineering, which was very exciting at the time — with the transistor technologies replacing vacuum tubes maybe ten- to fifteen-years earlier, and less than ten years in the future we would witness the explosion of the I.C. — the integrated circuit. 

I think that I was less 'geeky' than a lot of my fellow engineering students, as I was fairly lean, standing just a little under 6-feet tall, wavy light-brown hair, and hazel eyes. I didn't need glasses (for another 20-years anyway) and I knew how to dress. 

I was, at a minimum, able to blend in with the general student body. That didn't mean I had much of a social life, but that was because of the demanding curriculum of the engineering school, which just didn't leave us time, even on the weekends, for much outside of studying. 

I was a Junior when I got my first 'four-banger' calculator. What a miracle! Goodbye to the slide rule, hello to the I.C. They had been around for a couple of years before I could afford one. A couple of the professors had early HP calculators that cost in excess of $400. 

Then, one day, HP cut the price in half, and the low-cost competitors were manufacturing them for $80-$100. Hey, it didn't take much to get us science, math and engineering types excited. Oh yeah, one of my professors bought one of those $400 calculators right before the price cut. Boy was he pissed at HP!

After the normal four (plus a couple of summers) years of college, I managed to graduate and enter into that rather ugly universe: the real world! Yes, to my father and mother's eternal joy and surprise, I actually ended up with a job, out on my own, supporting myself. Don't get the wrong idea; they were happy to have me back home as long as it was a 'visit' where after a couple of days they knew I would return to my apartment. 

I met Martha at church.

Confession time here: I was not and never was one of those sex crazed young studs out there to get as much pussy as I could find. I had always attended church with my parents. Although when I was on my own during college, I wouldn't call myself a regular, I would at least sometimes show up for services, either on campus, or at one of the local churches. And when I got my first engineering job, down in the San Fernando Valley, I began attending one of the larger non-denominational churches in the area.

My selection wasn't at random. I had read about this particular church, especially about its large youth and singles programs. 

It was at a 'get to know each other' type function for the young singles group that I first met Martha. It wasn't the classic 'love at first sight' or anything; she was one of several young women who I met that night who seemed to be nice people and who (to be honest) were good enough looking to be of interest.

Martha, who it turned out had gotten her degree in Business Economics from UCLA, was about 5' 5" tall, so about five inches shorter than me, and was slim without being skinny. Her shoulder length, dark-brown hair was surprising when you saw the light blue color of her eyes. She smiled easily, and was at ease, more than I was, in a crowd.

That first night, I talked to her for ten or fifteen minutes, before going on to someone else. That was how these things were run; we had to limit who we spoke with to about 15 minutes, and then move on and meet someone else. So over the course of the evening, I spoke to six or eight different women from the group. 

But as the event was shutting down, that good looking brunette, Martha, who must have made enough of an impression on me that I remembered her name, walked over and handed me a piece of paper, and told me how much she had enjoyed meeting me. Written on the paper was her phone number. Or, I should say, her parent's phone number because she was still living at home.

Our courtship was done in the way that such things were, back then, at least within our fairly religious environment. Meeting parents, dating in public venues, a lot of group activities, with the level physical contact and intimacy growing over time, but not going to those final steps until it was clear that there was a significant, and most likely permanent, relationship in sight.

About a year after we first met, we were wed by our pastor in our church, surrounded by our family and friends. After the wedding reception (where minimal alcohol was served — mostly the Champaign for toasts), Martha and I left for our hotel suite, two virgins heading into the great unknown of connubial bliss.

We did consummate the wedding that night, and not unexpectedly, it was a bumbling and inexpert affair. Martha didn't seem to have any particular pain, although there was enough bleeding to know that she had truly been 'intact', and if it wasn't the greatest sex imaginable, it held promise that we would get better with time and practice.

The following morning, we left on an early morning flight for Hawaii, where we spent the next week.

Our honeymoon there was completely normal — walking on beaches, holding hands, making love, snorkeling, sailing, and attending tourist luaus at the hotel. We returned to the mainland in love, and, it turned out, with Martha pregnant with our first child. By all standards, a successful beginning to a lifetime partnership.

Upon our return we got back into the swing of everyday life, only now we were living together in my apartment, Martha having moved out of her parent's home and into my care.

We both had jobs in the Valley, close to my apartment.

I was working for a company best known for their defense business, although we also had a significant portion of the civilian market for radar systems as well. I was one of the engineers involved with new systems development, design and testing. The job was great, it was exactly what I had studied for, and it was a constant challenge during the time, almost 30-years that I was working there. 

While I was involved with the business, we went from systems relying on vacuum tubes (necessary at the time for high-power applications) and wired circuits, to systems using solid-state devices and hybrid IC/Microwave circuits, with computer controls that could make our systems jump and roll over, on command! 

If terms like 'spooking' and 'spoofing,' and 'phased array' mean anything to you, you know what I'm talking about.

I know that to an outsider, my work sounds pretty dull, but to someone with my background, this was hot stuff I was working on.

Martha worked for one of the large insurance companies, at their headquarters, also located in the Valley. She was not involved in the insurance end of the business; she worked in the accounting and finance department, where she held various positions over the years. 

She hadn't worked the entire time, actually taking a couple of years off when our sons, Dan and Josh, were young. But she was able to return to her firm after the hiatus, even regaining her seniority, despite her time off. The first couple of years back, she worked part-time, and then, as the boys got older, she gradually returned to full-time employment.

In essence, like a lot of people in those untroubled times, we worked basically our whole careers at a single firm. Seems like an antiquated idea these days, doesn't it?

Although my job had been a very rewarding career, there came a time, when the defense budget's started to cycle into one of their down times, and the contracts we were getting to be more evolutionary, rather than revolutionary, designs, and I found myself frankly a little bored. It was time for a change.

I had reached a point with the company that based on my 'points' — a combination of age and years worked, that I was max'ed out for retirement anyway. I was 54 years-old, but as I calculated it, I could continue working for another 10-years there, but I would be as well off retiring early as staying at a job that had become something of a burden to me. 

When the company offered a special early-retirement incentive plan, I jumped at it. As usual, the unintended consequences for the company surprised them; I think that most of the folks they would have liked to see take the early retirement didn't, and a bunch of us who did, they would have liked to keep. Oh well, management's mistake.

Nevertheless, I soon found myself retired, albeit with a consulting agreement that let them get some of my time for a much higher rate than what I had been paid in salary. 

More exciting, I had landed a teaching job at one of the local Junior Colleges in their engineering program! Talk about landing on one's feet. I would teach several of the lower division engineering classes, as well as classes in the math department on an 'as needed' basis.

I found that I loved teaching, and professionally, I was happy as a clam, after three-years in the classroom.

Martha was still working at the same insurance company where she had started so many years before, only now, she was one of the Directors in her group, with a fair possibility that she would become the Vice-President of Finance within a few years, when the current V-P retired.

***

As I said, I sat there in my chair, that Christmas Day evening, but finally I dragged myself up and walked down the hallway and back to the master bedroom.

I entered the bedroom, and looked at the king-sized bed.

We'd had a queen-size for most of our marriage, but a couple of years before, Martha decided to move into one of our son's old rooms, that we had been using as a guest room. She told me she found it difficult to sleep with me, and to some extent I could understand that — our space requirements had 'expanded' over the years, to the point that the bed was pretty crowded, as we started to need extra pillows to support for our aging legs and backs as we slept.

I'm a problem solver, so I shopped around knowing my wife's preference in a mattress, and one day brought a new king-sized bed, with a thick layer of that 'Swedish Memory Foam' on top, to make us more comfortable.

Martha's response wasn't what I had hoped for.

She agreed with me that the mattress was very comfortable, and the bed certainly large enough to accommodate both of us, pillows and all. But, she told me, she had grown accustomed to sleeping by herself, without having me tossing and turning, and making noise in my sleep, so she was going to continue sleeping in 'her' room. It was not, she assured me, unusual for couples as they got older to find it more convenient to sleep in separate rooms. As did The Queen and Price Philip, for example. Boy, did knowing that comfort me.




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 01



Like our master bedroom, the guest room that Martha now occupied had its own bathroom, so every morning I would notice that fewer and fewer of her lotions, soaps, and creams in the master bath, until it had, de facto, become my bathroom alone. Similarly, the clothes in her bureau in the master bedroom mysteriously migrated, when I wasn't around to see them, until the chest-of-drawers was empty. 

The exception to this rule was that the walk-in closet, where the longer dresses, sweaters, and her shoes resided remained in place, I assume because there was not a similar storage space in the guest bedroom.

I'm not sure if Martha noticed when I took her old, now empty, chest-of-drawers out and stored it in a room at the back of the garage. 

Our house, as might be expected in a household of two working, decently high-earning professionals, was large, on a one-third acre lot, and located in one of the nicer areas of the north Valley. The local public schools were safe, and did a reasonable job educating our two boys. Yards were kept up, there weren't any rental houses on the street (at least not that I knew of) and real estate values had risen regularly, until the recent decline that had effected everyone's real estate. 

Even then, there weren't any foreclosures in our neighborhood. Everyone was able to make their payments and ride out the storm, knowing that in the long run upper-middle class neighborhoods like ours would regain their lost value.

***

My mind back in the present, I shook my head, sitting there on the bed. For a couple of days, I'd gotten overly hopeful. 

Earlier in the week, Martha had moved back into our bedroom, and into our king-sized bed. My expectation was that once she had slept there for a couple of nights, she would return permanently. But that was not to be.

She was, I concluded, sharing a bed with me to make room for one of my sons and his wife, while they were visiting for Christmas — and, I suspect, to keep them unaware of the true state of our living arrangements. Once they left for their own homes, several hours distant, she reverted to sleeping in 'her' room.

I had to face the facts: my wife simply didn't want to share my bed, if at all possible. 

With those happy thoughts, I undressed, brushed my teeth, put on some pajamas (even in Los Angeles it can get a bit brisk in the winter) and went to bed. I slept surprisingly well, but honestly, that new mattress is very comfortable.

Chapter 2.

One of the benefits of teaching is the time off between semesters. Unlike Martha, whose job demanded that she return to work for the week between Christmas and New Years (unless she took it off as vacation), I was off from the third week of December, until the second week of January, for Winter Break.

That was how it came about that several days after the Christmas debacle; I was going out to the grocery store to do some shopping. While we still had a huge amount of left-overs, there were also items that we needed to replenish — diet sodas, a big one, since I drank three or four a day, and we were getting low on my favorite variety. The previous night I had gone through the refrigerator and the cupboards, and made a list of the various foodstuffs where our supplies were running low.

In the morning, after Martha had departed for work, I was dressed and ready to gird my loins and face the crowds at the grocery store. As I walked over to the counter where I had left my list, I saw that Martha had put a list of her shopping needs on top of mine. Shampoo, bath soap, her favored face cream, and perhaps a dozen other items for me to pick up at the store.

I can't really say why I did it, it was just a visceral response, but I picked my list up from beneath hers, and in the process, her list fell, face down and slid under the kitchen table.

I looked at it, but I didn't pick it up. I just left it there on the floor. For the first time that I could remember in our married life, Martha made a request of me, and I simply, intentionally ignored it. 

My trip to the store took about an hour, and once I got home, it took me a similar amount of time to bring the groceries into the house, and put them away where they belonged. Once that was done, I made myself a platter of leftovers which I heated in the microwave for lunch, and ate.

The whole afternoon was still open, and rather than do chores, or work around the house, I decided to treat myself, and go to our local bookstore.

It was one of my not-so-secret pleasures to go to the bookstore. This was not one of the small, dark and dingy bookstores of my youth; it was large brightly lit, well staffed with bright young people, with chairs and couches placed in alcoves for reading, as well as its own coffee shop, with a selection of baked goods, all in one large store. 

It was designed to be a place for social gatherings; far more than merely a setting for the buying of books! And it always lured me into its seductive web, enticing me with displays of the newest fiction and non-fiction, in both hard-back, or paperback; mysteries, novels, romance, science, biography — in other words, a bibliophile's dream.

Having a cup of coffee there was yet another of my small vices. Yes, in addition to drinking three or four diet sodas a day, it was not unusual for me to have a couple cups of coffee as well. I don't smoke, so I needed my caffeine, otherwise how could I compete with all of the nicotine addicts?

So there I was, sitting alone at one of the tables in the bookstore, sipping java and contemplating.

When I first arrived, I had gone over to peruse the section where they have all of the books on improving your marriage, and heating up your sex life. I looked at them for awhile, until a young woman, accompanied by her equally young boyfriend/husband/significant other walked into the section as well. 

Somehow the shame of even being there at my age, after thirty-some-years of marriage, was too much for me to accept — I pretended to be looking at some psychology text book instead, and left as quickly as I could without actually breaking into a run.

As I reflected, getting yet another book wasn't going to help me in any case. I'd read enough of them already, and it had all been for naught.

Even as naive as I had been when we were first married, I knew that there were a lot of sexual practices that other people engaged in that Martha and I didn't. An engineer to the core, I acquired 'manuals' — books on the subject, and read-up.

Understand that I was never contemplating the more 'out there' activities, like swinging, or threesomes, or getting some guy over to have sex with my wife. I got a small smile on my face as I thought of how horrified Martha would have been if I even suggested anything along those lines. Even exhibitionism or voyeurism would have been far over the edge for us, and I mean both of us. We weren't that kind of people, we were quiet, shy, and private.

But I did think that we could try out different positions, and within the framework of marriage, we could certainly engage in oral sex, and even anal sex wouldn't be out of the question. 

There were even Christian Ministers who were giving seminars and holding retreats to encourage Christians to have a rich and pleasurable sex life. The old medieval notion that sex was solely for procreation has gone by the wayside long ago and it was widely taught that sex was the ultimate gift of God to couples, to engage in with each other. 

And that did include oral and anal sex as well, so long as it wasn't causing pain or being forced onto an unwilling partner. 

I even scheduled us to attend one of those seminar/retreats, but Martha nipped that idea in the bud, and I canceled our reservation.

We did do a certain amount of experimentation. We had sex 'doggie' style, which Martha found to be 'impersonal and undignified,' whatever that meant; we tried it with her on top, which she found too exhausting. A couple of positions required Martha to be more flexible than she was able. In short, pretty soon it was clear that anything except 'missionary' met with her disapproval for one reason or another.

When the suggestion of 'oral' sex came up, was one of the first times that Martha blew her stack.

The very idea of her using her mouth on my sex organ, that thing that I peed with, was completely disgusting and unacceptable. And how, she asked, could I even think of putting my mouth 'down there'? What was I thinking? Was I some sort of pervert?

Oddly enough, there were a couple of times, when after having a couple of glasses of wine at friend's homes, Martha allowed me to lick her clitoris, and she seemed to get a great deal of pleasure out of it, but by the next morning, she would reproach me for having taken advantage of her, and make it clear that it should never happen again. 

I was always suspicious that the real problem was that if she was letting me give her oral pleasure, that she would be under some obligation to reciprocate, and that was her real problem with my using my mouth on her.

I never bothered to hint at trying out anal sex. If my penis or her vagina were too dirty to lick, I couldn't imagine what she would have said about the concept of my inserting my penis into her anus.

Yet, even plain vanilla missionary position sex was better than no sex at all, and that was what I was getting recently. In fact, one of the things that hurt so much was that when a wife denies her husband sex and the intimacy of foreplay, it is telling him that in some profound way, she doesn't love him. At least, not anymore.

In the marriage vows, when the pastor speaks of 'two become one', it seemed to me that there was an undeniable implication of the act of sexual union between a man and a woman. What could be a more intimate union, the coupling of two people, when a woman accepts her husband's penis into her body; or in a complementary fashion, what could tie a man more to a woman than the fact that she is the one with whom he joins, sharing his pleasure as well as putting his seed in her womb?

In fact, my mind wandered on the whole concept of 'two become one'; the arguments about 'when life begins' was actually kind of silly. Because when a man and woman join in a sexual union, it is his live sperm joining with her live eggs — that is a continuation of life, a new generation, but no 'new' life is created. It is the non-ending extension of life, the ultimate example of 'two-becoming-one.'

Granted Martha and I were long past child bearing ages, but when she denied sex to me, she was telling me that she no longer desired that union, that there was something about me that she no longer wanted or needed. And that is about as bruising to a mans ego, self-esteem, whatever you want to call it, as anything I could imagine. 

In addition, I found myself feeling humiliated at begging my wife for sex, only to be told no, as if it was some sort of privilege to which I was unworthy. That I was debasing myself to approach her as some sort of supplicant.

Sex between two people provides another vitally important benefit as well.

It is hard for two people to live together for extended periods, under any circumstances. That's why when marriages last for thirty- or forty- or fifty- years or more, it seems so astonishing. There are inevitable frictions in everyday life, disagreements over who should do what around the house; whether to attend activities together that one party enjoys more than the other; a million small compromises always to be made. 

If a couple is having regular intimacy and sex, it provides a certain lubricant, a willingness to give a little, to forgive, to worry about doing non-sexual things to please your partner. After all, how can you be angry or irritated for long with the person who joins with you in that most life affirming act of shared pleasure, sex?

My philosophizing was suddenly interrupted by a woman's voice.

"Mark McDonald, is that you?" came the lilting soprano voice.

I looked up, only to see an old family friend, Stephanie Michaels, standing next to the table. I jerked myself to my feet.

"Stephanie! What a pleasure to see you," I said with complete sincerity.

Stephanie took a step closer to me, and gave me a firm hug. She held me for a moment, putting her head on my chest, before standing back a step and looking up at me. Stephanie was 5-feet tall if she wasn't wearing heels, so she was looking up about eleven or twelve inches when I was standing.

"Do you have a minute to join me?" I asked, more hopeful and cheerful than I had been for at least a couple of days.

"Of course," she replied, "Let me get myself a cup of coffee. Can I leave my bag here on the table?"

"Steph, you just sit down here, and I'll get you your coffee. Please?" was my instinctual response.

Stephanie acquiesced, and I fetched her a cup of hot hazelnut coffee, with low-fat milk (not cream) and two packs of non-sugar sweetener.

"Oh, Mark! You are such a gentleman," she laughed gently, as I sat down again, placing the hot cup in front of her.

Stephanie was one of those classic redheads — not just the red hair, but green eyes, and a pale, and in her case, flawless complexion. She was petite, with a small waist, and nicely proportioned hips. Her breasts weren't really large, but on her small frame, they stood out. 

She also had the personality often associated with red heads; she was feisty, loyal, the best of friends (the worst of enemies); always completely living in 'the now.' I adored her. 

She was, like Martha and I, also in her fifties, and was a widow, her physician husband, John, one of my best friends, having dropped dead of a brain aneurysm about twenty-months before.

She put the sweetener into her coffee and stirred it, and then, smiling, reached over, placed her hand on top of mine for a moment and asked,

"Now, tell me what's going on with you and Martha."

If you believe that I actually told her what was going on between me and my wife, you would be wrong.

I did tell Steph about having the kids and grandchildren over for Christmas, as well as relating a few stories about our vacation the previous September. Nothing particularly interesting.

But I was more curious about how Stephanie was doing.

"How long has it been since we last got together?" I asked, sincerely trying to remember. 

After her husband John's death we tried to have her over every so often, so that she wouldn't just retreat into a shell. But, so far as I could remember, we hadn't actually seen her for maybe, nine months, I was guessing. The thought came to me unbidden: about the same length of time since I'd made love with Martha.

"Too long, Mark, and its all my fault. I just wasn't feeling very social for a long time," she told me.

"After John died, I just couldn't face people. I appreciated you and Martha having me over, keeping an eye on me. It was a trying time," she said, with a serious look on her face.

"You know, I kept the sheets on our bed for about six weeks after he died, because I wanted to smell him in the bed with me. I finally gave up and washed them," she laughed at herself, wrinkling her nose at the thought of leaving her bed linens to go that long, "His smell had faded by then, anyway."

"And remember that ratty old sweater that he would wear around the house all the time? After I finally put clean sheets on the bed, I would take that old sweater and wrap it into a ball and take it to bed with me," she concluded, but then a smile appeared on her face.

"But I'm doing what I know John would have wanted me to do, and getting my life back again. In fact, I'm going to be spending my time in your bailiwick," she grinned.

"How's that?" I asked, a little curious about what she meant.

"I'm starting a couple of classes at the J.C. in the Spring semester. Just fun things, like creative writing and ballroom dancing. I don't expect that I'll be taking any of the classes that you teach," she replied, with a look of bright anticipation on her face.

"What? You don't dream of taking 'Intro to Mechanics' every night?" I laughed as I facetiously asked her.

"No, Mark, in fact," she was teasing back, "I don't think that I've ever had the slightest desire to take 'Intro to Mechanics'; in fact, I haven't got the slightest clue what it is!" 

I looked as serious as I could as I replied,

"It's probably for the best anyway. I would hate to be accused of favoring a young coed in my class, which, you being one of my favorite people of all time, I would have to do."

"Mark — you're so evil!" Steph was having a good time now, "First, you're only a couple of years older than me; so much for 'a young coed', and second, I know the President of the College, and your wife, so if you don't let me skate through your classes, I can put the pressure on."

"OK, OK, I give up!" I raised my hands in mock surrender, "Do with me what you will."

Stephanie got a big smile on her face at that, and leaned in close, so she could whisper to me across the table,

"Listen handsome, don't make offers like THAT to an old broad who hasn't had any for twenty-months."

I think that I blushed like a teenage boy. I hadn't had a woman call me 'handsome' since, well, to tell the truth, I couldn't actually remember. And honestly? I almost instantaneously started getting a hard-on. 

Then Stephanie, seeing my discomfiture, continued on,

"Anyway, I start classes on the Tuesday after the semester starts."

"Oh great!" I exclaimed, "Then we can have coffee or lunch together at school. I would really enjoy that."

"I look forward to it," Steph agreed, and paused before speaking again, 

"Do you remember how we used to joke that if we were going to be lost on a desert island, that we wanted John and you there, because as a physician, John could fix our bodies, and as an engineer, you could fix everything else?"

"Sure. Those were wonderful times," I smiled as I replied. They had been wonderful times, but alas, John, in the end, couldn't fix his own body. I found my mind wandering to times past with John and Stephanie.

Steph could see that I was somewhat preoccupied, so after a few seconds, she interrupted my train of thought,

"Earth to Mark!"

My attention recaptured, I smiled and looked at her.

"OK, gotta go," she told me, as she was getting up, "but I'll see you at school."

"Promise?" I queried, standing up too.

"Promise," she replied, and then she reached up, and I leaned down, and she kissed me, not really on the cheek, but about half-way on my lips, at the corner of my mouth.

It was a small thing, not any sort of romantic kiss, but the best I'd had for awhile.

***

That evening I was fixing dinner when Martha arrived home.

Fixing dinner may have been a misnomer, because with the children out of the house, we had taken to buying pre-made food, in serving sizes for two, that for the most part only required heating up in the over or microwave.

So reality was, I was simply warming the main dish and veggies, and mixing a pre-made salad, complete with croutons, eggs and pieces of nuts and cheese. Oh yes, I set dishes and silverware on the table as well.

"I'm home," I heard Martha call from the entrance, before she disappeared for a couple of minutes.

I laid out the plates with the Salmon fillets, with lemon/dill butter sauce and capers on it, next to the asparagus spears, that I had sprinkled with Parmesan cheese and served with a dollop of blue cheese dressing, and a separate bowl for the salad.

Martha came into the kitchen, and looking at the plates on the table (we usually eat at the kitchen table unless we have company), nodded her head in approval.

"I see you went shopping today," she stated, seeing several items that had not been there this morning.

"Did you get the things on my list?" she asked.




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 01



"No," I said, rather flatly.

Then Martha saw her list lying face down on the floor and picked it up.

"Darn, my list must have blown off the counter. When are you going shopping again?" was her next question.

"Probably not until early next week," I replied, vague about the actual timing.

"I need a couple of these things before the weekend," she sighed, "I guess I'll have to go to the drug store at lunch or on my way home and pick them up."

I solemnly nodded my head in agreement. Yes, indeed. From now on, if she wanted things that were strictly for her, she would have to get them herself.

I suppose that Martha told me all about her day, and gave me her standard litany of complaints about her department, the Vice-President, the work-load, and whatever. I wasn't really paying attention, and when I finished my dinner, I got up from the table and began to clean my plates and silverware off and put them into the dishwasher.

Martha was looking at me with a shocked expression on her face, as I walked out of the kitchen and back to my office. I suspect that she knew I hadn't been paying any attention to her during dinner, and now, instead of waiting for her to finish dinner and working together to clean up, I had just taken care of myself, and left.

I had booted up my computer and was checking my email, and the schedules that would be posted by now for the coming school semester. There were no surprises in my classes, no last minute changes or cancellations, so I was content. 

Just for the hell of it, I got on to the general class schedule and looked up "Beginning Ballroom Dancing", noted that it was held Tuesday and Thursday evening from 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM, and the instructor was listed as 'Williamson', under the P.E. department.

After thinking about it for a second or two, I went to the registration section of the site, and signed myself up to 'audit' P.E. 160, Beginning Ballroom Dancing. As an instructor, taking classes was one of the 'free' benefits, and this was the first time since I'd started that I actually indulged.

The thought of taking a class with Stephanie sounded like it might be fun.

Logging off my computer for the time being, a book beckoned me, a mystery that I'd been meaning to read for some time. With an evening to kill, I picked it up, turned the reading light on above my favorite chair, and settled in, intending to spend the evening with a good book.

Almost as soon as I had gotten into the chair, Martha poked her head into the office.

"Mark, honey," she started.

My immediate thought, hearing the 'honey' in her sentence was, 'What does she want now.'

"The sink in my bathroom is draining very slowly. Could you take a look at it?" she asked, and then turned and walked away without even waiting for an answer.

Still a creature of habit, I got up from my chair, and wandered into the bathroom in my son's old room (AKA 'her' room). I turned on the hot water full force, and very quickly saw that it was indeed backing up. I could guess at what the problem was: women's hair in the sink, combined with the soap residue and toothpaste; all of the wonderful gunky substances that we put down a sink, that inevitably form clogs in drains. So I could either do a quick, short-term fix on it, putting one of the drain cleaners down the sink to chemically clean it, or I could do the job properly and take apart the gas trap plumbing below the sink, and clean it out by hand. 

I turned to go and get my tools, when a thought struck me. This wasn't a plumbing problem that affected either me, my bathroom or the whole house. It was just Martha's problem. I walked back out of the bathroom, headed out towards the hall, and my office.

Then I saw it sitting on the chest-of-drawers that Martha used in the bedroom — the box with the $2,500 diamond pendant in it, the one that I had purchased as a Christmas gift, which Martha told me I ought to take back and get my money back on. I walked over, picked up the box, and slipped it into my pocket, and then I left the room. 

I shut the door and parked myself back in my chair and read. I don't know when Martha went to bed that night, but I finished my book at a little after midnight, and crawled into my king-sized bed, and was out like a light.



Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 02



Copyright 2009, All Rights Reserved

Instead of putting the last page of the previous chapter at the beginning of the next part, I've selected a few scenes from Chapter's 1. & 2. that should give a feel for some major plot elements.

PS

***

"You know how I feel about sex. We've had our children, and there's no reason that I should have to accommodate your animal desires anymore. We're not that young anymore, you know," Martha was now walking away from me, back towards the bedrooms. "If that's what you think, you can take your pendent and get your money back," she told me loudly so that I could hear her even though she was facing away from me.

"Honey, we're not even sixty yet; it's not like we're on death's door. Most people our age..." I stopped trying to talk to her, because it was clear that she wasn't listening.

Then in a quieter voice, from her bedroom, I could hear her talking to herself.

"If he can't control his urges, then I wish he'd go find someone else to take care of it, and not expect me..." came her angry voice until I heard the bathroom door in the bedroom close.

I sat there, my face in my hands, ready to ... to ...oh who cares, I'd had it.

Once again, I had begged my wife, her royal highness it seems, for what should have been a natural and necessary part of our married life. Instead of her acquiescing or at least listening to me, I'm sitting here, humiliated, angry, and most of all, sad. Sad with that feeling of loss, that once I had a marriage, and now I have some sort of pale, phony imitation of the real thing.

I'm not sure how long I sat like that, leaning over, my elbows on my legs, my hands supporting my face, but I decided then and there that I would not accept it again. I would not allow her to hurt me this way. I had given up. I would never ask or expect Martha to make love, or 'have sex' as she phrased it, again.

I had to face the facts: my wife simply didn't want to share my bed, if at all possible. 

***

I was dressed and ready to gird my loins and face the crowds at the grocery store. As I walked over to the counter where I had left my list, I saw that Martha had put a list of her shopping needs on top of mine. Shampoo, bath soap, her favored face cream, and perhaps a dozen other items for me to pick up at the store.

I can't really say why I did it, it was just a visceral response, but I picked my list up from beneath hers, and in the process, her list fell, face down and slid under the kitchen table.

I looked at it, but I didn't pick it up. I just left it there on the floor. For the first time that I could remember in our married life, Martha made a request of me, and I simply, intentionally ignored it. 

***

My philosophizing was suddenly interrupted by a woman's voice.

"Mark McDonald, is that you?" came the lilting soprano voice.

I looked up, only to see an old family friend, Stephanie Michaels, standing next to the table. I jerked myself to my feet.

"Stephanie! What a pleasure to see you," I said with complete sincerity.

Stephanie took a step closer to me, and gave me a firm hug. She held me for a moment, putting her head on my chest, before standing back a step and looking up at me. Stephanie was 5-feet tall if she wasn't wearing heels, so she was looking up about eleven or twelve inches when I was standing.

***

"I surrender! Do with me what you will!" I joked.

Stephanie got a big smile on her face at that, and leaned in close, so she could whisper to me across the table,

"Listen handsome, don't make offers like THAT to an old broad who hasn't had any for twenty-months."

I think that I blushed like a teenage boy. I hadn't had a woman call me 'handsome' since, well, to tell the truth, I couldn't actually remember. And honestly? I almost instantaneously started getting a hard-on. 

***

"The sink in my bathroom is draining very slowly. Could you take a look at it?" she asked, and then turned and walked away without even waiting for an answer.

Still a creature of habit, I got up from my chair, and wandered into the bathroom in my son's old room (AKA 'her' room). I turned on the hot water full force, and very quickly saw that it was indeed backing up. I could guess at what the problem was: women's hair in the sink, combined with the soap residue and toothpaste; all of the wonderful gunky substances that we put down a sink, that inevitably form clogs in drains. So I could either do a quick, short-term fix on it, putting one of the drain cleaners down the sink to chemically clean it, or I could do the job properly and take apart the gas trap plumbing below the sink, and clean it out by hand. 

I turned to go and get my tools, when a thought struck me. This wasn't a plumbing problem that affected either me, my bathroom or the whole house. It was just Martha's problem. I walked back out of the bathroom, headed out towards the hall, and my office.

***

Chapter 3.

I 'slept in' the following morning since Santa had already come. Heck, I was on semester break.

Martha had already left for work by the time I wandered out to the kitchen to get my first diet soda of the day.

There, held on the refrigerator door by a magnet disguised as a cupcake, was a note reminding me to look at the sink in Martha's room. I took it off, crumpled it and tossed it into the trash. Then I fixed some breakfast, ate and started my day. Maybe it was petty of me to just ignore Martha's request, but it made me feel better.

I was actually feeling pretty good as I showered and dressed.

You know, one of the things that happens when your wife seems to find you undesirable is you ask yourself, why? As I prepared, I wondered again, for the, I don't know, maybe thousandth time, what was wrong with me?

I hadn't changed in my hygiene practices. I showered every morning, and shaved most days. I used deodorant, and kept my nails (both hands and feet) clean and trimmed. I brushed my teeth twice a day, and went regularly to the dentist for cleanings, and to the doctor for check-ups. 

I took a few medications, but just the normal things for cholesterol and mild high-blood pressure that almost everyone our age was taking. Nothing with side-effects like B.O. or bad breath.

My dressing habits were still what they had been when I worked.

Jeans just weren't my thing; too casual, so I wore slacks, usually with a collared shirt. When I was teaching, I would throw on a tie, as well. That made me one of the minority of teachers at the J.C., but I was also older than most of them. I had a couple of nice suits for more formal occasions.

As far as my overall condition, I didn't weigh five pounds more today than the 165 pounds that I weighed the day that Martha and I were married. Most days I walked a couple of miles.

My hair was fairly short, not a crew cut or anything, but I hit the barber every three weeks or so. And kept my body hair, in all of its intrusive incarnations, trimmed.

Not to sound too self-satisfied, but I thought that I was at least as well groomed and physically attractive or more so than the majority of men my age.

I just shook my head. It was a mystery.

At 10:10 A.M., I drove up to Tom's Gold & Jewelry, and pushed the buzzer at the door. When I heard the click of the electronic lock releasing, I opened the door and entered.

I wasn't sure how much jewelry I had purchase for Martha from Tom Martin over the years, but it probably totaled up to a tidy amount. Tom, knowing that as well, smiled at me as I came over and sat in one of the stools facing his glass showcases, filled with trinkets, gold, jewelry, watches and all of the other accouterments of his trade.

"Mark, what can I do for you today?" Tom asked with a smile.

"Tom, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to take advantage of your 30-day money-back return policy this time," I replied, as I put down the diamond pendant and took the original receipt out of my wallet.

"No problem, Mark. But may I ask why? Didn't Martha like it? It's a beautiful diamond," he queried, as he picked up the pendent and started examining it with his 10X monocle, as if he was expecting to find some sort of defect.

"No, no, Tom. There wasn't anything wrong with it, other than it turns out that Martha didn't really want another piece of jewelry for Christmas this year," I told him, somewhat stretching the truth.

"Well, that's no problem. That happens sometimes. What is it — she wants to do a cruise or something instead?" he was talking as he started doing the paperwork for the return.

"Something like that. You know women; I'll tell you what she wants when I figure that out myself," I communicated my confusion with him with a shrug of my shoulders and my tone of voice.

Tom actually looked up and smiled at me, when I said that,

"When YOU'VE figured out what women want, you just let me know too!" He laughed at that. He reminded me of the punch line of the old joke about understanding a woman's mind, "How many lanes wide did you want that highway to be?"

I mentioned that I should probably, for insurance purposes, bring in the more valuable pieces of jewelry that I'd purchased over the years, and have Tom update the appraisal. He told me, 'sure, anytime.'

So we joked some more and laughed a little, until he handed me a check for the purchase price, and I left.

My next stop was the bank, where, again, out of character for me, I cashed the check instead of re-depositing it in the checking account. I wasn't sure of what I wanted to do with the money, but I had been thinking about getting a new shotgun, either a Ruger Over-and-Under, or maybe a new semi-auto Benelli in 12 Ga. I would think about it. 

I went back to the house briefly, to put most of the money from returning the diamond into my gun safe at home. In addition to my firearms, I kept other valuables in the safe — important papers, like passports, birth certificates, and the documents on the house. I also kept a box containing most of Martha's more valuable jewelry in there, and I had a cash box, which I used when for one reason or another, I had more than a comfortable amount of cash around the house. 

What I was doing next was a plunge into the unknown, at least for me, and I didn't want to have $2,500 in cash on my person.

It was almost 11:30 on the dot when I pulled into the back parking lot, behind the single-story, rather non-descript building that said "Oriental Massage" on the sign in front. I was relieved that there was a back entrance, so that I could enter the building discreetly.

Oh, don't be surprised — haven't we all thought the same thing, that a 'massage parlor' was just a front for prostitution? I know that's what I thought, and I'd overheard a couple of guys at the trap-and-skeet club suggesting the same about this particular place.

That I was even there was a sign of my desperation, my anger and my depression.

I walked in from the back, but the service desk was still at the front, so I walked down a long hallway with numbered doors on either side. There was incense burning that gave the whole place a sandalwood smell. I actually kind of like that, it relaxed me for some reason.

At the desk was a bored looking Asian lady, in, I would estimate, her mid-forties. A little overweight for the tight-fitting dress she was wearing. I suppose it was Chinese — it had a shiny look to the fabric, with little wooden buttons that went into loops, rather than button holes, and it had a high slit up the side. She looked up as I got close to the desk, and gave one of those automatic, but entirely meaningless smiles to greet me.

We went quickly through the initial process: No, I'd never been here before, A massage was $40 for 45 minutes, $50 for an hour, yes, and she could fit me in now. I paid the $40 (which didn't include tip for girl, I was rather emphatically told) and was sent to room number 6 (very lucky number, she mentioned) close to the back of the building.

"You go, see Pearl. Pearl very good massage. You like very much," she informed me, as I was sent down the hall. I wasn't entirely sure whether she meant that I would like 'Pearl', or the massage, or both.

I knocked lightly on the door, and a voice asked me to come in.

As I closed the door behind me, I looked around at the room. The walls were painted in a pink or salmon shade (like most men, I've never been good about colors), there were various cheap 'Asian' or at least, Asian-style prints hanging on the wall. 

A couple of wall charts showed an outline of a human body, with various places pin-pointed, accompanied with Chinese calligraphy. Or I should say, what I assumed was Chinese calligraphy. How the hell would I know?

There were a couple of tables along the walls, with bottles sitting there, and racks with white towels, looking similar to the ones you would find in hotels. There was a cubicle that looked like a changing room in one corner, with a fabric drape that could be pulled closed to provide a modicum of privacy.

The lighting was subdued, and in the middle of the room was a massage table, covered with a clean sheet. And standing at the far end of the room was an Asian woman, who I assumed was 'Pearl.'

Pearl came over, and we introduced ourselves, she as Pearl, and me as 'Mark', which somehow became 'Mr. Mark.'

"Ok, Mr. Mark, you hang up clothes here," she said pointing to a hanger on a hook in a small dressing room. "You take off clothes, and lie down on table. You put towel over you middle. Then I come back." Then she turned and left the room.

Sure enough, when I had undressed, and was lying on the massage table with the towel over my mid-section, she silently walked back in.

Pearl was, I would guess, in her mid-thirties. She was fairly short, maybe 5' 4", and while not heavy, she was pretty well muscled and strong looking. I wasn't sure what nationality she was.

Pearl started by getting a bottle of some almond scented oil that she put on her hands. She first worked my back over, starting with my toes, and working her way up. When she arrive at my butt, she moved the towel up a little, but she didn't uncover me, and then she put it back down again, and started again from above. It was a hell of a good massage, and if nothing else, I was going to be relaxed when she was done.

She actually massaged my scalp and head, before asking me to turn over.

Now on my back, Pearl worked her way back down my body, including my hands and fingers, ending with another minute or two on my feet. I have to confess, I'd never gotten a full body massage before, and it was a wonderful feeling.

But so far, nothing had happened, or been said, that would imply anything more than a massage.

That was when Pearl came back up to the top of the table while she was cleaning her hands with a towel.

"Mr. Mark," she looked at me very closely, gauging my reaction, "are you cop? You try 'trapment' on Pearl?"

"No, Pearl," I replied, "I'm not a cop. I'm a teacher."

She walked over to where my clothes were hanging, and felt them. I was a little alarmed, but I later figured out that she was searching to see if I had a 'wire' or recorder or something.

She also reached in and pulled out my wallet, which she brought to me.

"You show Pearl you I.D.? Open please, to show that you no got badge?" she requested.

I complied, and then she got a big smile on her face.

"Good," she said, then whispering to me, "You got extra $25 tip for Pearl? I give Mr. Mark excellent hand-job, make you real calm and relax. Is most healthful to relieve stress."

There it was, out in the open.

I took out $25 in cash out and handed it to Pearl, who put the money into a pocket, and took my wallet and put it back in my pant's pocket.

Then, to my surprise, she slipped off her shirt and bra, and returned, her breasts exposed. She picked up another warm wash cloth on her way.

She took the towel covering my groin off, and started by washing my penis.

Boy, oh boy, did that make him happy!

"Mr. Mark, you are having beautiful cock," she said, examining it with an expert gaze, "Nice, long and thick, but not too big to hurt woman." 

A positive assessment, although given the source, I didn't have a clue whether to believe her or not.

Finished washing, she took the bottle of the almond scented oil and put some on her hands again, and this time began stoking and caressing my now turgid member.

"Pearl very much like your cock, Mr. Mark. She like men very much. And you are very clean man, smell good, wash," she went on.

She saw me looking at her breasts. They weren't especially large, I would estimate a 'B' cup, but like colors, I wasn't very expert, and was just making a WAG — a wild-assed-guess. But her nipples were impressive, large, and erect.

"You like Pearl's breasts, Mr. Mark?" she asked, and I grunted in the affirmative.

She took one of my hands, and put it on her breast,

"You go ahead, play with Pearl's tits while she play with you. It's OK — I like."

So I did. I played with those nipples of hers, and when I rolled them gently with my fingers they got large and VERY erect, I could hear Pearl moan.

"Yes, Mr. Mark, Pearl very much like you play with nipples," she said, while still working on my dick.

She was very skilled. I was actually worried initially that I would be blowing my load after about a minute, but Pearl was a wizard. She would bring me close, and then back off, and she could squeeze me in places, that would keep me from coming. Then she would repeat the process. She was playing with my testicles, something that Martha had never done for me, and it felt great.

It was nice that she seemed to be worried about extending MY pleasure, which she did for longer than I thought was possible. After all, I'd had nothing except my own hand touching my penis for about nine-months.

But when Pearl continued stroking me with one hand, but the other left my testicles, and started moving downward, and when her well-oiled fingers started teasing and massaging my anus, another unique experience in my life, I spurted my load up and out! That was when I understood why she had taken off her shirt; I had just erupted all over her chest!

She wasn't offended, she seemed pleased.

"Mr. Mark, you are most virile man. You shoot your juice far into wife's womb! Very thick, much juice. Make many children," she was actually praising my semen.

I was, of course, in a semi-comatose state for a minute, between the massage and my violent orgasm.

By then Pearl had returned, again with a hot wash-cloth, that she used to clean me (as well as her chest), and then she used a hand-towel to dry me. She was smiling, seemingly happy with her effort.

Surprising me again, after she had finished washing me off, she reached down and grabbed my now soft penis, and lowered her head and took me into her mouth! She bobbed her head up and down a couple of times, and my formerly limp organ, began to stiffen again. 

Pearl had just done something more for me that in all of our married years, my wife would never do.

She stopped, though, and looked at me and smiled again.

"Mr. Mark, next time, now you reg'lar customer, you bring Pearl extra $50 tip, and I give you best blow-job. I give good blow-job," she stated with pride, "because I love to suck on man's cock! Especially clean, handsome man like Mr. Mark."

I assured her that I would indeed have an extra $50 tip the next time, because I dearly wanted to have at least one blow-job in my life.

"You remember ask for Pearl when you come back, OK Mr. Mark?" were her parting words.

I assured her I would, and I meant it. I also added another $15 tip as I left.

Back in my car, I didn't know what to do, or what to feel. I drove over to a park, not far away, where I could get out and walk around a small pond, looking at the ducks. 




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 02



I sat down on a bench in the shade of a pepper tree.

My feelings were so confused at that moment. I tried to get a handle on them.

One part of me was ecstatic; as Pearl had promised, even though all I had gotten was a simple hand-job, it was more satisfying than the sex that I'd received for several years; given by a professional who knew what to do and how to do it. Already, I was greedy for more, wondering what a blow-job from Pearl would be like.

Another part of me, though, was grieving and humiliated again. I was grieving that I had to go outside of my marriage to get the sexual release and satisfaction that I craved, something that I would have never conceived I would ever do. And in its own way, I was humiliated again. 

I was having to pay a stranger, a woman with whom I had no emotional ties, for sexual satisfaction. What was so wrong with me that I had to pay someone to please me? In that way, Martha was still having the last laugh, my guilt and shame at furtively sneaking off to have sex, like a teenage boy, masturbating in the bathroom hoping his parents wouldn't walk in and catch him.

And now, after it was over, it occurred to me the risks that I was taking. If I were caught, I would be a public laughingstock, fired from my job, and declared yet another hypocrite for going to church on Sundays, and visiting a whore during the week.

I couldn't even imagine how Martha would respond if I were arrested. Would she feel shame, that everyone, all of our friends, would know that she was inadequate to supply her husband's needs, or would she just rise in a righteous anger and demand that I leave, and divorce me. I personally suspected the latter would be her path.

I could still hear her cutting words from Christmas in my head, "If he can't control his urges, then I wish he'd go find someone else to take care of it... I rationalized it in my mind: I was doing exactly what Martha had wished. She was getting her way. 

There was also that little voice whispering into my ear, that voice that speaks to anyone, the shoplifter, the car thief, or the whore monger, the first-time rule breaker, saying: hey, that wasn't so difficult — you got away with it once, why not do it again?

At that point, I knew that I would be back.

Chapter 4.

Mid-January and the Spring semester was starting already. It was time to get back in the saddle and go to work.

I had more-or-less continued to ignore Martha's stream of requests and suggestions for things I could do to make life more comfortable for her. 

I recalled with some satisfaction seeing the empty liquid drain cleaner bottle at the bottom of the trash can. Martha had finally gotten tired of waiting for me to clean her sink, and had actually put the chemical cleaning-cocktail down the drain herself. I added a bottle of drain cleaner to my list to replace the one that Martha had finished. After all, I might need it for my drain sometime.

If a task didn't benefit both of us, I stopped doing it. And in fairness, I also stopped expecting Martha to do things for me.

For example, I found a place not far from our house, where for a modest price; they would wash my laundry, and iron my pants and shirts. So I started taking my clothes down to them every week during breaks between classes, instead of leaving it in the hamper for Martha to do on the weekend.

It was actually kind of humorous for me to realize that it took a month before Martha noticed that my clothes weren't in the wash with her's anymore. 

On Saturday morning, when Martha was separating the wash into the whites/colored/ and cold water loads, she suddenly got this very odd look on her face, a look of surprise and curiosity. Then she walked into the master bedroom and looked into the virtually empty clothes hamper there. Seeing the hamper empty of all but the clothes I'd been wearing the day before, she went into my walk-in closet, and looked around, seeing my clothes clean and ironed, hanging where they had always been. A complete mystery to her.

About that time, I made myself scarce for the rest of the day, so that I wouldn't have to answer her questions. I called and left a message on the answer-machine telling her I would be eating out with friends at the golf course (which, in fact, I did), and didn't return until after she was asleep. 

As far as I could tell, by the next day, she had forgotten about my clothes, not that we talked enough that Sunday to have reminded her.

But that all occurred about two weeks after school started, anyway.

I was cheerful, looking forward to getting back to my office at the J.C. I was teaching classes Mondays through Thursdays, and I was available at my office on Fridays as well, by appointment.

It was a normal day to start the semester. I stopped by the faculty offices early to pick up my mail (mostly the academic version of 'junk mail') and said hello to Dean Wilson, the chairman of the Math & Engineering Department. 

Back in my office, a couple of returning students stopped by to say 'hi' and to check on my office hours, and a number of new students came by to try and register for classes. 

I was fairly consistent with admitting students into my classes this late: I had a fixed number of slots in each class, and if there were spaces available, I would sign to allow them into the class. If the class was already full, I would allow up to five additional students sign up (since I knew that a percentage would drop the class when they heard my requirements). 

After that, too bad, unless it was a unique situation — someone who absolutely needed the class to graduate or to transfer to one of the four-year engineering schools. Even then, I had to be confident that the student was serious and would be likely to complete the class. Under those circumstances, I would grit my teeth and let them in. I didn't do that very often.

On Monday/Wednesdays I had two Engineering classes, one from 8:00 to 9:50 AM, and the second immediately following at 10:00 to 11:50. Then I was off until 2:00 PM, when I taught a Monday through Thursday class, 'Intro to Math', which was actually a pre-algebra class. Here at the J.C. we were expected to remediate the kids who had somehow been missing during math class for the past four years in high school!

I had just returned to my office from my 10 o'clock class, and was seated sorting thought the mail I'd picked up early that morning, when a mop of red hair became visible at the open door.

"Is this the office of Mark McDonald? Terror of the engineering department, tyrant of his domain, ruler of math classes, and nominee for Professor of the Year?" came the familiar voice.

"Stephanie!" I cried, "Come in and make yourself to home!"

Stephanie came in alright, but she was carrying two cups of hot coffee — and not the stuff that they call coffee from the vending machines. It looked to be the real McCoy!

"Oh Ms. Michaels, that smells like the nectar of the God's! To what do I owe this gift? I'm warning you — all of my classes are already filled!" I lectured my dear friend as she sat in the chair across my desk from where I was sitting.

"This is payback for your buying me coffee at the bookstore the other day. I pay my debts," she said, smiling at me, as she sipped at her cup.

I wasn't sure, but I suspect that cup of coffee was spiked with some secret ingredient. Maybe it was just some special kind of chocolate, but I would almost bet on Kalhua.

"Ummmm...I don't think that the coffee at the bookstore was quite this," I paused, thinking of the right word, "intoxicating!" 

Stephanie just smiled in my direction and didn't say a thing.

We sipped and enjoyed our repast for a couple of silent moments, just comfortable being there with each other.

I finally spoke,

"After you mentioned it the other day, I decided to sign up for the 'Beginning Ballroom Dancing' class."

Stephanie was suddenly animated.

"Mark, that's great! Oh, you don't know how happy that makes me. I was afraid that I would be the only older person in the class, and none of the boys would want to dance with me," she exclaimed.

"Hey, 'old lady', I bet all those young guys would line up for a chance to dance with you," I teased, sensing the serious concern beneath her bantering tone.

"Yeah, right!" she replied, but with a little more confidence this time.

We chatted for awhile longer, but then Stephanie had to leave to make her Creative Writing class.

"See you tomorrow evening, Mark," she said as she walked out through the door.

Stephanie didn't know it, and would have been shocked if I'd told her, but she had made my day. Just seeing her lifted my spirits.

***

Tuesdays and Thursdays I didn't come in until late — I had a 12 noon to 1:50 class, and then I was done for the day, until 7:00 PM, when the 'Beginning Ballroom Dancing' class started.

That left my mornings free to do chores and errands before I needed to be a school. I left a note for Martha telling her I wouldn't be home for dinner, she was on her own. No other explanation.

That is how that Tuesday morning found me back at the Oriental massage parlor, with an extra $50 bucks in my pocket, asking to see Pearl.

Like my first visit, I walked up to the front desk, but this time I was already a 'known quantity.' The plump woman at the desk smiled when she saw me walk up, and addressed me as 'Mr. Mark.' I took care of the fees for the massage, and was directed to Pearl's room again.

Pearl seemed delighted to see me. 

I had known men who had spent time in the Philippines or Thailand, and referred to the women like Pearl as LBFM — 'little brown fuck machines.' One of the things they all said was that the Asian women would greet you like a long-lost lover, tell you that you were the only man, the best man, their sexual dream, but what it was really about was MONEY! So I kept that in mind.

Pearl might treat me like a king, like her returning hero, but the reality was that I was a walking piggybank that would cough up dollars, in exchange for orgasms.

But fake as her demeanor might be, it was pleasant to have a younger woman greet me as if she had been pining away for me the past two weeks, since I was last here.

The first part of the treatment was a repeat of the first time: a really great, full-body massage. I realized that not only did it relax me, but that just having a woman touch me all over, even in a non-sexual way, was comforting. There was nothing wrong with me that prevented Pearl from touching me.

After the massage, Pearl cleaned the oil from her hands, and approached me again.

"You bring extra $50 dollar for blow-job this time?" she asked, smiling at me expectantly.

I nodded, and got up from the table, went to my wallet, and handed her the $50. Like the first time, the money disappeared into a pocket. I want back to the table and lay down.

Pearl cleaned my penis again, looking at it almost clinically before she started.

Do you remember the first time that a woman took your cock into her mouth? The warmth, the sensations of her lips, the tightness as she sucks. Do you remember how it turned you on, to be able to look down and see her mouth wrapped around your tool, her head moving up and down, as well. 

Now imagine that you are a fifty-seven year old man, and that is happening to you for the first time in your life. Pretty heady stuff, almost impossible to believe, isn't it?

Pearl's expertise and experience is the only explanation that I can think of, that I didn't come within two minutes. My basic urge wasn't quite as intense as it had been two-weeks before, when she gave me the hand-job. The sensations from her mouth were so much more sensual, and I was so inexperienced.

She would work me, and then back off. Again, she would bring me to the brink, only to squeeze me in such a way to stop the process, only to start it again. Once again, I reached out and felt her breasts, and tugged and squeezed her nipples, while she serviced me. Her response to my manipulations, I thought, were authentic, since she didn't have to respond to excite me, although her moans did please and encourage me.

After perhaps ten or twelve minutes, a lifetime of pleasure, five times longer than I would have expected to last, she finally let me come, removing her mouth at the last second, and letting me once again explode onto her chest and my belly.

Pearl then repeated her actions of cleaning us up, smiling, comfortably chatting with me, while I dressed.

"So, Mr. Mark, how you like when I deep throat? Very good, yes?" she giggled a little, "I think that I best here at deep throat, because I like suck man's cock. Some girls no like."

I hate to admit my ignorance, but at the time all I could think was: so THAT's deep throating.

"Pearl," I said, with a grin on my face, "I can say without a doubt, that you gave me the best deep throat that I've ever had!" I didn't mention that it was the ONLY deep throat, or even BJ that I'd ever had, but why ruin the moment with details like that!

As I was leaving, there was Pearl in her LBFM mode,

"Mr. Mark, when you come see Pearl again? No too long I hope. I give you best deep throat blow job. You hurry back!"

And I knew I would come back.

***

Not surprisingly, I walked on campus that afternoon with a certain spring in my step.

I'd gotten my sexual satisfaction, granted without the emotional intimacy, just the mechanical, animal lust. This second time, I felt less guilt than two weeks before, and there was almost a kind of, I don't know how to describe it — perhaps 'giddiness' at having had a new sexual experience, one that I would have never gotten within the confines of my marriage.

But I put all thought of my exploit behind me, as I prepared for class.

The first classes of the semester are always so full of hope and promise, when everyone is starting out even, no papers due, no questions from the professor about the readings, and no exams in sight! That was how my classes were that first Tuesday. And I was in a good mood, relaxed and cheerful.

What I was looking forward to most, though, was my first ballroom dancing class, beginning that night.

The hours passed quickly that day, and at about 5 o'clock I ran off-campus and had dinner in one of the many inexpensive eateries that surrounded the campus, catering to students and faculty. When I returned to my office, I still had almost an hour before class, and was able to work on the following day's class materials, as well as checking my emails.

At ten minutes before seven, when class was scheduled to start, I was standing, waiting outside the large room in the P.E. center where the various dance classes were taught. Waiting, I might add, along with several other students — all young women. I was beginning to wonder about my judgment in signing up for this class.

But then, Stephanie walked up.

"Mark!" she exclaimed, "I half-way thought you would chicken out on us!"

All of the young ladies were suddenly looking at me. I may have blushed again.

"Not me," I replied, trying to laugh off my embarrassment, "You know how I am, stubborn as a mule. Mostly I worry that I've got two left feet."

Steph stepped up beside me, and put her arm possessively around mine, standing there next to me, looking up at me and smiling. 

"I'm sure that you will be just fine, Mark!" she said to reassure me.

The teacher walked up just then, accompanied by another young woman, and unlocked the classroom, saving me from further embarrassment, at least for the time being as we filed in behind him.

Bob Williamson, the ballroom dance instructor, had us sit in chairs temporarily, while he took roll. The class was made up of fourteen women and three men (including me) and the teacher. I guess it isn't that unusual, but it seemed a little one-sided to me. 

Bob took roll, and when he got to my name, he paused,

"Dr. McDonald?" he asked politely.

"No, just Mr., and for this class, just Mark," I explained, letting him know that despite my status as a professor, that for this class, we would be on an informal basis.

"OK, that's great. And one other question: are you and Ms. Michaels here as a 'couple'?" he wanted to know.

Steph spoke up before I could reply,

"First, it's Steph or Stephanie, not Mrs. Michaels, and no, Mark and I are just old friends."

"Oh good. Because with only four men in the class, we'll have to rotate with all of the young ladies," his arms encompassing all of the class, "and it will be easier if there isn't an expectation of particular couples pairing-up exclusively," was his explanation.

Bob had us all stand up and walk onto the wooden floor of the classroom, where he introduced us to his assistant for the night, a private student from his studio, who would help demonstrating and teaching for the evening.

"The first step that we will be learning is known as the 'East Coast Swing,'" he started by demonstrating with his advanced student, showing us the details of the step slowly, and with that we began learning to dance.

I certainly didn't become any sort of great shakes as a dancer that evening, but I had a lot of fun trying.

***

When I arrived home at about 10:30 that evening, I was surprised that Martha was still awake.

"Hello," I said as I walked into the living room and saw Martha sitting there, "I didn't expect that you would still be up."

"I was just curious," Martha replied, "your note didn't say much. What were you up to?"

I nodded my head in agreement about the note,

"I decided to take a class this semester on Tuesday and Thursday nights, from 7:00 to 9:00 in the evenings. It's one of the perks of teaching there, that I can take free classes, although I've never done it before."

"I see. Well, that should work out well, because my Bridge Club is meeting on Thursday evenings, too," she said.

"Good, I guess we'll both stay busy," I responded, as I turned and walked towards the master bedroom, leaving her sitting in the living room. I'm sure that she expected me to give her some detailed explanation, but I simply didn't feel the obligation to explain myself to her anymore.

I continued on my way into the master bedroom, where if Martha wanted to continue talking to me she would have to follow. Not that I really expected her to come into the bedroom. After all, that might imply that she was still available or something. 

Instead, I got cleaned up and got into bed. I had an early morning class tomorrow. I slept well that evening, remembering a day that included getting my first blow-job, and basking in the glow of spending a couple of hours learning to dance in class with Stephanie.

***

The rest of that first week went fine for me, and the Spring semester was off to a credible start. On Thursday night, I was back in dance class, with Steph. To tell the truth, I was having a pretty good time of it. 

I found that I could remember the steps that we were learning, better than the other two younger men in the class, and it was kind of fun for an old geezer like me to be in demand with the ladies. Nothing romantic, of course, but aside from Bob, our instructor, the women were eager to practice with me. 

According to Bob, my tall and lanky build also worked to my advantage with ballroom dancing. I 'looked right' doing the routines.

With my more cheerful and positive attitude from dance class, plus the fact that I had finally figured out an easy way to get my sexual needs met, I was able to be friendlier towards Martha than I'd been since Christmas, when she'd kneed me in the groin, at least figuratively, with her rejection. 

Not that it meant that much. When we were both working, we had conflicting schedules during the week, even more than normal since I'd started the dance class, so we didn't have that much overlapping time. The weekends were, of necessity, when we did chores around the house, and most of the shopping, which by-and-large we did separately. I would usually do some outdoor activity on the weekend as well, golf or shooting trap and skeet, or even taking hikes in the local mountains.




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 02



Later in the evenings, Martha tended to read a book, and I would go into my office and either read or spend time working on my computer, or surfing the 'net. OK, OK, if I got bored, I'd play some of the games, too.

In other words, Martha and I didn't spend a lot of time really interacting with each other. It seemed to be fine with her, and I wasn't going to bother complaining about the lack of intimate contact anymore. 

Despite my not teaching any classes on Fridays, I did keep at office hours by appointment, or students could drop in if I was there. 

That Friday a student dropped by, an older student with red hair, to discuss educational discipline with me. That sexy vixen, Stephanie.

"Mark, you are doing really well in the dance class. I'm impressed — in fact, all of those young girls are impressed too," she was laughing now, teasing me, trying to make me blush again.

"Steph, none of them hold a candle to you in the elegance and grace department," I told her.

This time she blushed, and when a red-head blushes it's a sight to behold.

"You are a silver-tongued devil, Mark," she replied, pleased by the compliment.

She continued,

"Did you hear Bob talk to us about how important practice was? How for every hour of instruction we should practice at least an hour on our own?"

"I most certainly did," I agreed, nodding.

"Well?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side.

"Well what?" I asked back, anticipating her answer.

"Do you have anything scheduled for this afternoon?" she shot back at me.

"No, not that I can think of," I pretended to look carefully at my desktop calendar.

"Stop that right now, you old tease. You know what I want," she chided me.

"I don't know. You need the right music, you need a place to practice, you need a partner..." I was resisting the inevitable now.

Steph reached into her handbag and pulled out a familiar CD, the one Bob used for our class.

"Got the music. Bought it this morning. Got a room," at which point she held up a key to a classroom, and then she pointed across the desk at me, "and I got a partner. No more excuses."

What could I say; she had me pinned down through a process of elimination.

A short walk across campus to one of the rooms with a floor for dancing, and a CD player, and we spent the next two hours engaged in what was becoming for me, one of the most pleasurable and sensual activities that two people can do, short of messing around.

We had left the door open, to allow the air to circulate. As we were finishing, to our surprise, someone started clapping.

There was Bob Williamson, our instructor, standing in the doorway, with a huge smile on his face.

"At least some of my students listen in class," he said, laughing, giving Steph a wink, as he turned and walked towards his office. 



Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 03



Copyright 2009, All Rights Reserved

Scenes from Chapters 3 & 4 to provide some plot continuity for Chapters 5 & 6.

***

You know, one of the things that happens when your wife seems to find you undesirable is you ask yourself, why? As I prepared, I wondered again, for the, I don't know, maybe thousandth time, what was wrong with me?

I hadn't changed in my hygiene practices. I showered every morning, and shaved most days. I used deodorant, and kept my nails (both hands and feet) clean and trimmed. I brushed my teeth twice a day, and went regularly to the dentist for cleanings, and to the doctor for check-ups. 

I took a few medications, but just the normal things for cholesterol and mild high-blood pressure that almost everyone our age was taking. Nothing with side-effects like B.O. or bad breath.

Not to sound too self-satisfied, but I thought that I was at least as well groomed and physically attractive or more so than the majority of men my age.

I just shook my head. It was a mystery.

***

Now on my back, Pearl worked her way back down my body, including my hands and fingers, ending with another minute or two on my feet. I have to confess, I'd never gotten a full body massage before, and it was a wonderful feeling.

But so far, nothing had happened, or been said, that would imply anything more than a massage.

"Mr. Mark," she looked at me very closely, gauging my reaction, "are you cop? You try 'trapment' on Pearl?"

"No, Pearl," I replied, "I'm not a cop. I'm a teacher."

"Good," she said, then whispering to me, "You got extra $25 tip for Pearl? I give Mr. Mark excellent hand-job, make you real calm and relax. Is most healthful to relieve stress."

She took the towel covering my groin off, and started by washing my penis.

Boy, oh boy, did that make him happy!

"Mr. Mark, you are having beautiful cock," she said, examining it with an expert gaze, "Nice, long and thick, but not too big to hurt woman." 

A positive assessment, although given the source, I didn't have a clue whether to believe her or not.

***

I could still hear her cutting words from Christmas in my head, "If he can't control his urges, then I wish he'd go find someone else to take care of it... I rationalized it in my mind: I was doing exactly what Martha had wished. She was getting her way. 

There was also that little voice whispering into my ear, that voice that speaks to anyone, the shoplifter, the car thief, or the whore monger, the first-time rule breaker, saying: hey, that wasn't so difficult — you got away with it once, why not do it again?

***

Stephanie just smiled in my direction and didn't say a thing.

"After you mentioned it the other day, I decided to sign up for the 'Beginning Ballroom Dancing' class," I said.

"Mark, that's great! Oh, you don't know how happy that makes me. I was afraid that I would be the only older person in the class, and none of the boys would want to dance with me," she exclaimed.

"Hey, 'old lady', I bet all those young guys would line up for a chance to dance with you," I teased, sensing the serious concern beneath her bantering tone.

Stephanie didn't know it, and would have been shocked if I'd told her, but she had made my day. Just seeing her lifted my spirits.

***

"Did you hear Bob talk to us about how important practice was? How for every hour of instruction we should practice at least an hour on our own?"

"I don't know. You need the right music, you need a place to practice, you need a partner..." I was resisting the inevitable now.

"Got the music. Bought it this morning. Got a room," at which point she held up a key to a classroom, and then she pointed across the desk at me, "and I got a partner. No more excuses."

We had left the door open, to allow the air to circulate. As we were finishing, to our surprise, someone started clapping.

There was Bob Williamson, our instructor, standing in the doorway, with a huge smile on his face.

"At least some of my students listen in class," he said, laughing, giving Steph a wink, as he turned and walked towards his office.

***

Melting Away, Slowly... Part 3

Chapter 5.

Around the beginning of February, I was frankly getting horny again, and decided that another visit to my friendly Asian masseuse, Pearl, was in order.

Just the anticipation of getting another blow-job was putting a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Even Martha noticed,

"My, oh my, Mark. You're awfully chipper this morning," she commented at breakfast, "What's going on?" 

I looked at her, for a moment wondering if she knew or had guessed that I was taking her admonition to heart and getting my animal urges taken care of somewhere else. But nothing that would indicate such knowledge showed on her face. And to be honest, I didn't think that she was enough of an actress to fool me.

"Nothing special," I said, thinking that doing something for the third time probably reduced it from being 'something special' to just mundane and routine.

"A lovely day," I posited, and smiled.

Martha took another sip of her coffee.

"How is your class going? I don't remember; did you say what are you taking, and I just missed it?" she suddenly seemed to be trying to take an interest.

"Oh, it's fine, just fine," I said, avoiding her second question.

I was saved by the bell, so to speak.

Martha looked at the clock, and stood up, gathering her purse and keys, and heading out to her car in the garage.

"Got to go! I didn't realize how late it was," she air kissed at me, as if that were a substitute for the real thing, as she departed.

With Martha gone, I sat there for awhile thinking, finishing my cup of coffee and the onion bagel and cream-cheese that I ate most mornings for breakfast.

I had started going online and reading stories about cheating spouses, and one of the points that a number of authors made had to do with how the cheating spouse received a certain satisfaction out of 'putting one over' on the other. I guess that at that point, I was feeling that special 'I've got a secret and you don't know about it' smugness. 

Because I would go by the massage place first and then directly to school, I packed everything I would need for the day and for my dancing class that evening in the car. It took me two trips, and five minutes later I was pulling my car out of the garage and hitting the road.

I turned that radio on to one of the 'oldies' stations and was happily humming along as I drove on the city streets.

As I approached the storefront that housed the massage parlor, I almost pulled into the driveway, when I realized that there were police cars with lights flashing behind the building, and a number of what could only be unmarked cars congregated blocking any exit from the front doors.

Fortunately, I noticed in time and just drove on past the building without slowing anymore than the normal 'rubber necker' would, seeing what was obviously a police raid.

My heartbeat was racing, so I pulled over into a shopping mall across the street, where I could see the massage parlor. I was shaking all over, as I sat there in the car. After a minute, I recalled that I kept an inexpensive set of binoculars in the car for emergencies. This wasn't precisely an emergency, but I pulled them out nonetheless.

From my vantage point, I could see the cops bringing out the woman from the front desk in hand cuffs, and placing her in the back of one of the unmarked cars. Then came a small group of Asian women, including Pearl, also handcuffed, who were also distributed into the back seats of the plain Crown Vic's.

I continued to watch, and a couple of minutes later, a step-van type vehicle pulled up to the front. Then the door opened, and I could see about five men, a couple in suits, others in t-shirts and jeans, but all handcuffed, being put into what I now recognized as a prisoner transport.

It struck me right then: If I'd finished my breakfast just a couple of minutes earlier this morning, I would have been one of the 'johns' snared in this raid. It would have been MY name in the paper as having been arrested for soliciting for prostitution, or whatever the charges were.

What were my emotions right then? First, I was so relieved that I hadn't been caught. Then the thought crossed my mind — was I on a list of clients anywhere? I tried to remember. I was fairly sure that I never used my full name (and they hadn't cared) and I always paid in cash, so there wouldn't be any credit card transactions. Were there security cameras, I wondered? I didn't remember any, and would it make any sense for a place like that to be taking videos of their customers?

Sitting around there in the parking lot wasn't doing me any good, so I finally got myself together and drove to school, where I sort of hid in my office until class. I got through my classes that day, and even went through the motions at dance class that evening, but it was obvious that I was preoccupied.

During the break during class that evening, Stephanie pulled me aside.

"Are you alright, Mark? You aren't yourself this evening. Is everything alright?" she demanded.

"Thanks, Steph, but everything is fine," I smiled as I tried to gloss over my inner fear. "Just a little tired, and worried, but nothing terribly important."

Stephanie came up close to me, and took my arm. She looked up at me, with caring eyes.

"You know that if there is anything you need, that I can do to help you, don't hesitate to let me know," she said, in one of those voices that left you with the feeling that she was not just going through the motions, but with a tone that told me she really meant it. I really appreciated that, although how she could help with this, I don't know.

I returned home that night still a bundle of nerves.

For the next couple of days I kept an eye out, as if I were expecting the police to come up to me in class and put handcuffs on me, leading me out while reading my Miranda rights.

I kept envisioning it:

"You are under arrest, Mark McDonald, for getting whacked-off and receiving oral sex. Come with us peaceably or we'll have to use force," was how it went in my nightmares.

There was a small blurb in the paper about the raid, about a paragraph long, calling the woman behind the desk, Madame Li, but revealing her real name as Judy Wong. She owned and operated the massage parlor and was charged with operating a house of prostitution and procurement. 

It mentioned that there were five women arrested for prostitution, but their names weren't even listed individually, and as for the 'johns' — they were booked for solicitation and released on their own recognizance. 

In the end, it didn't seem as if anyone was too concerned about shutting down my little local massage parlor. I was relieved that it appeared that there weren't going to be any repercussions for me.

But it focused my mind on the risks that I had been taking for sexual relief. Would it have been better for me to exchange the private humiliation of having my wife deny me intimacy and sex, for the public humiliation of being arrested? I should have known that if it was so easy for me to find out about the availability of sex there, it would be just as easy for the police.

It made me despair.

***

You know, it's amazing how life goes on.

After what I regarded as my close call, missing being arrested at the massage parlor by minutes, I got over the fright and back into the normal rhythm of my life. 

These days though, my dance class had become something of the high-point of my life. We had finished with the "East Coast Swing' and were moving on to the 'Foxtrot', and Bob hoped that we would get through the 'Waltz' and maybe one additional dance step by the end of the semester.

For me, the pleasure of spending a couple of hours a week with Stephanie was providing at least some of the kind of intimacy that I used to share with Martha. It didn't bother me to have all of the young women in the class lined up to dance with me either. 

Stephanie took me aside during our break one evening.

"Mark," she told me laughing, "you know that all of these young coeds in our class, when they are waiting for their turns to dance with the men? They sit there admiring your wide shoulders and your tight little buns! They say things like 'not bad for a professor.' "

"And how do you know? Why are they telling you?" I asked her, thinking that she was pulling my leg.

"Because I tell them that I completely agree with them!" was her response, laughing even more herself.

How that woman does make me blush. Thankfully we were standing outside, where the lights were fairly dim.

One of the reasons that the dance class was such a pleasure was our instructor, Bob Williamson. 

Bob was patient and encouraging, and let everyone work at their own pace, which helped. We learned our basis steps first without music, as well, so that we weren't struggling to 'keep up' with the music until we had the step well in hand. And it was still tough then, the first couple of times that we tried to dance to the music. I guess we guys were lucky in a way — because of ratio of men to women; we were dancing virtually all of the time. The extra woman could dance as well, but they would have to either do the steps solo, or with other women, which created problems as you can imagine.

Once before class, I ran into Bob at one of the local restaurants, and he asked me to join him. It gave me a chance to get to know him a little.

"Bob, how did you get into ballroom dancing? When I was growing up, I wasn't even aware that anyone was still doing it. It was as if it had disappeared along with old Fred Astaire movies," I mentioned.

"My mother and dad both did ballroom dancing, so I started when I was pretty young. My dad actually worked as a High School teacher, but my mom had a studio where she taught dancing. We could never have lived on her earnings, but it let her bring in some money while being home according to her own schedule," he began.

"I danced and didn't think anything of it, until I was about 11-years old. I thought that everyone's parents spent the weekends at clubs or social events. It wasn't until later that I realized that my parents were there because they were being paid to provide good dancing partners for the men and women who wanted to dance, but didn't have a dance partner of their own," he laughed.

"But, about the time I turned eleven," he got serious, "some of the kids at school found out about me, and started the teasing and taunting. You know how that goes. So I stopped dancing, and took up the normal boys sports and activities — baseball, football — the more acceptable activities at the time."

"Suddenly, though, that changed for me," he was grinning as he told me, "When I was 16 year old, I was invited by one of the girls in my class to go with her to her 'coming out' party. I know it was a surprise to her, heck, it was almost a surprise to me, but I remembered all of the steps to the dances that I'd learned, and started dancing her around the floor. 

She, and even more her mother, were completely wowed. Her mom said that we looked like a couple of professionals out there, compared to the others. In fact, I ended up dancing with every one of the girls at that party, with them all begging me for more."

"I discovered that for me, at least, dancing was my ticket to having more women that I would have ever dreamed possible. And, just between you, me and the lamp-post, I wasn't just nailing the girls, but a fair share of their mothers too!" Bob said, laughing at the memories.

"So I guess you could say I got back into dancing to pursue women! Of course, I finally grew up a little and realized that I loved the dancing for its own sake as well, which is when I got serious about it. I started putting in some real effort, went to a really renown teacher, found a great partner, and we started competing. We do pretty well, too," he concluded.

"You have a regular partner?" I asked, probably sounding a little dense.

"Oh, sure, best looking woman with whom I ever danced. In fact, I'm not as dumb as I look — I married her," he explained.

"And she comes with me wherever I go. She understands the effect of dancing on women, and she doesn't leave me alone with those hot, sensuous, horny women! She makes sure that SHE is the one in my bed every night. No complaints here, you understand," he said, sitting back, looking rather content with his lot in life.

"But Mark, what about you? I took up dancing to get women; what motivated you?" he asked as an afterthought.

"Bob, how can you ask that? To attract women, of course! Just like you," I replied, laughing at my joke, but knowing that it was kind of true, even as I said it.

***

It must have been Friday, the seventh of February, and having practiced dancing with Stephanie that afternoon, I had just gotten home, and hadn't even thought about starting dinner, when Martha walked in.

"Hello, honey," she said as she walked past me to put her briefcase and phone down on the kitchen counter. She looked around and stated the obvious,

"You haven't started dinner yet?"

"No, I just got home a couple of minutes ago myself," I informed her, while certainly not telling her what I had been doing.

"Good. Then we can go out for dinner tonight. Do you know we haven't gone out to dinner together since before Christmas? In fact," she said, as if she had just noticed, "we haven't done very much together at all for a long time."

Time to give things another chance, and see if Martha was concerned about the issues developing in our marriage. Or, even if she did, whether she was inclined to do anything about them. I would give it the old college try.

"That's fine with me. Did you have anyplace in mind," I asked, beginning the process of deciding on a restaurant that would suit both of us.

We ultimately choose a local Mexican eatery that combined good food, reasonable prices, and killer Margaritas.

Pepe's Place was as good as we remembered it to be, and we had a pleasant enough dinner. We both had one of their special Margaritas, which used one of the 'select' tequilas that have become available in recent years, which has a somewhat smoky taste to it. A couple more of those and we were feeling no pain.

Martha talked to me about her job, speculating on when the Vice-President would announce his retirement. She told me about some of the gossip she'd picked up at her Bridge Club about various people and places around town. She even mentioned the scandal of a police raid on a massage parlor that was a front for prostitution!

I, for my part, mostly listened, and told her about the classes that I was teaching — mostly about the students, since she didn't understand the first thing about the subjects — and gave her what updates I could on a couple of faculty members who she knew from campus get-togethers. 

Questions about the class I was taking, I deflected. My dance class was my secret, my independent life.

As we drove home, the Margaritas were having their effect on Martha. She was pretty happy, and was waxing sentimental, recalling good times that we had earlier in our marriage, times before the boys had grown and left home.

We pulled into the garage, and after I pushed the button to close the door, I went to Martha's side to help her into the house. She put her arm around my neck, as I lifted her up on to her feet, and when she was standing, I kept hold of her hand to make sure she didn't stumble as we came into the house.

We made it to the living room, when she put both of her arms around my neck and pulled herself close to me. I was wondering if I was to be the beneficiary of her annual mercy fuck, or something.

"Mark," she whispered into my ear, "You're a hell of a guy, and a great husband. I love you. Thanks for taking me out to dinner."




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 03



I was about to tell her that I loved her too, when she gave me a peck on my cheek, and before I could say 'boo', she had left and gone into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

I was left standing there, flabbergasted. I hadn't been given the slip like that since college.

After a minute, I shook my head, and started my nightly routine. I checked all of the doors to make sure they were locked, turned out the lights, and walked back to the master bedroom. At least with the Margaritas, it didn't take long for me to fall asleep. I still lay there for awhile awake, thinking.

I just couldn't understand how or why I let myself get excited expecting something more from the woman. It was like that 'Peanuts' cartoon, where Lucy holds the football for Charlie Brown, always promising that this time, she'll hold it until he kicks it. But every time, she waits until he is fully committed to the kick, and then she pulls the football out of the way and he lands on his back.

The problem with what was happening between Martha and I was that every time I became disappointed and angry at the lack of physical relations, I found myself emotionally pulling away from her. Perhaps I'm just a stubborn man, but I was sticking to my vow that I had promised myself at Christmas, that I would not humiliate myself again by begging Martha for intimacy, sexual or otherwise. I was done with that; she was content with the way things were, and just became irritated by my bringing the subject up. Then she would say things that hurt me to stop the conversation.

To some extent, whether Martha understood it or not — and she didn't as far as I could see — was that I could find other women to provide me with my needs; but the consequence was that after becoming accustomed to relying on other women, I was starting to think of Martha in terms of someone with whom I shared a house, but not much else.

Isn't it amazing that women are supposed to be so much more sensitive than men to emotions and the 'unspoken' signs and signals in a relationship. Either Martha was much more insensitive than I would have ever imagined, or she had pulled her antenna in, just assuming that our marriage could run on autopilot.

The next day, Saturday, we were invited to go up and visit my younger son, Josh, and his wife and their two kids. After the night before, if I could have avoided going with Martha, I would have, but I had promised Josh I would be there to give him a hand with a few tasks.

They lived a further away from us than our older son; they were about a two-and-a-half hour drive away. That meant we had to get up early and get on the road, if we wanted to spend the day with them. It was also helpful, because in Los Angeles, even on the weekends, the traffic could get really heavy on the main highways. So Martha and I left by 7:00 AM, and arrived before 10:00.

It was always a treat to see the grandchildren; not as if our trip to Josh's was without a purpose.

While the women took the grandchildren out to a local park. Josh and I got to work. Josh was fairly handy himself, but there are things, such as stringing wires from the attic through the walls to switch outlets, that it helps to have two people, one on either end. Josh was wiring his entire house with Cat 5 wire to distribute TV, phone, and computer signal. He could have gone wireless network, but like me, he didn't like the potential security issues inherent with wireless systems, so we strung a couple hundred feet of hard-wire instead.

In the mid-afternoon, the women and children returned, and while they started cooking dinner, I snuck into the guest room and took a quick nap — something I've always liked to do on the weekends.

Dinner with the family, especially with young children, was chaotic, but fun. Remember the old 'mother's curse'? 'I hope you have kids who are just like you were!' — In Josh's case, it happened. Poor guy, he's exhausted by the time that dinner is over. Better him than me, these days.

We could have stayed overnight, Josh and Nancy had invited us, but instead Martha insisted that we drive back home. She claimed that she had a limited tolerance with the grandkids before she got too tired, but I figured differently. If we stayed at Josh's, we would have to stay together in the same room, sharing the same bed. That was what I thought her motivation was.

It was a long quiet ride home, since I didn't have much to say to Martha, so she fell asleep, leaving me to do the drive, trying to stay alert, in the dark. It was one of those times when it really hit home with me, that I was alone, even when I was with my wife.

Chapter 6.

By week four of the semester, everything was routine. The same classes, the same students, the same exams and papers. Not to complain, because in many respects, routine is comfortable. 

Outside of my home life, I was doing well, and fairly happy.

I was still getting a kick out of the dance class, and felt like I was making progress. Next time I was invited to a party or event where there was dancing going on, I felt confident that I would be far more comfortable dancing that I had ever been before in my life. It was a point that Bob had made: even with just a little training and practice to get some basic skills, you can be better than 95% of the folks out there. In that sense, if all one wanted to get out of the class was the pleasure that comes of adequacy, it comes pretty fast.

But dancing, I suspected, was like say, bowling or shooting. You can do well enough to go out and have fun with your friends with just a couple of hours of training — but to compete with the experts takes a life-time of dedication. Dancing took more effort to get the basic skills, and I could hardly imagine how much practice that professionals like Bob and his wife put in! And I had to respect them for it.

This year, Valentine's Day fell on a Friday, the end of the week.

Thursday night, after class was over, Stephanie was talking to me.

"Mark, I won't be able to come and practice tomorrow," she told me.

"Oh? Why?" I asked, somewhat disappointed, since I rather looked forward to our afternoon practices.

"Nothing important. I bought a new trash-compactor and a matching dishwasher for the kitchen in my condo, and I have to be there when they deliver them, which is supposed to be sometime in the morning," she explained.

"Ah," I observed, demonstrating my wicked fast repartee.

Stephanie looked a little irritated when she spoke,

"Do you what they want to charge me for 'installation'? Almost $300 for the two of them!" Stephanie told me, almost looking like she was going to stomp her foot, she was so upset.

"Tell you what, Steph," I interrupted, "there is NOTHING to installing those. Why don't you give me a call when they get delivered, and I can bring some tools over and put them in for you?"

"Oh Mark! That's very generous of you, but I couldn't..." she started.

"Steph, it won't take me more than an hour, maybe two! I've installed all of those in our kitchen at home, and even for some of our other friends. There isn't much 'real' installation, mostly putting in plugs and hooking up a couple hoses," I explained to her.

Stephanie's face lit up.

"That would be wonderful, Mark. OK, if you don't mind, I'll call you tomorrow" and she left for home.

The following day was Valentine's Day, and for the first time in our marriage, there were some things not happening.

I was not getting my wife flowers. I was not getting my wife chocolates. I was not even getting her a card, and I wasn't taking her out to dinner. It left a lot more of my day open when I didn't worry about catering to my wife, trying to find ways to please her. I did stop at a flower shop briefly that day, but that was for someone else.

As expected, Stephanie called me at 10:30 to let me know that her new appliances had been delivered. 

I looked at the clock, and made a suggestion.

"Steph, tell you what. It's close to lunch time, so why don't we meet at L'Canard for lunch first, and then I'll follow you back to your place and do the installation?" I proposed.

"Fine by me, Mark. I love L'Canard. But we better get there early if we want to be seated — it's Valentine's Day you know, so every beau will be taking his girl out for lunch!" she agreed, with a light and happy voice.

"All right," was my sly reply, "let's meet there at 11:30, if that's not too soon for you?" 

My sly reply, you ask? I had taken the trouble to make reservations, because even I knew that without them on Valentine's Day, we wouldn't stand a chance of getting into one of the most popular restaurants in the area.

When Stephanie walked in, looking simply ravishing, in a sleeveless floral-print dress, wide at the bottom, that showed her shapely legs off to her advantage, and with a collar that came up on her neck, emphasizing the extra button (or two) that was open revealing her cleavage. I wasn't complaining.

I was waiting when she made her grand entrance, and as she walked over to me, I handed her a long-stem yellow rose, which I was told, according to the language of flowers, was for 'friendship.'

"Stephanie, I am so glad you could join me this lovely Valentine's Day," I remarked. And it was true — it was one of those days where even in February, in Southern California it can be in the low 70's F. during the days.

"Mark, thank you so much for inviting me. And you are more sneaky than I thought," she chuckled, "When I tried to call and be sure that we could get in, they told me that it was too late, that they were already filled up. So, just on a hunch, I asked if they had a reservation for 'McDonald', and sure enough, there was a reservation for a party of two."

I just smiled back as the waiter seated us, Stephanie clinging to the yellow rose.

For Valentine's Day, the lunch was a fixed price deal only, but that wasn't a problem, the food was exquisite. The lunch started with a lobster bisque, followed by the entree, a filet mignon on a bed of mashed potatoes and wilted spinach, with mixed vegetables, served al dente, and finished with a choice of either a Crème Brule (with lavender) or a Napoleon. A glass of red French wine, selected by the chef, was served with the lunch, and coffee or ice tea served after dessert. We agreed afterwards that we had made an excellent choice for our mid-day repast.

Stephanie and I spoke mostly about school, dance class, and innocuous events. Just pleasant conversation between a couple of friends. But there was an undertone to our chatter. After all, it was Valentine's Day, and I was out at a fancy restaurant with a female friend, not my wife.

We drove back to Stephanie's condominium, with me following Steph in my car. She only lived about 5 minutes from L'Canard. 

The door opened, and Stephanie pulled into the garage. I parked in her driveway, and got my tools and a set of coveralls that I used for when I was doing repairs, out of the car, and then followed her through the garage and into her house.

The exterior was that standard French Mediterranean, that is often and incorrectly described as 'Spanish', of red tile roofs, with stucco applied in neutral (and homeowner association approved) colors. It couldn't have been more than four or five years old. Steph had told me that the landscaping was all taken care of by the homeowners association, as well.

We entered by way of the kitchen, so I just put my tools down there.

"Steph, I'll need to change into my coveralls. Where would be convenient?" I inquired.

"Let me give you the tour of the place first, and then we can change," she replied.

I'd been over to Steph and John's old house many times, usually with Martha, unless I was coming over to help John with some project. Otherwise, it was for drinks, or parties, or for dinner. Martha and Stephanie were both good cooks, and I enjoyed the food and the time that we would spend with John and Stephanie. But now, of course, John was gone.

The condo was a split level, with an entryway, living room, kitchen, dining room, and a powder room on the lower level, and two bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs. This was not an inexpensive development; it was a gated community limited to people over 50 years old, and surprising to me, although they called 'condominiums' there was a small separation between the homes, so they shared no common walls, but were each stand alone buildings. It was still technically a condo, but sure didn't seem like it to me.

"One of the fortunate things," Steph explained to me, "is that John did leave me in excellent financial shape. He had a surprising amount of life insurance — I guess that they got some special group rate at the hospital — and he had his own 401K, and other retirement savings. And his partners were able to sell his partnership, so I got repaid for what John had put in. When I sold our old house, after he died, it was at the top of the market, so I did very well there as well."

She continued,

"And it was just luck on my part that I rented a small place for six months while I was looking for a much smaller place to live, and that was when the real estate market went to hell. The result was, when I finally found this place, I was able to get a real bargain!" she told me, obviously very please with herself.

"It's a very nice area," I mentioned, "and it has a double garage. Great for keeping tools."

I realized I made a mistake, because I could see a cloud pass across Stephanie's face. Clearly I had reminded her of John.

"I'm sorry, I just meant.." I stammered out, as my embarrassment made me sound even worse.

"No, Mark, it's OK," she replied, and then smiled and touched my arm, letting me know that she wasn't overwhelmed.

"Here, you can change in the powder room down here, while I'll put on my official 'helper' clothes upstairs," she instructed. Then she turned and walked up the staircase, and out of my sight.

I had my coveralls on, and was opening the boxes containing the new appliances, when Steph came back down the stairs. She had changed into jeans, tennis shoes, and an oversized sweatshirt. I wasn't entirely sure, but it looked to me like she had ditched the bra.

"OK," she smiled and said, "What can I do to help?"

That said, we got to work.

As I had promised, it wasn't too hard to do.

I removed the old appliance finish trim, and the used my power screwdriver to make short work of the screws holding the old appliances in place. In the case of the trash compactor, it just pulled out and unplugged. The new unit plugged back in, and I slid it into place, put new screws in to hold it in place, and popped the new finish trim into place. The most difficult thing was moving the old unit out to the sidewalk, where it would be picked up and disposed of later in the day.

The dishwasher was similar, I removed the finish trim, and pulled the old unit out far enough to unplug it from the electrical, and then I turned off the water supply valves, and began removing the water lines. Murphy's Law intervened, and one of the old valves wouldn't close completely, so it started leaking a little.

It wasn't too difficult, even then. I just turned off the water supply to the house, removed the water line, took off the valve, and Steph and I ran down to the local plumbing supply story, and bought a new one. Reinstalled the new valve, turned the water to the house back on (no leak! Yea!), and finished removing the PVC lines that connected the dishwasher to the drain and the air relief. 

With the valve replaced, the new dishwasher was equally easy to install, and again the hardest part, even with two of us, was getting it squeezed through the doorways without causing damage, and out to the curb, where the store, where Stephanie had purchased the new units, would pick up the old appliances.

Voila! By 3:00 in the afternoon, the appliances were installed, and the kitchen was cleaned up.

We were just standing there admiring the look, recovering from our effort when Steph poured us each a glass of wine.

"It's a great place you have here, Stephanie. I'm very impressed. I'm also impressed at how attractively you've decorated it. You're doing well," I declared.

"Yes, I'm happy here for the most part, Mark. But to be honest, I still miss John a lot. I miss having him in bed beside me. I miss making love with him," she laughed.

"In fact, I miss sex A LOT!" she told me, smiling again, as if it were humorous.

But I knew from my own personal experience that it wasn't something that was funny to a person who felt those desires.

"You're not the only one — I know exactly what you mean," I mumbled not so quietly.

I turned to go to the powder room,

"I'd better change and get out of your hair," I started to say, but I found my way blocked.

"Mark, I have to thank you, and not just for helping me today," she said, and I found my head being pulled down to where she could reach me, standing on her tip-toes.

Then she kissed me on the lips, her arm around my neck. She moved back just a short distance and looked up at me.

And then she kissed me again, this time, her lips were looser, and were gently moving in a way that I found sensuous beyond my recollection. I'd forgotten how much I longed for kisses, moist, slow, and delicate.

By the third kiss, we were embraced in passion, our tongues deeply probing each other, offering the promise of pleasures to come. My hands moved under her sweatshirt, where I discovered that I had been correct, she didn't have a bra on. She not only didn't seem to object when my hands found her breasts, but her nipples became erect almost immediately, as I caressed and rolled them in my fingers.

When we were done with that third kiss, Stephanie took my hand,

"Mark, if it's OK with you, I think we should adjourn this up to my bedroom," were the words she whispered quietly in my ear.

In her bedroom, the first thing I did was kiss her again — I'd had a shortage of kisses lately, among other things, so I was desperate for them.

Then I pulled up her sweatshirt, and she raised her arms to accommodate its removal while I pulled it over her head. When it popped off, releasing her hair, I threw it off to one side, and for the first time saw Stephanie in her naked glory from her jeans up. 

Her skin was a redhead's skin, pale and milky, smooth and soft. Her breasts were, as I'd thought, on the smaller size, but as I leaned my head over and took her nipple into my mouth, I could feel them responding and swelling. I caressed them with my tongue, and sucked them into my mouth. Almost letting them escape, I held them with my lips and squeezed them ever so carefully.

Stephanie began to moan, and her back and neck arched backwards against the tension of my arm behind her.

After a minute of my ministrations, she straightened up again, finding my mouth, so recently on her breast, and we kissed deeply once more. I had the stray thought, that this could be habit forming.

She gave me a lustful look, and stood back, where she slipped off her jeans.

"I didn't have any panties on either," she said, looking at my face and seeing my longing.

She was like a dream come true, her slim waist widening to her hips, her perfectly shaped legs, tapering to delicate ankles and feet. Between her legs was a small trimmed patch of hair that confessed that she was indeed a true redhead. 

She stood there in front of me, letting my eyes feast on her.

"Now, I'm at a disadvantage," she said, playfully as she reached for my coveralls, and in the dusky light, she unzipped them in a single motion. I shrugged my shoulders, and they fell to the floor, where I kicked them off to the side.

My naked nymph was kneeling in front of me, her hands on the elastic of my boxer shorts, which she began to pull down, until it released my now, as you might imagine, erect penis.




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 03



As she pulled my boxers to the floor, she was fixated on my manhood. 

"God, Mark, you have a beautiful cock!" she told me, echoing the words of Pearl, just months before.

She didn't hesitate, first she kissed the tip, and then she began to use her tongue to lick around the head. Her mouth opened, and she took it inside. Her eyes were closed and she began to moan softly. Then her head started to move back and forth, not quickly, slowly, as if she were savoring the act of sucking on me, as much as I was savoring her sucking me. Her tongue was active in her mouth, adding to the overwhelming sensation.

To my great regret, I had to pull her off, or else I would have orgasmed into her mouth within seconds.

Instead, I pulled her up, and laid her on the bed, where I opened her legs with my hands, and put my head down, anxious, impatient, to taste her pale rose. 

The sunlight was peeping through the shades, and Stephanie had one arm stretched out, and the other across her face, covering her eyes, as I began to lick, and explore her with my tongue and fingers. I was aware that I was not an expert; I'd never had the practice, so I let her know,

"Stephanie, tell me what to do, Tell me how you like it, or if I'm doing it wrong."

"You're doing wonderfully, Mark. Use your tongue lightly, and keep it down just above my vagina," she instructed me. 

"Yes, oh yes. You can lick it faster, but keep it light. Oh god, yes," she whimpered, as I was in my own ecstasy at being with a women who would help me as she took her own pleasure.

I had put my finger into her vagina, and was moving it in and out, as I laved her clitoris.

She spoke again,

"Mark, can you turn your finger over, so that it's stroking the top," she asked and I complied.

"OH GOD!" were her next words, "Yes; put a little more pressure on me right there with your finger!"

I did. 

I didn't know it at the time, but that was the mysterious 'G' spot that I was massaging. Stephanie liked it a lot when I found it. In fact, she was lifting her torso off the bed.

"MARK! PUT IT IN ME NOW!!" she was almost screaming.

I crawled up onto her, and she reached down and found my cock, and guided it into her moist, hot, desperate pussy. I began to move on her, stroking in and out. Stephanie was reaching around trying to grab my butt, to force me in harder. 

"YES, OH GOD, YES! OH, MARK, GOD THAT'S GOOD," she was, it seems a screamer. I'd always heard about such women. My wife was not one.

This went on, with me stroking, and her in either an orgasmic, or near orgasm state, for several minutes, until I released my stored up supply of semen into her body. My back arched, and I felt like a conqueror, shooting my juice deep into her body.

I more-or-less collapsed on her, and was going to roll off, but Steph grabbed me around my waist.

"Don't move, Mark. You're not hurting me, and I want you to stay there for awhile," she whispered to me. How could I refuse her, so we lay there face to face, breathing hard from the exertion, from the release, from our mutual pleasure. We kissed.

Gradually, I softened, and was falling out whether I wanted to or not, so I rolled off to one side. We continued to lie there, each of us with an arm resting on the other.

She looked at me with those eyes, now soft and warm, the edges of her mouth in a slight smile,

"Mark, that was everything that I'd hoped it would be. And I'm not just saying that because I haven't been laid for close to two-years. That was great, period. Thank you," she quietly said.

I could hardly imagine that, a woman actually thanking me for having sex with her, or perhaps 'making love' with her was more appropriate.

We lay there, just caressing each other, enjoying being there together for awhile. It was heaven.

Then Stephanie moved. She got up on her knees,

"Mark, you did such beautiful things for me with your tongue, let me return to compliment..."

Stephanie slipped in between my legs, and lowered her head down and took me into her mouth again. To my great amazement, I got hard again due to Steph's artistry with her mouth and her hands caressing my cock and balls, then she coaxed another orgasm out of me that afternoon. 

Hey, you young bucks! Don't laugh. When you're in your fifties, you don't do it five times in a row the way you could at twenty-five! Twice in a little over an hour was pretty good!

I noticed that once again, when she had been sucking on me, Steph's eyes were closed and she seemed to be in her own little word. I asked her about it.

"I've always gotten very worked up sucking on a man's dick," she admitted.

"Sometimes, if John would play with my nipples while I was sucking him off, I would use my hand on myself until I orgasmed. We'll try that together sometime," she promised.

After the second time, we both fell asleep in each other's arms. As the late afternoon sun started to shine on my face, I woke up.

Stephanie was laying there on her side, her hand supporting her head, supported by her elbow, looking at me with a sad little smile on her face.

"I'm so sorry Mark. I'm ashamed of myself, but it has been so long for me, and I've been lusting after you for months now," she started.

"You remember the time that we met in the bookstore, when you bought me coffee?" she asked.

I nodded my head, without lifting it from the pillow.

"It wasn't an accident. I was out shopping, and I saw you walking into the bookstore that day. I went in just so that I could 'accidentally' run into you," she confessed.

"And now, look where it has led us. God, I hope that Martha won't hate me," she finished with a sad look on her face.

I just lay there for a minute before speaking.

"Stephanie, first, thank you. I have never in my life had a more loving, and sexually satisfying experience than what we just did. And I mean that, I'm not exaggerating, it's the honest-to-goodness truth," I began.

"As for Martha, don't waste a minute worrying about her. Martha moved out of our bed, and into another room, not just to avoid making love with me, but to avoid even sleeping with me. She has done everything that she can to deprive me not just of sex, but of the physical intimacy that a loving married couple should have. No, I take that back: that loving couples need," I explained.

"All that I hope, Steph, is that I gave you a fraction of the joy and elation, that you've just given me. And I hope, for one, that this is just the first time that we make love, not the last. I'm not sure of my feelings right now; maybe you and I are simply taking care of our suppressed lust, but at least from my side, I don't think so. 

I know that I have strong feelings towards you, and have for quite awhile. I hope that you may feel the same way," I told her, with all of my heart.

"Mark, you gave me an exquisite gift this afternoon, your body and your love. You're right; I have strong feelings for you as well. I think that I've had a strong attraction to you, even when John was alive, although you know I would never have acted on it. Oh, damn," she said, as tears were running down her face, "see what a weakling I am, because I wanted you so much!" Stephanie exclaimed.

"What about Martha, Mark? Are you thinking of divorcing her? Because I don't want to be the reason," she said, firmly.

"I don't know, Steph. If I did, it wouldn't be directly as the result of today and what happened between you and me. Instead it would be the result of, to call a spade a spade, the emotional abuse that I've been suffering from her for years now." My sadness had finally emerged as I said the words that I'd been thinking for some time, but heretofore been unwilling to confront.

"If you don't mind, I don't want to think about it right now, but sometime when we've got a couple of hours to talk, I'll tell you what it is like and how I think it came to be this way." I shook my head as I said that, just imagining how an outsider to my marriage would react to hearing the details.

"Please, Mark, do this for me. Don't do anything hasty, take your time and think about what will be good for you, and not anyone else. I'll be here for you, whenever you want and as often as we can, I'll love you. But make sure that whatever you decide to do, that it's right for you," was her emotional plea.

Looking at the clock, I knew that I had to go, so we got out of bed, and for the first time showered together. 

Showering with Martha had given me a thrill, but she found it interfered with her routine, so that was out. With Stephanie, it was an entirely different experience. For her it was another time to spend touching and talking and playing with her man. She told me that she and John had showered together whenever they could, and virtually every weekend, even if they were too busy on the other days of the week.

We soaped each other, everywhere — and I mean everywhere. I can't even imagine what Martha would have said, if on one those few occasions when we did shower with each other, I'd taken a bar of soap and my hand and used them to wash her deep in her ass, using my fingers on the outside of her anus. Ditto with her vaginal area. Would it have been even worse if I'd expected her to do the same for me? I'm not sure.

It was fairly obvious to me, that Stephanie's idea of how a husband and wife took care of each other's physical needs was much more in line with my own, than Martha's.

After drying off, I picked up my coveralls and folded them, and walked downstairs to the powder room, where I'd left my 'street' clothes, and dressed again. Stephanie had thrown on a robe and followed me down.

As I left, we kissed again, and Steph whispered to me again,

"Remember, my love. As often as you want, whenever we can."

I picked up my tools and coveralls, put them away in my car, and drove away.

There was a smile on my face the entire way home. I wonder how I'll explain that to Martha.




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 04



Copyright 2009, All rights reserved

Scenes from Chapters 5&6

"My, oh my, Mark. You're awfully chipper this morning," she commented at breakfast, "What's going on?" 

I looked at her, for a moment wondering if she knew or had guessed that I was taking her admonition to heart and getting my animal urges taken care of somewhere else. But nothing that would indicate such knowledge showed on her face. And to be honest, I didn't think that she was enough of an actress to fool me.

"Nothing special," I said, thinking that doing something for the third time probably reduced it from being 'something special' to just mundane and routine.

"A lovely day," I smiled.

***

Stephanie took me aside during our break one evening.

"Mark," she told me laughing, "you know that all of these young coeds in our class, when they are waiting for their turns to dance with the men? They sit there admiring your wide shoulders and your tight little buns! They say things like 'not bad for a professor.' "

"And how do you know? Why are they telling you?" I asked her, thinking that she was pulling my leg.

"Because I tell them that I completely agree with them!" was her response, laughing even more herself.

How that woman does make me blush. Thankfully we were standing outside, where the lights were fairly dim.

***

"Suddenly, though, that changed for me," he was grinning as he told me, "When I was 16 year old, I was invited by one of the girls in my class to go with her to her 'coming out' party. I know it was a surprise to her, heck, it was almost a surprise to me, but I remembered all of the steps to the dances that I'd learned, and started dancing her around the floor. 

"I discovered that for me, at least, dancing was my ticket to having more women that I would have ever dreamed possible. And, just between you, me and the lamp-post, I wasn't just nailing the girls, but a fair share of their mothers too!" Bob said, laughing at the memories.

"But Mark, what about you? I took up dancing to get women; what motivated you?" he asked as an afterthought.

"Bob, how can you ask that? To attract women, of course! Just like you," I replied, laughing at my joke, but knowing that it was kind of true, even as I said it.

***

As we drove home, the Margaritas were having their effect on Martha. She was pretty happy, and was waxing sentimental, recalling good times that we had earlier in our marriage, times before the boys had grown and left home.

"Mark," she whispered into my ear, "You're a hell of a guy, and a great husband. I love you. Thanks for taking me out to dinner."

I was about to tell her that I loved her too, when she gave me a peck on my cheek, and before I could say 'boo', she had left and gone into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

I was left standing there, flabbergasted. I hadn't been given the slip like that since college.

*** When Stephanie walked in, looking simply ravishing, in a sleeveless floral-print dress, wide at the bottom, that showed her shapely legs off to her advantage, and with a collar that came up on her neck, emphasizing the extra button (or two) that was open revealing her cleavage. I wasn't complaining.

I was waiting when she made her grand entrance, and as she walked over to me, I handed her a long-stem yellow rose, which I was told, according to the language of flowers, was for 'friendship.'

***

"Mark, I have to thank you, and not just for helping me today," she said, and I found my head being pulled down to where she could reach me, standing on her tip-toes.

Then she kissed me on the lips, her arm around my neck. She moved back just a short distance and looked up at me.

And then she kissed me again, this time, her lips were looser, and were gently moving in a way that I found sensuous beyond my recollection. I'd forgotten how much I longed for kisses, moist, slow, and delicate.

By the third kiss, we were embraced in passion, our tongues deeply probing each other, offering the promise of pleasures to come. My hands moved under her sweatshirt, where I discovered that I had been correct, she didn't have a bra on. She not only didn't seem to object when my hands found her breasts, but her nipples became erect almost immediately, as I caressed and rolled them in my fingers.

When we were done with that third kiss, Stephanie took my hand,

"Mark, if it's OK with you, I think we should adjourn this up to my bedroom," were the words she whispered quietly in my ear.

***

Chapter 7.

I'm sure that on that Friday, Martha made sure that she was finished at work by five o'clock, in order to be home at five-thirty. After all it was Valentine's Day.

She was probably cheerful as she drove home, wondering where we would go to dinner, our tradition on Valentine's Day. I'm supposed to do the whole thing — a card, flowers, and a small box (at her request) of candies; she loved the chocolate, hated the calories. 

Usually for Valentine's Day, we would go out to dinner someplace special. It was expected that I would have made reservations weeks in advance if necessary, to get into the finest new restaurants, and to get the best seats. 

It didn't work out that way, though.

First, I was late getting home because I'd been getting my Valentine's Day gift from Stephanie, and was in no special hurry to get home.

It was past 6:15 when I arrived at the house. Martha's car was already in the garage, as I opened the door and drove in.

I must have seemed preoccupied, because I walked past the living room without even noticing that Martha was there.

Martha spoke up,

"Mark! I'm in here, in the living room."

I stopped and turned back a couple of steps, and my eyes adjusted to the lower light level, and sure enough, there was Martha.

Martha was dressed nicely for work, so she wouldn't have to change out of her outfit. She looked like she had been reading the newspaper to wait for me to arrive. When she saw me, she put down the paper and turned off the news on the television, and looked around for her purse, wondering if she needed to take it with her to dinner, I suppose.

"Oh, sorry. Couldn't see you in there," I said, "Have a good day at work?"

"Why...yes, I'm sure. But..." she stammered, as she looked at me expectantly.

I think that Martha was totally confused. I wasn't carrying anything — no cards, no flowers, no candy. Nada. I wasn't rushing to her to tell her that she was my Valentine sweetheart. She was perplexed. What could this possibly mean?

"Where are..., I mean, what are we doing for dinner?" she finally got out the words.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not that hungry tonight. Why don't you just fix yourself some left-overs, and I'll get something later, if I feel hungry," I replied, completely serious, and then I walked back to my office and shut the door.

I suspect that at first, Martha thought that it was some kind of joke. She didn't find it funny, I'm sure, but she was going to try and put her best face on anyway. Why ruin her evening by getting angry at me right off the bat.

She knocked and opened the door to my office, to find me looking back at her from the chair in front of my computer.

"Mark, honey, do you know what today is?" she inquired sweetly.

I looked back at her, my face with just a slightly wry smile,

"Can't fool me. It's Friday, February 14th. But I have to let you know, I cheated with the answer: I have a calendar right in front of me on the wall," I informed her, completely calmly, without any particular emotion. Her eyes followed my finger to the calendar to which I was pointing.

"Oh! I guess so," Martha said, as she retreated, with a look of fear and curiosity in her face.

I could almost read her mind: My goodness, he doesn't remember! He is going to have to see a doctor. It could be Alzheimer's or something. He's too young to be losing his mind.

She didn't even notice that my hair was still damp from my shower with Steph. Funny, that, when I thought back on it — I had showered with Stephanie because it was fun, not to conceal our affair. But it didn't matter, my erstwhile wife didn't notice anyway.

What I didn't know was whether my wife's plan had been to 'grant me' some sexual relief that night. After ignoring her that evening, I knew she wasn't going to offer now. Not that I gave a rat's ass.

On Sunday I would discover that Martha decided on her course of action, and called our eldest son Daniel to ask for help.

That night, for once, Martha and I were in entirely reversed positions. That night, Martha was the one in emotional turmoil, sure that there was something very wrong, just not sure of what. 

On the other hand, I was asleep almost immediately, dreaming about a petite, redheaded woman, who was telling me that she was available as often as I want her, and whenever I can find the opportunity. That king-sized mattress sure was comfortable; especially when I was feeling satisfied.

***

The Saturday after Valentine's Day was like most weekends had been in the past year; Martha and I basically avoided each other. Only this weekend, Martha was nagged by an undefined fear.

Sure, she was plenty pissed that I had seemingly forgotten about Valentine's Day, but she contained her anger, offset by her fear that this was a sign of some major medical issue that needed to be diagnosed and corrected.

After talking to our son Dan on Friday night, Martha just lay low Saturday, keeping out of my way, which, it turns out, was fine by me.

Sunday was another matter.

Sunday morning, Dan had called me from his cell phone, already on his way to the house by the time he felt it was permissible to call. He spoke to me, and I agreed to go out to lunch with him.

In fact, to his surprise, I was in good spirits, and at first blush, was acting perfectly normal. I could see in his expression that he was relieved. We took separate cars, and went to one of the chain-restaurants that would serve either breakfast or lunch when we arrived.

We ordered our meals, and chatted about Dan's family, various projects and activities that he had been working on, and how my classes were going. Finally, I looked at my son, and decided to stop playing around,

"Dan, I'm sure glad to see you, and I'm delighted that you've come all the way down here to see me, but maybe you could come around to the point of whatever it is we need to talk about," I said, laying it on the line. 

"Dad, Mom is worried. She is worried about your memory, whether you need to see a doctor, or something," he told me; with clear distress at having to even raise this issue.

"Now why would your mother think that I'm having a problem with my memory? Here we go: Pi is equal to 3.14159265. Is that enough places? I could go for fifteen more if you wanted," I smirked a little as I said it; I was teasing him, and he knew it.

"It isn't your long-term memory that she's worried about, Dad, it's your short-term memory — about recent things. Like she tells me that she asked you repeatedly to fix a clog in her sink, but you kept forgetting," he gave his first example.

"What she told you is a little misleading, Son. Did she mention that the sink that she's talking about is the one in your old bathroom? The sinks in the master bath are working just fine, and I'll guarantee you that if we have any guests staying over in your old room, I'll clean the sink before they use it. I just don't see the same urgency to do it that your mom does," I explained, knowing that I too was doing a little prevaricating. 

If his mother wanted him to know that she'd moved out of our bedroom, let her explain it to him. Maybe she would be more honest with him than she'd been with me.

"The other thing she mentioned," he continued in his investigation, "was that you forgot Valentine's Day altogether. She didn't get into details, but she implied that you didn't get her any cards, or flowers or candy, and that you didn't take her out for dinner, like you always do."

"Dan, I think that it is your mother who is having the memory problem. I was completely aware that last Friday, February the Fourteenth, was Valentine's Day. Perhaps, what she doesn't remember is that she made it clear to me Christmas evening, after you all had left, that she was not interested in romantic evenings, or gifts, and in fact that they make her angry. 

"So I acquiesced to her wishes, and ignored Valentine's Day this year. We are too old for that kind of thing, according to your mother," I related to my son, although I suspect that my interpretation of her tirade was not what his mother intended or expected. So be it; it's the law of unintended consequences. 

What Martha actually wanted was that I should remain the romantic, attentive husband, attending to her needs and desires, while she ignored mine.

"Well..." my son responded, still confused, but starting to realize that the waters were deeper here than he was aware. And I don't think that he want to get involved, either. Not that I blame him!

After a pause, in which we were both silent, Dan spoke again,

"I guess that there have been a few misunderstanding between you and mom. Maybe you two ought to sit down and get things straightened out. You know how you always told me to talk to you before I went off and did anything stupid. That communications solve most problems."

I was shaking my head at him, even though I was smiling.

"Son, I've tried talking to your mom, and she's not interested in listening to what I have to say," I concluded, on a sad note.

The check came, which I paid, and my son and I shook hands and went our separate ways. Dan was going directly home, and I assume that he would speak to his mother on the phone. 

I got out my cell phone, and made a phone call as well. After she answered me in the affirmative, I drove over to Stephanie's condo. She met me at the door in a sheer robe that left little to the imagination. I sure hope that none of her neighbors saw it when she opened the door. They would be scandalized. We spent the afternoon together. 

No, it wasn't all in bed. Only an hour or so. An absolutely fabulous hour or so, granted. Steph encouraged me to try her 'doggie style', and she finished things off on top. She was certainly broadening my horizons.

Then we took a drive, and went for a walk, holding hands, and laughing like a couple of kids, around one of the local lakes. 

It was that afternoon that I had one of those epiphanies about relationships.

Although the sex with Stephanie was wonderful, different and far more varied than it had ever been with Martha, it truly wasn't the most important part of our relationship. 

We talked. Even laying there in bed, we talked.

That was when I remembered that Martha and I used to talk like that as well, but as the intimacy declined, so did our conversation with each other.

I wondered about that. I know that it was difficult for me to sit there and have a civilized conversation with Martha anymore, because I was always angry with her. When she cut me off and humiliated me in the physical aspects of our relationship, I just avoided her, since if I started telling her my true feelings, we would become angry with each other, and it would just turn into a fight. 

I suspect that Martha avoided initiating conversations with me because she knew that if we had an open-ended discussion it would inevitably come around to our lack of intimacy, a topic which she certainly wanted to avoid. So we both avoided conversation with each other, except for the most mundane topics.

The lack of physical intimacy and sex actually kept us from talking. It was a cause and effect situation. Could you have a successful relationship in which you stopped communicating? 

I reflected that perhaps if both spouses had lost their physical desires for each other and didn't care about it anymore, they could continue to communicate; but that wasn't true in my case.

Now that I had established a physically intimate relationship with Stephanie, I wasn't angry with Martha all of the time the way I had been, I was just becoming indifferent towards her. It was even starting to amuse me, that she was so self-absorbed that she hadn't noticed that I was happier these days.

I got home late that night.

***

In the story of life, if one takes the broader view, most of it is spent in routine. We sleep about 1/3 of our lives, we work about an equal amount. We spend various hours fixing meals and eating; we spend a certain amount of time grooming. We engage in certain forms of entertainment. And there is a small fraction of time for most of us that is spent having sex. 

So, in the McDonald house, life went on.

I don't know what Dan told his mother about our conversation. If I know him, it was probably limited to 'Dad's memory is fine, you just have to sit down and have a talk with him.' Well, that didn't happen.

Maybe Martha just thought that leaving well enough alone was good enough. For the most part, so did I.

I was taking Stephanie's advice, and not rushing to make any permanent decisions about Martha and me. No surreptitious visits to lawyers having divorce papers drawn up, no secret splitting of bank accounts. I was just taking my time and considering the future.

Not terribly 'up to speed' on state law, I was vaguely aware that California was a 'no-fault' state, so if there was a divorce, it wouldn't matter what the cause or whose 'fault.' It was just a question of equitable division of property, which I realized would be pretty easy for Martha and me.

The next 'crisis' occurred about a month after the 'Missing Valentine's Day,' as I thought of it. It was the same weekend as St. Patrick's Day, but completely unrelated. It had to do with Martha's employment.

The Vice-President of the finance department was retiring, and was having a going-away party. It was to be a formal event, with a multi-course meal and dancing. And presumably, his successor would be named before the end of the evening.

"Be sure that you are home in time tonight, Mark," Martha was instructing me at breakfast.

"No later than 5:30. And remember to pick up your tux sometime today," she added.

"I'll see you then," she finished, blowing me some sort of air kiss on her way out the door.

"Absolutely. Sure. Whatever you desire!" I replied with a chuckle to the already closing door, as I listened to her car starting, while the garage door opener ground away, lifting the outer door to allow her car to pass out of the house.

I picked up the phone and called Stephanie's number,

"Hello darling,' she answered, seeing my telephone I.D.

"What if I had been Martha calling and you called her 'darling'?" I asked, mischievously.

"Oh my goodness... I suppose I would have to tell her that I thought she was you, and accept the consequences," she told me.

I'll bet she would, too!

"I just called to update you on today's schedule. The retirement party for Martha's boss is tonight, so I have to pick up my tux, and be home by 5:30, so we can get there in time for dinner," I laid out my assigned tasks.

"OK. Will that give us time for practice this afternoon? You know I am really glad that Bob showed us the basic 'Quickstep.' That gives us, what? Four or five ballroom dances to do," Stephanie was gushing.

"Sure. I'll pick up my tux on the way to school, and I don't have anyone scheduled to see me this afternoon, so we can start early, so long as there isn't a class going on in the room," I agreed.

My day went pretty much as anticipated, and Steph and I got together that afternoon, but only for dance practice.

Chapter 8.

Speaking of dancing, I was actually looking forward to this evening, since it would be the first time for me to use my new-found skills since I started the class. 

It seemed longer than just eight weeks, but part of that was because Stephanie and I had been practicing at least once a week on our own, sometimes more. A couple of times, our teacher Bob was around, waiting for another class to begin, and he would come in and help us out, correcting any bad habits that we might develop, and sometimes showing us a new dance, like when he gave us a short lesson on the 'Quickstep' a couple of weeks prior.




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 04



Bob and his wife had their own private dance studio, in addition to the teaching that he did at the college, and after the end of the semester, I was going to talk to Stephanie about continuing lessons with them. I think that we both enjoyed it so much.

Nevertheless, I was home in plenty of time, showered, shaved and ready for an evening out, just waiting for Martha to finish her preparation.

For the first time in, well, it seemed like forever, Martha came running into the master bedroom in nothing but her panties, bra and hose. I did a quick take, and then I realized that she needed to get her dress from the walk-in closet, that she had never given up when she moved out of the room.

"Oh, god, I'm running behind," she exclaimed, probably the reason that she would allow me to see her in such an unclothed state. I looked, and realized that she still had a very nice shape. She was larger in scale than Stephanie and her bust and hips were probably proportionately larger as well. She was a fine figure of a woman.

She ducked into the closet, and came out with a black dress, half on, with the zipper open in the back.

"Could you zip me up, darling?" she requested.

"Of course," I acquiesced as I zipped her up.

"That's a very chic dress," I remarked, "Have I ever seen it before?"

"No, it's brand new for tonight," she told me, sounding pleased that I'd noticed and said something nice about it. I stood back looking at her.

"It looks fabulous on you," I told her, since it honestly did.

She reached up and caressed my cheek, to my shock. She hadn't made a gesture of affection like that for a long time.

"Thank you, Mark. I hope it's alright for this evening," she said, and I wasn't sure if she was truly worried about it for some reason, or if she was just fishing for additional complements. It didn't matter because she immediately went back to 'her' room.

I finished dressing myself, and put my coat on to try it out for size. I walked out into the living room with it on, grabbing my wallet, keys and other necessities and distributing them into the various pockets.

"Oh, darling," I heard her voice from behind me, "you look dashing in that tuxedo. I'm going to be the envy of all the girls!"

"No worries on that front, Martha. I'm only there for you," I said, telling her the truth, because I was only attending because she had more-or-less insisted on it.

She came out into the living room and joined me. She was checking herself out in the full-length mirror. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her make-up subtle, but effective, and the dress, perfect. She had a small matching purse, and a jacket that she could put on that went down to her waist.

Even in her fifties, she was a beautiful woman, and I could see and remember the girl who I had married all of those years ago.

Then she turned to me,

"Mark, I can't find the diamond pendent that you bought me for Christmas. Did you lock it up with my other jewelry?" she asked me, not actually asking as much as expecting me to fetch it for her.

It would have looked stunning with her outfit, I must admit.

"No, Martha. I took it back to the jeweler and got my money back," I stated, preparing for the storm to come.

"Mark, if that is a joke, it is in very poor taste. Could you just go and get me my pendent?" she insisted, her tone getting brusque. 

"No, Martha, it isn't a joke. You told me to take it back if I thought that giving it to you entitled me to be intimate with you. I thought about it and realized that of course, expensive gifts that a man gets for his wife are, in part, a form of 'payment' for the intimacy and love that he gets from her. So I returned it," I concluded.

I wasn't sure of she was going to faint, or explode. I don't think that she knew either. But I was fortunate in at least one respect: she was too shocked to say anything. Not just her face, but her entire upper torso went red. She was literally as close to 'steaming' as I'd ever seen anyone. I'd always thought of that phrase as hyperbole. Maybe I should suggest that she see the doctor — it could be a sign of high blood pressure.

She turned, and walked back into her room, and returned a minute later with a string of pearls around her neck.

"Those are very nice, too," I said, knowing that they didn't even come close to the pendent. Nice, but not stunning. That diamond was so clear, and the light reflecting through its facets, were...well, it was too late to worry about now.

"We will talk about this later," she hissed through clenched teeth, as she started walking to the car, her eyes straight forward so that she wouldn't have to look at me.

I got past her to open the door, and Martha, pushed my hand away from the handle as she grabbed it.

"I can open my own doors," she huffed, although, I stayed and waited until she had gathered her dress and feet entirely into the car, and shut her door for her.

The drive to the retirement party was done in complete silence.

To be entirely honest, I had a hard time not laughing, as I considered the fact that all that I had done was what Martha had suggested that I do. What was Shakespeare's famous phrase from Hamlet for that: hoist on her own petard? 

Since we used the valet parking at the hotel, I didn't even try to open Martha's door, someone else got it for her.

As we entered into the Grand Ballroom where the party was being held, I discovered what an actress my wife could be. Despite being so angry with me that she was seething, as soon as we crossed the threshold into an area where she and I were expected to be a happy couple, she suddenly took my arm, and put a huge smile on her face.

"And this is my husband, Mark...

"I'd like you to meet our President...

"Thank you.... and your gown is lovely as well...

"We've been married for more than...

"Yes, my darling Mark is so handsome in a tux...

"Oh, these pearls are really nothing... (she elbowed me pretty hard when she was asked about the pearls)

So we circulated around the ballroom, meeting and greeting, at least she was meeting and greeting people, because I only knew a few of them. But I played along as well, smiling and saying all of the things that a spouse is supposed to say.

We were seated, and I seem to vaguely remember that the meal was adequate — I wasn't paying close attention to the food. I was just smiling and nodding my head yes at everything that Martha had to say.

We'd been seated at the table with the President of the company and his wife, the retiring Vice-President of Finance and his wife, Martha, the Director of Finance, and two other couples. In other words, we were with the mucky-mucks. Polite conversation was the order of the day.

There was a younger woman, whose husband was the Director of Accounting on one side of me. She was quite attractive, but seemed bored by the entire scene, and responded in a minimal fashion to any sallies that I made to include her in the conversation. On my other side, was the retiring Vice-President's wife, a slightly chubby lady, but with a charming and bubbly personality. She was quite personable, as was her husband. The President was a quiet man, and his wife, a slender woman, I would guess ten-years older than Martha, was reserved as well. But all-in-all, the dinner went well.

After dessert had been served, a small orchestra began playing, rather jazzy tunes, but with a beat that would easily fit into some of the dance steps that I'd learned. Always the polite husband, I turned to my wife,

"Martha, would you care to dance?" I inquired.

The look told me all that I needed to know. She would not be dancing with me tonight. She decided to have a joke at my expense.

"Mark, I didn't think that you could dance. It might be risky for your partner," she said with a laugh, that if I hadn't known how angry she was under her veneer of calm, I might have laughed myself.

I turned to the Vice-President's wife, recalling that Ellen was her name.

"Ellen, would you care to dance?" I politely inquired, with a smile on my face, looking directly at her.

She glanced back for a second to make sure that I wasn't joking, and then got up to join me.

"Darn right I'd like to dance with you! If I wait for MY husband to ask, I'll sit all night!" she said, and although the words sounded somewhat harsh, with Ellen, one could tell it wasn't meant as anything but fun. She turned to her husband and gave him a quick peck before we left for the dance floor, and he'd been laughing at her banter all along.

Ellen, it turned out, might be a called chubby, but she when I started to lead her in an East Coast Swing to the music, she was right there. And she was having a blast! It was pretty obvious that she enjoyed getting out there and kicking her heels.

We stayed out on the floor and Foxtrotted to the next tune.

Ellen was just laughing and talking and having a great time.

After we'd been out there for a few minutes, and Ellen decided that I was reasonably comfortable, she asked me,

"Mark, tell me — how come Martha doesn't know you can dance? Having you been keeping secrets, you naughty man?"

"I just started taking a class a couple of months ago," I confessed, "and this is my first chance to 'strut my stuff'"

"Well, you're doing pretty well. You must be practicing with someone," she hinted.

"My class had four men, including the instructor, and fourteen coeds," I put on a fake leer, "so it's a target rich environment for dance partners."

That settled, Ellen smiled.

"Now Mark," she told me, as we danced, "ask Eve, the President's wife to dance too. She used to adore dancing, but he's had problems as he's gotten older and can't dance anymore — his knees, I think. Anyway, you dance a couple with her, and you will be in her good graces for life!"

When we returned to the table, Ellen said, rather loudly,

"Martha, you've been keeping Mark's dancing skills a secret from us! He didn't step on my feet once — in fact, I think he's one of the better dance partners I've had!"

Martha was sitting there with her mouth half-open, in shock.

I think that she was going to say something, but before she had a chance, I turned to Eve, the President's wife.

"Eve, could I convince you to join me for a couple?" I asked, not forgetting Ellen's advice.

Eve's face just, well, lit up! She turned to her husband, and he smiled and nodded, first at her and then at me. I helped her rise from her chair, and we walked back to the dance floor.

As we started dancing, someone dimmed the lights, so that it wasn't quite so bright on the couples, and that made it more comfortable.

Eve and I danced silently together for a few minutes before she said anything,

"Mark, it is Mark isn't it?" 

I nodded.

"I get the impression that your wife has been taken by surprise this evening. She doesn't know you dance?" she asked.

"No, I just started classes recently, and this is my first opportunity to test my skills in public," I responded.

"Well, you are doing very well. I'm so glad that you asked me. Bill — you know my husband — his knees have just given out, and at his age, he just doesn't have the strength anymore to dance. And I do love it so," she said.

There was a pause as Eve seemed to be thinking.

"Somehow," she continued, "I've always envisioned Martha as being too.... well, cool in her temperament, to really enjoy dancing."

"If you mean, is she frigid, you're probably right," was the rather brutal and honest answer I gave her.

Eve smiled at me again.

"Oh my, you don't fool around, do you?" she chuckled as she said it.

At that point the music stopped, and we just stood, still holding hands, waiting for the music to continue.

It was a slow dance, so suddenly a lot of people who might not know the steps, but who could hold each other and move in a circle, came out onto the floor, which was now fairly full.

Eve came close and while we weren't in a tight embrace, like many of the couples on the floor, we were dancing closer than we had before.

Eve was wearing a dress that had a lot of material in the skirt, and as we turned, I realized that she was catching my leg between hers for just a moment, and rubbing herself on my leg.

I initially stiffened a little, in shock. But when I looked down at her face, I could see a little smile. I smiled back, and we struck a bargain without saying a word.

From that point on, when we would turn in such a way that no one would notice, I made sure that my leg was out a little further between hers, and I was moving it as well, so she knew that I was happily rubbing her pussy. Fortunately the lights were low, and we were surrounded by couples completely into each other.

While Eve kept her smile on, and her eyes looking at me, I could hear her breath coming a little faster through her mouth. By this time, of course, I had an erection as well, which Eve could certainly feel. When Eve's eyes started to close, I could tell that she was close, and then she whispered to me,

"Hold me tight, don't let me fall."

I did make sure that I had a firm arm around her waist, so that when her legs buckled she remained upright, while she quietly orgasmed on the dance floor. I was so excited, I came close myself, but then the dance was over, and Eve was standing on her own again.

She looked me straight in the eye, and smiled,

"Thank you, Mark. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed dancing with you."

"The pleasure," I replied...."was all mine."

We walked back to our table, arm in arm, and when we arrived, I pulled her chair out for her, and seated her.

Before I could say anything, though, the Director's wife, the younger woman seated next to me at dinner, who had seemed too bored to say a word earlier, was suddenly up, and approaching me,

"I'm not waiting any longer," she declared, looking at me, "Let's boogie!"

Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed my hand, and led me away.

As we walked back to the floor, I was trying to remember her name. I think she recognized my hesitation.

"My name is Martina, by the way," she was having a good time backing me into a corner, "Sorry, if we'd talked, you would probably have remembered, but I get so bored at these things that I tend to clam up."

"But," she continued, "I saw you dancing, and thought, 'this may be more interesting tonight'"

"Are you one of Bob's students out at the college?" she asked, giving away that she knew something.

"Yes," I responded, "You know Bob, I take it?"

"Sure do. Has he shown you how to do a Quickstep?" she asked, as the music that started playing was a pretty up-tempo number.

I didn't answer, I just grabbed her and we started.

They say if your partner is good, it makes you look better than you actually are. Well, Martina was good, and it was a real experience to be out there with her. She was laughing and smiling as she taught me things, on the fly.

"I've taken lessons from Bob and his wife at their studio for a couple of years," she clued me in, "so I recognized his style in your dancing. And Ellen was telling everyone at the table that you had been taking class for a couple of months. Ergo, Bob's class out at the J.C. Funny, I got the distinct impression that your wife didn't know you were taking a ballroom dance class."

Martina laughed again.

"Whaaat?" I asked, thinking that I was screwing up or something.

Instead she got close enough to speak with me in a low voice.

"Did Eve really orgasm when you were doing that slow number?" she inquired in a playful voice.

I was shocked. I hope it wasn't that obvious to everyone.

She must have read my mind.

"No one else would have seen," she quickly added, "except that I was on my way back from the powder room, and I saw her face as she lost control for just a second."

"My dear, Martina, you know that even if such a thing happened, a gentleman would never tell," I chided her.

"So she did! Wow! I should try it sometime," she had a mischievous look on her face as she said that.

"Not with me you don't, young lady. Just what I need, a posse of angry husbands out to shoot me or hang me for dancing with their wives," I warned her, as sternly as I could, without meaning it.

"Oh, you spoil sport!" she declared, and then stuck her tongue out at me, "Maybe some other time."

"Speaking of husbands and wives. You know that about half the wives sitting out there are dying to have you ask them to dance?" she suggested. 

The music stopped, and as we started to go back to our table, we were intercepted by a young man. Martina told me she would make it back to the table by herself, and went on. The young man asked me if I would dance with his wife, since he didn't know how to himself. I told him 'sure', and he motioned his wife up.

The next four of five dances were like that; wives coming up, or having their husband ask me, to give them a turn. They were all very nice people, and the retirement party was turning into a really good time for me.

But, I was also getting bushed, so I begged off, and returned to sit down at our table.

Ellen, Eve and Martina were having a fine old time, going on about my dancing skills. I think that they were rubbing it in a little, since Martha hadn't danced with me, and didn't appear to want to, either.

Martha was sitting there with a smile on her lips, but it didn't extend to her eyes. 

"Well, I think that my husband has had enough dancing for the evening, haven't you darling?" she commanded, phrased as a question. 

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe after I get my breath back..." I was baiting her, to the obvious delight of my dance partners of the evening.

Her next words were whispered, but delivered in a rather sharp tone, exposing the underlying anger that she'd been holding in all evening,

"You are done for the evening."

It was a peremptory command, an order.

I looked around and smiled at the other members at our table, before I rose,

"If you'll excuse me."

And then I left. Not left the room; I left the retirement party.

I got our car back from the valet, and pulled off to the side on the driveway out of the hotel.

Cell phones are a wonderful innovation. I called Stephanie's home phone and got the answer machine. So I hit the quick-dial on her cell phone, and she picked up almost immediately.

"Mark?" she asked, having seen the caller ID, but knowing I was supposed to be out for the night, "Where are you?"

"Good evening to you too, Steph. The retirement party ended early, and I'm looking for something else to do, since I'm all dressed up in my tux, with no where to go!" I told her, giving the light and happy perspective on the night.

"If you don't mind hanging out with a gaggle of old broads, you could join us. We're at the Blue Parrot, you know the new jazz club on First Street," she said. I could hear the noise and music in the background.

"Love to. Give me twenty-minutes, and I'll see you there," was my reply.

Then I called home and left a message on the answering machine:

"Don't worry, don't wait up. See you tomorrow."

As soon as I entered the club, I could see Steph along with a couple of other women, at a corner table with a single long 'tuck and rolled' upholstered seat. The club was named, presumably, after the nightclub owned by Sidney Greenstreet in Casablanca. There was a fellow who looked similar to the actor, wearing a fez, and other features of the architecture were taken from the movie. I half-expected a police raid on the place, led by Claude Raines. It was fun, and with a live jazz band, it was full.

Steph scooted in from the end of the seat closer to her girl friends, as I sat down on the end.

One of the women with Steph looked at me, seemingly happy to see me, even though I didn't know who she was.

"So you're the man who's put the smile back on our Stephanie's face?" she more or less asked, but was maybe stating.




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 04



"Ahhh...." I stammered.

"Don't pay any attention to them," Steph said with obvious affection, "this is my sister, Alice, and my sister, Marge. And you two — be good! This is Mark, and he's an old friend of mine and John's."

Then to give credence to the teasing, Steph got right up next to me, and took my arm in hers, and put her head over on my shoulder.

You know what? It didn't offend me in the least.

We passed a couple of hours at the Blue Parrot, listening to jazz, dancing when the mood struck us, and having a relaxed time.

As we were getting ready to leave, I turn to Stephanie, to ask,

"Stephanie, would you mind taking in a refugee for the night?"

She looked at me skeptically, thinking I was joking, and then she realized I was being serious.

"Are you telling me you want to come to my place and sleep with me tonight?" she asked her voice husky and full of desire.

"Well, I wouldn't need to sleep with you, I suppose. You have a couch?" I teased.

"Don't even joke like that. big boy. If you are in my condo for the night, you are in my bed. Are you being serious? God only knows how much I would like to have you the entire night," she had an almost desperate look on her face.

"I'm serious. I need a place to stay. I'm too tired to face Martha tonight," I assured her.

"You'll have to explain that to me," she replied, her eyebrows rising on her face a little.

"When we get to your castle, all will be revealed," was my promise, as I put my arm behind her, and gently guided her to the door.

We did spend the night together in bed, but there was no wild sex.

I was too tired from a long day, followed by an exhausting evening. Not just physically from the dancing, but I was emotionally drained as well.

By my acts this evening, I more-or-less declared war on Martha, or at least Martha's idea of what our marriage would be. I hadn't necessarily intended it to be my line-in-the-sand, but that's what it had become.

Stephanie and I spent an hour or so talking about the situation before we decided to go to sleep, and I was completely honest with her.

My emotional feelings toward Stephanie were pretty damn strong. She was providing for my needs the way that I believed a wife should for her husband and not just physically. Martha was not.

In return, I was fulfilling her needs as well. It was she with whom I was sharing the intimacies, the conversation and companionship, the willingness to do things for her. In her case, she was also desirous of the sexual intimacy, the confirmation of her continuing feminine appeal. Stephanie was enthused about sharing a bed with me; she assured me that I didn't have any repellent attributes that she could detect, and that my breathing/tossing/turning/snoring was better than John's had been. 

It was an unusual situation. Most of the time, when a man and a woman start to fall in love they go through this 'infatuation' period, where the object of their affection can do no wrong. Then after a year or so, the infatuation diminishes and they suddenly see the 'real' person, warts and all.

But Stephanie and I had known each other for years — indeed for over a decade, so we already had a friendship going. I'm not sure that I was 'infatuated' with Steph, but I knew I was really fond of her, and infatuated might have been an appropriate term for how I felt about sex with her!

I had such mixed feelings, as well as the fact that I just didn't feel right about abandoning Martha without allowing her some opportunity to understand how seriously in trouble our marriage is.

Steph and I slept in each other's arms (so to speak) that night, but in the morning, I was going home to have it out with Martha.

To Be Continued...



Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 05



Copyright 2009, All rights reserved

Scenes from Chapters 7&8

***

"Oh, sorry. Couldn't see you in there," I said, "Have a good day at work?"

"Why...yes, I'm sure. But..." she stammered, as she looked at me expectantly.

I think that Martha was totally confused. I wasn't carrying anything — no cards, no flowers, no candy. Nada. I wasn't rushing to her to tell her that she was my Valentine sweetheart. She was perplexed. What could this possibly mean?

"Where are..., I mean, what are we doing for dinner?" she finally got out the words.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not that hungry tonight. Why don't you just fix yourself some left-overs, and I'll get something later, if I feel hungry," I replied, completely serious, and then I walked back to my office and shut the door.

***

"Mark, I can't find the diamond pendent that you bought me for Christmas. Did you lock it up with my other jewelry?" she asked me, not actually asking as much as expecting me to fetch it for her.

It would have looked stunning with her outfit, I must admit.

"No, Martha. I took it back to the jeweler and got my money back," I stated, preparing for the storm to come.

"Mark, if that is a joke, it is in very poor taste. Could you just go and get me my pendent?" she insisted, her tone getting brusque. 

"No, Martha, it isn't a joke. You told me to take it back if I thought that giving it to you entitled me to be intimate with you. I thought about it and realized that of course, expensive gifts that a man gets for his wife are, in part, a form of 'payment' for the intimacy and love that he gets from her. So I returned it," I concluded.

I wasn't sure of she was going to faint, or explode. I don't think that she knew either. But I was fortunate in at least one respect: she was too shocked to say anything. Not just her face, but her entire upper torso went red. She was literally as close to 'steaming' as I'd ever seen anyone. I'd always thought of that phrase as hyperbole. Maybe I should suggest that she see the doctor — it could be a sign of high blood pressure.

***

As we started dancing, someone dimmed the lights, so that it wasn't quite so bright on the couples, and that made it more comfortable.

Eve and I danced silently together for a few minutes before she said anything,

"Mark, it is Mark isn't it?" 

I nodded.

"I get the impression that your wife has been taken by surprise this evening. She doesn't know you dance?" she asked.

"No, I just started classes recently, and this is my first opportunity to test my skills in public," I responded.

"Well, you are doing very well. I'm so glad that you asked me. Bill — you know my husband — his knees have just given out, and at his age, he just doesn't have the strength anymore to dance. And I do love it so," she said.

There was a pause as Eve seemed to be thinking.

"Somehow," she continued, "I've always envisioned Martha as being too.... well, cool in her temperament, to really enjoy dancing."

"If you mean, is she frigid, you're probably right," was the rather brutal and honest answer I gave her.

Eve smiled at me again.

"Oh my, you don't fool around, do you?" she chuckled as she said it.

***

I was too tired from a long day, followed by an exhausting evening. Not just physically from the dancing, but I was emotionally drained as well.

By my acts this evening, I more-or-less declared war on Martha, or at least Martha's idea of what our marriage would be. I hadn't necessarily intended it to be my line-in-the-sand, but that's what it had become.

***

Chapter 9.

Steph kissed me as I left her condo to return home.

We'd already had breakfast, and showered. By this time, I had my own toothbrush and other necessities that Stephanie kept for me in her bathroom.

Nevertheless, there comes a time that we have to face the music, and this was mine.

I was in a cheerful mood, though, as I drove home. One thing that I had become sure of over the last couple of months; I would survive, and I would be happy, if I wanted to be.

Parking the car in the garage meant that the noise of the opener would announce my presence. I sauntered into the house, and there, waiting in her tatty old robe in the kitchen, was Martha.

Martha was crying, or at least had been crying, by the look of her eyes and face.

"How can you be so cruel to me! You humiliated me in front of everyone last night," she wailed.

Automatically, after a life of responding to the sound of my wife in distress, I walked towards her to embrace and comfort her. As I got close and she understood my intention, she suddenly hissed at me,

"Don't you touch me. You keep away from me."

It startled me momentarily, and immediately brought back my anger that she had already found a way to reject my offer of physical contact within a minute of my returning to the house.

Turning away, I quietly said,

"Fine. I'm going to change out of this monkey suit, and into my regular clothes," and I walked away.

As I entered into the master bedroom, and began to undress, I put my clothes down on the still-made bed, never used the previous night.

To my complete surprise, Martha followed me in.

"Where were you last night," she demanded.

"What possible difference would it make to you where I was?" I asked abruptly, shrugging my shoulders, as I rehung the tux on its hanger, "It's not like you turned over and checked to see if I was in bed with you."

"I'm your wife, and I'm entitled to know," was Martha's instinctive response, asserting some sort of territorial claim.

Looking at her, I spoke,

"Go and get cleaned up and dressed. Then we can sit down and maybe we can have a civilized discussion."

Martha must have seen my resolve, because without a further word, she did leave and go to 'her' room.

When she returned, her hair still damp, pulled back in a pony tail, in a baggy gray sweat-suit, I just sat there not saying anything, content to let her vent and get it out of her system. She might be more reasonable once she'd had her say.

It was an angry Martha, reminiscent of the woman the night before, flush with anger who spoke,

"You humiliated me last night. First, I find out that you returned the pendent that I was planning on wearing. I can't tell you how angry I am about that. You had no right to do that.

"You danced with all of those women; wives of people I work with every day, and you had never even let me know that you were taking lessons. They were all laughing at me, that I was the oblivious wife, whose husband never bothered to tell her that he was taking ballroom dancing. That also let them all know that it wasn't something that we were doing together. 

"And then, worse, when they announced my promotion to fill the V.P. slot, they asked you and me to come up to the podium, and you weren't there anymore. They had people looking all over for you; in the men's room, outside (in case you were smoking or talking with someone), at the bar, everywhere. But you were nowhere to be found. You had just left, without a word. I had to get a taxi to bring me home. And all I know is that you've left a message on the answering machine 'don't worry, don't stay up waiting. "

She paused, waiting for my apology, which was not to be forthcoming. Instead, I said,

"Congratulations on your promotion, it's a wonderful move up for you. As for dancing with all of those women — I asked you first, and you blew me off; in fact, you blew me off with a little 'joke' intended to be a put down. The other women didn't seem to mind dancing with me, despite your attitude.

"I left when you decided to order me around — let me make it clear — 'order me' around in public, like I was a child, not your husband. You say that I humiliated you by being social and dancing with other women, but you expected that I would accept your treating me in a manner intended to humiliate me, and just put up with it. Then you're offended when I refuse to let you," I explained, in a still calm voice, although I was getting a little hotter under my collar. I stopped and took another sip of coffee, more to give myself a breather to try and regain my self-control.

"Don't you love me anymore," Martha asked, with a demanding tone that seemed to imply she didn't love me very much at that moment.

"Of course I love you Martha," I replied.

"If you love me, why don't you show it?" she answered, jumping on my response, trying to put me on the defensive.

"What do you mean, exactly?" I queried, using the old tactic of answering a question with a question.

"Well, for example, when I asked you to fix the sink in my bathroom, you just ignored me; even after I asked you a couple of times. You completely neglected me on Valentine's Day. And then, I find out, that you've returned my Christmas gift, without a by-your-leave. That's what I mean. I spoke with our son, Dan, and he assured me that you remembered all of the things I asked. 

"You seem to have given him some cock and bull story that explains it all away, but it all comes down to: you are intentionally ignoring anything I ask of you," she told me, getting rather heated as she spoke.

I paused and considered how I would answer her, trying to communicate my long simmering frustrations. I put my hands together behind my head, and leaned back in the chair.

"Let me get this straight: for me, to show my love for you, requires that I do things for you when you ask me to, that I give you gifts, and that on special occasions I take you out to dinner, or acknowledge you in some special way. Am I stating it fairly?" I asked.

"Yes!" was Martha's immediate affirmation, which her body language, echoed. 

"OK," I said.

Martha took my OK to be a sign that I agreed with her. Far from it. I was just preparing the soil for my point.

"Do you love me?" I turned the question around on Martha.

"Oh, don't be silly, of course I do," was her almost annoyed reply.

"Doesn't your vision of our marriage seem a little asymmetric to you?" I leaned forward as I started my argument.

"What do you mean by 'asymmetric'?" Martha questioned my use of the word.

"One-sided. After all, you've just put forward the proposition that for me to show you my love requires acts and gifts; but I'm supposed to simply accept your verbal assurances as proof that you love me, even though you refuse to reciprocate and show your love by acts and gifts?" I told her, presenting the crux of my problem with our marriage.

"When have I ever refused to get you anything that you needed?" Martha asked, honestly mystified.

"How about last Christmas when you refused to make love with me?" was my quiet and simple reply.

"Oh, so that's what this is about — sex! You are trying to use guilt to convince me that I have to have sex with you to demonstrate my love!" Martha's voice rose in volume and intensity.

This was my opportunity to give her my viewpoint, so I wanted to make the most of it, as I explained it to her,

"Is this about sex? Well, it is and it isn't. First, sex is only a part of it. My suspicion is that you have been avoiding basic intimacy, like touching, hugging and kissing which are equally important to me, to avoid having it lead to confrontations about making love or sex as you call it. 

"But that aside, it's a broader issue about 'needs.' It seems to me, that you want — no, demand — that I fulfill your 'needs', but you are unwilling to satisfy mine. Or, for that matter even acknowledge that the physical intimacy, the closeness, and yes, the sex, are as necessary to me as my being available to clean out your bathroom sink is to you.

"Imagine — you are complaining that I don't love you anymore, because over a couple of months, I've ignored your requests to do a few tasks around the house. I took your antagonism against being romantic with each other to its logical conclusion, and ignored you on Valentine's Day. Then you're outraged!

"Yet, you still don't see anything wrong with the fact, that you've been depriving me of affection for literally years. Do you understand how it offends, angers and humiliates me every time that I have to beg you to make love? 

"It's bad enough when you finally give in, and even worse when you don't.

"When I think about it, I have to wonder if the whole denying me the physical part of our marriage hasn't just been some sort of way of asserting your dominance; that you could hurt my ego and humiliate me by withholding your sexual 'favors.' 

"And you know what — it worked until recently. I always thought that you didn't know how much it hurt me when you moved out of our bedroom and stopped being intimate with me. Now, I don't know, maybe you were aware all along."

Martha's face was livid, when I finished speaking.

"That is just so much hog-wash! I've never tried to hurt you. You are letting your obsession with sex color your entire view of our marriage," she exclaimed, by this time almost unable to control herself.

"I'm soooo angry, I think I'm going to..." she went on, although at that moment I interrupted her,

"You're going to what? Move out of the bedroom and stop having sex with me. Ooops! Too late. You've already done that. What else can you do? Divorce me?"

That stopped Martha for a minute, and she seemed to shrink a little. But at least she was considering what I'd said.

"I suppose that you are going to tell me that to get back my loving husband, I have to accommodate you by having sex more often, or something," she almost sneered.

"Not if that's your attitude. For one thing, to be brutally honest, you're simply not that sexually intriguing. There are other women who are more experienced than you, who want sex as much as I do, and will do sexual things for me that you've never even been willing to consider," I said, letting the cat out of the bag.

The light bulb finally went on.

"You've been cheating on me. You've been having an affair!" she whispered half to me, half to herself, her face suddenly focused, her shock palpable.

There was a moment of silence in which I simply looked Martha in the eyes, before I replied,

"I don't know how it could possibly be 'cheating' on you, since 'cheating' in this case implies taking something from someone that they want, and giving it to someone else. You've made it clear that you don't want sex, and you don't want the intimacy." I turned my hands up and shrugged my shoulders, signaling with my body language 'What can I say.' "

I continued,

"Of course, the unintended consequence of shutting down the intimacy is that the emotional bonds that hold us together have been melting away. Slowly, day by day, rejection by rejection, humiliation after humiliation, my love for you has been diminishing.

"In fact, it is you who has been cheating me. You've accepted my love, my devotion, and my acts of giving for all of these years, while refusing to provide for my needs," I concluded.

"There are a lot of people who can love each other, and communicate and remain emotionally close as they grow old without the sex," Martha informed me.

Since I'd already considered if that kind of arrangement was acceptable to me, I was quick to answer,

"I suppose that may be true: but it requires that both partners agree that the physical part of their relationship can be reduced or eliminated. You made a decision that intimacy and sex wasn't important and could be disposed of without even consulting with me, because you know that I wouldn't go along with that notion.

"To be honest, I'm trying to see if there is any 'marriage' left. What we've become are two people who share a house with each other, but nothing else. That isn't my idea of a marriage.

"I am willing, even now, to try and rekindle the love that we used to share, and to rebuild our marriage, but I can't do that alone, and I'm not willing to accept the status quo. We could see a marriage counselor; and I think that you should see a doctor. I don't believe that it is normal or healthy that a woman as young as you should have no interest in having a sex life."

Martha's face told me she was bursting to respond.

"There is nothing wrong with me, and I resent the implication that this is somehow my fault. I'm not the one who is obsessed with sex, you are!" Martha snapped, in what turned out to be the last words of the argument.

I finally just looked at her, slowly shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. I had nothing more to say. I turned and walked away.

It was time to return my rented tuxedo, so I went back to the bedroom, retrieved it, got back into my car and left.

Our argument in the morning left us both emotionally drained, and we both went about our day quietly avoiding one another, but if Martha's day was anything like mine, it was spent thinking about our marriage.

In my case, I was concluding that I couldn't see any hope for it. 

Martha didn't see any reason that she should change, and there was no logic that would allow me to continue on without a drastic change. Aristotle's immovable object and irresistible force once again railed and contended with each other for supremacy.

As I reflected on what had been said, it struck me that my suggestion of counseling might have been trying to put a bandage on a wound that required major surgery. Martha's less than human attitudes towards marital intimacy and sexuality needed psychiatric help, not a marriage counselor. 

That evening I fixed dinner, as usual. During the afternoon I had thawed out a couple of prime grade rib-eye steaks, using the microwave to get them de-iced, and putting them into the warming drawer for about three more hours. They were room temperature when I was ready to cook them.

It was my old stand-by that I put the steaks (salted and peppered) into a sizzling hot pan on the stove, with a little oil, and browned them on both sides for about two minutes a side, and then took the steaks, pan and all and moved it into my 400 degree pre-heated oven, and let them cook for about 7 minutes.

After removing the pan from the oven, I set the steaks aside for 5 minutes on a plate, loosely covered with aluminum foil. Using the drippings left in the pan, I placed it back on the stove, and sautéed some small sliced Portobello mushrooms, adding some butter as needed, and deglazing the pan with a jigger of Jack Daniels. Smelled heavenly. The sautéed mushrooms went on top of the steaks.

Otherwise I was lazy, and prepared one of those pre-packaged salad mixes, containing everything you needed — except that I added some crumbled gorgonzola cheese and pitted Spanish olives to the mix.

Toasting a couple of sourdough French rolls, I took them out about 2/3s of the way through, and put butter on them, then back into the toaster oven until the butter melted. That wrapped up the meal. 

Simple!

Martha joined me at the table, and although there wasn't a great deal of discussion, we tried to be civil. I found her looking at me rather strangely a couple of times during dinner, but when I looked back and smiled to encourage her to speak, she didn't say anything and just looked back at her food.

After dinner, we went our separate ways, as usual; I to my office, where I went on to my computer, and then picked up my most recent book to finish reading and Martha was reading or watching television in the living room.

I'd had a late night the previous night, so I figured on hitting the rack early.

Unusual for me to do at night, I got into a hot shower to let the water do its magic and relax my worries away. That was followed by my normal routine, brushing my teeth, taking my cholesterol medication, and putting on a set of pajama bottoms. Then to bed.

No one would have been more surprised than I, when, shortly after I'd turned the lights out, the door to the bedroom opened, and Martha, smelling freshly showered, wearing Rive Gauche, my favorite perfume, slid into the bed. 




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 05



It was such a surprise for me that I didn't respond immediately, so she slid over to be close to me. She put her arms around me and kissed me. A nice kiss, not a great kiss, but on the lips, and it seemed sincere.

"Mark," she whispered, as if it mattered, given that we were alone in the house and she could have shouted, "You are right, I have been neglecting you, and I'm sorry about that.

"You talked about rekindling our marriage, and I would like to try, if you're willing," she stated.

I didn't answer back, but I held her and kissed her.

She was wearing a negligée that I slipped off her shoulders. I began by kissing and sucking on her nipples, which she seemed to enjoy — at least in the dark I could tell that her breasts had responded, with her nipples getting hard.

I returned to kissing her, this time laying there next to each other, our bodies face-to-face, touching along the entire length of each other. Martha opened her mouth, and we touched our tongues, and began to kiss more deeply than we had in years.

After several minutes, I eased Martha on her back, and removed her panties. She lifted her mid-section to accommodate my pulling them over her bottom, and then lifted her legs slightly so that I could pull them the rest of the way off.

I returned to kissing and caressing her body there in the dark, while she lay back in the bed. I could feel her body relaxing as I stroked her. My hand made its way past her pubic hair, and she opened her legs to allow me to use my fingers between her thighs.

With my fingers, I started just gently playing with the hair above the outer lips, so that she could feel a light movement up and down the entire length of her opening. Then I moved the fingers in closer where they were actually in contact with the outer lips, still gentle, stroking the skin. With a light touch, I began massaging the lips in such a way that it would be stimulating the clitoris below. As I moved my fingers up and down, I could feel the moisture being released from her vagina that signaled a readiness for more direct contact.

A single light finger to start, I circled her vaginal opening, getting my finger moist with her liquid. I started moving the finger in deeper as I continued to circle the opening, until the hot moist cavern opened, and I could insert my digit. I began to search for her 'G' spot on the upper side of her vagina, almost directly opposite the clitoris, but on the inside. I could feel the rough texture of the area, as the stimulation caused the skin to harden into its ridges.

I had continued go from kissing Martha's mouth, to sucking on her breasts, tonguing and sucking on her nipples. But I could feel that she was becoming sexually aroused.

Rather than to use my finger on her clitoris and bring her to an orgasm, I moved down and began using my tongue on her clitoris, her center of sexual sensations, while still using my finger inside her vagina. Stephanie, I must confess, had been willing to share with me what gave her pleasure, so I applied the lessons I'd learned from another woman, to Martha. I would flicker my tongue up and down, and then rotate it around, varying the pressure, trying to gauge what Martha found most pleasurable.

If Martha didn't have an incredible orgasm, then she should win an academy award. It wasn't just the noise, the moaning, the little love words that she was saying, but also her entire body jerked in a spasm as she came, followed by her stretching and becoming almost rigid, her legs straight, her toes pointed, until the little death, the clouds and the rain, had passed. Then she went limp as a rag doll.

My vision was limited, as the only light in the room was that coming through the open door, emanating from lights down the hall. But even in the limited light, I could see that Martha seemed content.

And I was content to lie there, still and quiet, waiting for Martha to recover from what would be, hopefully, only one of several sexual encounters that night.

After perhaps ten minutes, Martha rolled over and hugged me, and put her head on my chest. This was as close as we had been for at least five years, maybe longer.

Perhaps there might be a chance for us, together.

We cuddled and kissed awhile longer, and I could tell that Martha was bracing herself to face going on, providing me with some reciprocity. 

She began by lightly stroking my penis, which was still hard. If I hadn't been having sex with Stephanie, I would likely have exploded right then. But I was under better control.

Martha started kissing my body, licking and even sucking my nipples briefly. I was wondering where that came from, since she'd never done it before. 

She began moving further down, and finally came face-to-face with my cock. She looked at it, and tentatively touched the tip with her tongue, and then leaned forward to kiss it.

But instead, she pulled back and leapt off the bed, and gathering her panties and negligée, she ran from the room down the hall to her room, where the door slammed behind her. There I was left sitting on the bed in shock. After a minute I padded down the hallway, where I could hear her weeping in the room. I tapped on the door.

"Are you all right?" I asked, incredulous at what had just occurred.

Her voice emanated from the room, hoarse, 

"I can't do it, I won't do it. I just can't," she said, the crying making her words almost incomprehensible.

I walked back to the master bedroom. A decision had been made for me. Sleep would be slow in coming, so I didn't even bother to try.

My happiness counted for something and after Martha's performance, or rather, lack of performance, I was going to pursue my own happiness looking forward. Her behavior was convincing me that she needed a psychiatrist or outside help. It was not normal.

But from this moment on, it wasn't my concern.

Understand, that if Martha's problem was something that left her unable to live on her own, helpless or incompetent, I would stand by her. But her sexual hang-ups didn't effect her day-to-day ability to function well, so it wasn't a question of abandoning a spouse to her fate. She would do just fine without me.

Throwing a robe around me, I went into my office and booted up my computer and began to research.

Ours was, as I mentioned earlier, a 'no fault' divorce state. It turned out that if it was uncontested, a divorce could go through quickly and fairly inexpensively. I couldn't really imagine that Martha would bother to contest a divorce once she thought about it. As I had pointed out to her, we had become more akin to roommates than a couple, and we certainly weren't 'lovers,' and we were on a path where we wouldn't even be friends.

Pulling up a handy-dandy spreadsheet system, I started listing our assets to offer a proposal for an equitable split. 

After working on that for awhile, I was finally tired enough to fall asleep, so I returned to bed.

Chapter 10.

The next morning, Sunday, I was up early, so I showered and dressed, and left the house without seeing or talking to Martha, to get a quiet breakfast. 

I did phone Stephanie to see if she cared to join me, and she told me that she would be along in a couple of minutes. I ordered my coffee, and told the waitress that someone would be joining me, so I would wait to order until she arrived. I sipped at my coffee for fifteen minutes or so, before Stephanie arrived.

We ordered our breakfasts, and started talking.

I briefly explained what had happened the night before, and what I had decided.

"Mark, I'm so sorry. While I have my own selfish reasons for being close to you, I never wanted to see Martha suffer," she told me.

"Honestly, Steph, you're just a bystander to this little drama. The problem existed before you and I got together, and as far as I can see, there is no real solution for it. I've just been forced to accept that I can change my life to be happy, or I can continue being angry, frustrated, and miserable. As far as Martha is concerned, there is nothing I can do about her happiness. I can't change her. She doesn't need a husband, she needs a handy-man," I replied, laughing at my own little joke.

Then I turned the subject to my objective for the day.

"I'm going to find someplace to rent, and move out of the house. Tomorrow, I'll print out the papers for the do-it-yourself divorce, and put together a plan for splitting our assets that I can present to Martha later in the week," I explained, laying out my plan.

At that point our food arrived, and we started eating.

"Why don't you just move in with me?" Stephanie offered, flirting with her eyes, before taking a sip of her orange juice.

"I would be very tempted, you little vixen, you!" I smiled as I said it.

"But as much as I appreciate the offer, I think that it would just create more problems. 

"First, it will be much more palatable to Martha if I'm living by myself while the divorce is taking place," I told her, and she nodded that she could see the point.

"Additionally, Steph, as strongly as I feel about you, I'm also worried that we could be moving too fast as it is. It may be that we should be together, but what if what you, a love-deprived widow," we smiled at each other as I said that, "and I, a lustful old man, have together isn't enough of a foundation upon which to build a long-term relationship? In a way, you and I are both on the rebound, and as a couple of mature, intelligent people, and it would be wise to give ourselves a little time.

"Anyway, wouldn't it be embarrassing if five- or six-months down the road, you got fed up with me, and had to kick me out of your condo?" I put my hand over hers as I made this last point.

"Darling Mark, you're right, I'm sure. But my heart wants to move your butt into my bed, where I can keep all of those other horny widows away from you!" she replied laughing.

It was good to have someone to talk with, who could lift my spirits while I was confronting one of the hardest acts of my life.

Stephanie looked thoughtful for a couple of seconds.

"You know, Mark, maybe I can't have you in my bed immediately, but would you consider renting a place close enough that we could walk from your place to mine?" she queried.

"Sure. You know of a condo for rent in your neighborhood?" I asked.

"I think so. Let me make a phone call," Stephanie suggested, and away she went.

That afternoon, I had signed a lease for an elegant condo, just a block away from Stephanie's, whose owner was on temporary assignment on the east coast for a year. It was mostly furnished, and I could move in immediately.

It was late afternoon when I returned home, or at least to the house that had been my home for so many years. As of that moment, it was no longer 'home.'

Martha was sitting in the living room. I don't know what she'd been doing. She had obviously gotten up and showered and dressed during the day, but I couldn't see a book next to her, and she didn't switch the TV off when I entered the room, so maybe she'd been just sitting waiting for me to return all day.

She looked somber, and a little angry, but she wasn't emotionally falling to pieces.

"Off with your girlfriend for the day, I suppose. You and she have a good laugh about my 'shortcomings' last night?" she asked bitterly.

Again, I felt the impulse to comfort her, to reassure her, to be her anchor in the storm. But this time, I resisted, knowing she would just rebuff any sympathetic move I could make.

"I've rented a place, and I am moving out. I came home to get a few things for tonight, and I'll come back during the week to get the rest of what I want," I said, calmly, my emotional batteries drained.

I looked at her again,

"Martha, I would never laugh at you or intentionally be cruel to you. I've always admired you in many ways, and I've always been proud of you, and that will never change."

She cringed a little.

"I'm sorry; I shouldn't have lashed out like that. I know you better than that. And I've always been proud of you. I've always thought that you are the best man that I know," she whispered, looking down at the carpet.

"Is this really necessary?" she finally asked.

"I don't see an alternative," I sadly concluded. She didn't offer me any alternatives, either.

I packed a suitcase of clothes and toiletries, grabbed my computer equipment and a few other things from my office that I would need in the next couple of days.

On my final trip out to the car, I stopped again in the living room. As far as I could see, Martha hadn't moved.

"I'll stop by later this week, and we can sit down and talk," I proposed, waiting for her affirmation that she agreed.

"OK. Call me at the office to let me know when you're coming first, just in case, so I don't work late or go out to eat or something," she requested.

"Sure," I said as I closed the door behind me, and walked away.

I rented a truck that week, and retrieved my things from the house, mostly clothes, my tools, and some odds and ends — some CD's and DVD's that I knew Martha would not want. The only piece of furniture that I took to my new place was my king-sized bed, mattress, and the linens and blankets that fit it. It was a lot more comfortable than the bed that had been in the condo.

I didn't see Stephanie much the first week — at dance class, and once she did come over and we made love once on the bed that I had expected to revive Martha's and my relationship. It worked better with a more cooperative partner.

On the whole, I was feeling down and depressed. I couldn't help but seeing myself as a failure as a husband. Martha was the woman with whom I'd expected to grow old. Instead, it seemed most likely that we would be going our separate ways.

That evening I called up my sons, Dan and Josh, and told them a little about what was happening. Not entirely to my surprise, they let me know that Martha had already called them. I didn't ask what she had said, but rather asked them to meet with me face-to-face the following Saturday, and we could hash things out. 

All I asked of them was to let me give them my perspective on what was happening, before they reached any conclusions. They readily agreed; actually, they agreed so quickly and positively that I suspected that whatever Martha had said, they were taking with a grain of salt.

That week was a week like many before it — eating, sleeping, giving lectures and grading papers. I attended my dancing class, and if anyone noticed that I was slightly more withdrawn than normal, they didn't say anything. 

That week was also a week unlike any before or since, for me.

Each evening that week, I worked on the do-it-yourself, no-fault divorce kit, preparing a proposal to my wife on the division of our assets.

It was actually pretty easy in our case.

Martha and I each had our own retirement plans; we each had our own jobs. Our savings and investments, we would split in half. The house would be sold, and the proceeds, after expenses divided. Her jewelry, which I had just had re-appraised for insurance purposes (it came to over $40,000!) would remain hers; my tools I would keep. We each would keep our own cars, which were both paid off.

The only furniture that I wanted was the bed that I'd already taken. Martha could keep whatever she wanted, and either sell or give away the rest to charity. Photo albums, and those sorts of things, we would sit down and divvy up ourselves. I could scan in photos and make duplicates, if there were any unique items that we both wanted. 

It was Friday afternoon when I called her office, and we arranged for me to come over. Martha wanted me to come over for dinner but I wanted to wait until after dinner. On this occasion, Martha made the concession. 

I took the package I had made with me, and presented it to her.

"Mark, I don't want a divorce. I won't sign," she objected, trying to raise a roadblock.

"That won't stop the process. It may slow it, but it will eventually go through," I patiently explained...

"I want it to be for your adultery," she insisted, pointing her finger at me, jabbing it in an aggressive manner.

I sighed, and sat back in my chair.

"This is a no-fault state. That isn't one of the options anymore. Anyway, you don't have proof of anything," I pointed out...

This went around and around for awhile, and I finally left her with a copy of the papers, and told her to confer with an attorney, but understand that if we could do this ourselves it would be simple and inexpensive. One of the beliefs that Martha and I still shared was that lawyers can make anything complex, expensive and painful.

The following day, Saturday, my sons had decided to both come down together to have the face-to-face with me. I asked them to join me at the condo and they agreed.

Once they arrived, I invited them in, and the first thing I did was to give them the grand tour of the place. I wasn't just showing off my new digs; I was showing them that I was living alone. They could see that the closets contained only my clothes, the bathrooms were bereft of feminine accouterments and throughout the house, there was no sign of occupancy by a woman. I was sure that information would make it back to their mother.

They both told me how nice the condo was, although I assured them, most of the contents belonged to the owner, and would be reclaimed when he returned.

Having gotten the preliminaries over, I asked them what their pleasure would be, and we all ended up with Bass Ales in front of us.

"Mom says you moved out because you have a girlfriend," Dan started the conversation. He was neutral in his pronouncement, suggesting that he neither believed nor disbelieved the contention. Josh just nodded in affirmation, that Martha had told him the same thing.

I was going to be as honest as I could, and hope that my boys could give me a fair shake.

"Dan and Josh, it's true that I have been seeing another woman, but that is only since last Christmas, in fact, actually not until February. So, for a couple of months.

"But let me make something clear, that your mother doesn't want to acknowledge.

"This woman is not a 'cause', she is an 'effect,' and has nothing to do with the problems between your mother and me." I laid out my premise.

"How's that?" Josh asked.

"Boys, from the time you moved out to go to college, your mother slowly, over time, became less and less physically intimate with me. You are both grown and married men, so I'll lay it on the line — she stopped doing things that caused her to come into physical contact with me, including hugging, kissing, touching, and yes, sex. 

"It wasn't overnight or anything, just a little less at a time, so that I didn't even really notice how resistant she was to being in any sort of direct contact with me, until she moved out of the master bedroom and into Dan's old room, a couple of years ago.

"Even this past Christmas, she only moved back into the bedroom with me for the days while you were there visiting, and as soon as you were gone, poof! She was back in the other bedroom," I revealed.

Dan perked up.

"I was wondering about that," he said, "She kept popping into our room, into the bathroom, to get stuff, and I kept thinking, 'why doesn't she just keep her toiletries in her own bathroom?'"

I nodded my head.

"I hope that you never have to face a situation like this with your wives, or if you do, I hope you can nip it in the bud early, because over time it just gets more and more painful, embarrassing, and humiliating to be ignored and rejected. I really hope that you are more observant than I was, but I never expected it, so I wasn't looking," was my plea for mitigation.

"Anyway, I've tried to talk to her, to see if there was anything that we could do about it together — see a marriage counselor, or a psychologist, or even just to get checked out by a physician to see what might be wrong. But she wouldn't even give me the time of day. 




Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 05



"It got to a point where I wondered if I had some medical condition that was giving me B.O., or bad breath, and I had the doctors check me out. They said I was normal, no worse than any other guy my age. Based on that, I assume that whatever your mother finds repugnant about me isn't any sort of physical condition on my part. 

"She insists to this day that there is nothing wrong for a couple of people in their mid-50's to be married, and not so much as touch each other!" I said, rather emphatically, getting worked up just thinking about the unfairness of the situation.

Dan and Josh looked at each other a little sheepishly. Then Josh spoke,

"Dad, this is really weird, because when we were all together for Christmas, Dan and I had a discussion about this very subject,"

"Your mom's and my sex life?" I gasped, taken aback.

The boys smiled.

"No, not that. Just, when we were talking, we realized that when we were growing up, both of us had noticed independently, but never communicated to each other, that mom didn't seem to be able to empathize with anyone else's point of view," he stated.

Dan continued the thought,

"If we tried to explain our position or point of view on a subject — anything from politics to going steady with a girl, if mom disagreed, there was nothing you could say that would get her to understand the way you saw things. She sees things from her perspective. Period."

Surprising just how perceptive my boys were.

"Dad, are you really going through with the divorce?" Josh inquired, hitting my conundrum on the head.

"It would be really nice if my moving out and putting the papers together for a divorce would shock your mother to her senses, to the extent where she would seek outside help. But as you've both pointed out, I don't expect it to happen," I replied.

We all sat there silently for a minute.

"You know," I reflected, "I've thought about something quite a lot this past week.

"When I look back on the early days of your mother's and my relationship, I wonder now if the signs weren't already there. When I would come up to her at a party or church gathering and put my arm around her, or kiss her, I could tell that she was a little uncomfortable. 

"I always thought that it was just that she was modest, and didn't like public displays of affection. But now my thinking is that your mom has never really liked to have anyone touch her, and that she just put up with it for the sake of having a family, and while you were growing up. 

"Once you boys were out of the house, she had achieved her goals, and didn't perceive a need to put up with me touching her anymore."

Josh and Don were nodding at me now, as if they also remembered similar instances.

"Maybe I was just too thick to see that your mother and I had a basic incompatibility from the beginning; I wanted close physical contact and intimacy, while she didn't. I mean, it's not her fault, it's probably just the way she is put together emotionally," I speculated.

"But she was always a great mother to you, and she's a wonderful grandmother to your kids," I reiterated.

"Dad," Dan asked, "Do you still love mom?"

"I don't know, son," I honestly replied, "I respect and admire her for her good qualities, but right now, she and I have grown so far apart on an emotional level, that I have a hard time sorting out my feelings about her. Maybe after some time has passed, when I'm able to look at things more objectively, I will be able to answer that question."

Dan and Josh left shortly afterwards, but we had all hugged, and they assured me that they were not assigning blame on the split between their mother and me. We were both their parents, and they would honor both of us, and not take sides, or make judgments on what they could clearly see was a complex situation.

Monday afternoon I was the one who was surprised.

Martha called me at school during one of my breaks between classes.

"Mark, I went and consulted with a lawyer this morning about the divorce. He said that you had actually offered a very generous division of our assets — you weren't using cash to offset my jewelry (your tools don't approach my jewelry in value), and he told me that due to my higher earnings now that I've been promoted, if our divorce went to court, I might find myself paying for your expenses and maybe even alimony!" she informed me.

"I have no desire to hurt you financially, Martha," I reiterated.

"But Mark, I don't want a divorce. I want you to move back into our house," came the low voice over the phone.

"Martha, we don't have to put the divorce through right away, but unless you can find some way to get past this antipathy towards physical contact with me, there's no purpose in my continuing to punish myself. So a period of separation should let you consider whether you want to make the effort to change, or not," I insisted, not willing to be suckered into returning to an old behavior arrangement that I found repugnant. 

"What does that mean, Mark?" she asked.

"Sign the papers and send them to me, and I'll hold them until you and I talk again," I explained, "If you are really trying to change, we may be able to try again."

She sent me the signed papers, and as I promised, I put them away.

We did split the more liquid financial assets into two, and separated them into two accounts, so that we could each be responsible for our half of the holdings. The main issue to be resolved would be selling the house, if it came to that.

On this sphere of matter floating in the universe, regardless of our troubles, life goes on.

Over the next several months, I was back in my routine. 

I taught my classes, until the end of the semester.

I continued to take the dance class at school, and after the semester ended, I signed up (as did Stephanie) at Bob's school for classes held there. 

Stephanie and I remained an item. Most of the time, if we were staying together for the night, we would go to her place. I was still keeping my condo pristine of evidence of another woman, just in case. But Stephanie was doing her best to keep me out of the hands of other horny divorcees and widows. Doing a damn fine job of it too!

There were several occasions when I met Martha for dinner at restaurants, and a couple of times, I had her over to the condo when we needed to discuss 'business' issues. 

But after three months, when Martha and I got together again for dinner one evening, she confessed that she hadn't done anything or seen anyone regarding her lack of desire for physical intimacy. She was too busy at work; she didn't think it was really necessary; why couldn't I just accept her the way she was, etc.

The next business day following that discussion, I filed the divorce papers, and the countdown started.

At that point, I insisted that we list the house for sale. Again Martha resisted at first, but she finally realized that it was inevitable.

We were actually lucky in our timing. It turned out, looking in retrospect, that while the actual 'peak' of the real estate market had passed, the problems with the housing market hadn't become obvious to everyone, and we sold our house for the asking price, and the buyers were able to get a loan without any significant delays.

In less than 90 days, the house had passed into other hands, and we split the money from the sale.

That meant that Martha and I had to face up to the task, unpleasant as it was, of going through old family photos, our wedding albums, books and other personal possessions from around the house, and divide them between us. Most of the time, it was clear and simple, who should get what. In other cases, like some of the photos, I agreed to take them and duplicate a set for Martha, since I had the equipment for doing that. 

It was still a time consuming process, and we had to do it jointly, something that I think Martha actually welcomed, as it threw us together for days at a time. I, on the other hand, dreaded it, since it forced me back into close contact with Martha, which just depressed me.

Maybe I had simply moved on emotionally.

Martha had also purchased a condo with her half of the sales price of the house, and the boys and I moved her into her new place. I was trying to at least keep our relationship on a friendly basis. She took whatever furniture she wanted from our house, and we sold or gave the rest away to charity.

She thanked us when we were done, and gave Don and Josh both brief hugs, before we said goodbye.

When the lease ran out on the condo in which I was living, I finally took Stephanie up on her offer, and moved in with her. After a more than a year we were still as close as we had ever been. After my experience with Martha, I was afraid to pronounce myself 'in love; with Steph, but if it wasn't love, it was a close substitute.

Stephanie made no bones about being in love with me. But we hadn't run out and gotten married, or anything.

"Steph, do you ever think of John and feel guilt about 'living in sin' with me?" I asked her one evening.

She shook her head,

"No, I think that John would be pleased that we are together. I was desperately in love with him, and I'll always love and honor his memory. But, you know, he admired you greatly, and I think that if he were able to advise me, he would have told me that you would be a fine catch. He wanted me to be happy."

She turned the tables on me.

"What about Martha, Mark?" she asked.

I nodded at her question.

"Yes, I feel an irrational guilt about the entire situation; but I don't regret leaving her to be with you," I answered.

"In a way, I will always have a love for Martha, but I had to draw away from her emotionally, or else be miserable for the rest of my life," I added, sliding over and pulling her close enough to kiss and hug.

"And you've made me happy in a way that I would have never believed possible a year ago," I assured her.

Eventually my sons, who had known Stephanie and John before his death, became aware of my relationship. It was clear that their mother had found out one way or another. And that led to several interesting conversations.

"You know, Dad," Dan told me one afternoon, "Mom is still very bitter about the divorce.

"She was especially offended when she discovered that it was Stephanie with whom you were living."

I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders. It was hardly an unsurprising reaction.

Josh added,

"The weird thing is that it's almost as if she could understand if you were with a younger woman, because then she could say 'after all, how can I compete with a woman whose body is 15-years younger than mine.' But Stephanie is about the same age as mom, so she's at a loss to explain why you would leave her to go off with another woman the same age."

"It isn't Stephanie's age, it's her attitude that's different than your mom's," I agreed, "Stephanie and I just 'fit' together better than your mom and me — at least the way that your mother is now."

Gradually, the family accepted Stephanie, and the fact that she, not Martha, was my 'significant other' as they say. On occasion we would be at family gatherings that included Martha, and to Martha's great credit I will say, she was always civil, if not warm, towards Stephanie.

No surprise, but soon even my boys and their families would hug and kiss Steph when we arrived or left these gatherings. She was just so outgoing, and exuded good will and love towards them all, and she and John had never had children themselves. And I appreciated their willingness to accept the woman who had made my life worth living again.

Martha didn't date much, and I guess from what the kids said, one time was enough for most of the men. She remained an attractive woman (at least to my eyes), but not many men will waste their time on a woman who demonstrates no reciprocal physical attraction to them.

After the divorce, I made it clear to Martha that if she had any 'emergency' fixes that she needed done at her new condo, I would take care of them for her. There have been a couple — a burst line on a dishwasher and some small electrical problems, but nothing large. Stephanie knows and approves of my 'taking care' of Martha; she understands the issues of living alone for women.

Honestly, I think that Martha is fairly happy living by herself. She always tells me that she would have preferred that we not divorce, but she has still never indicated the slightest desire to change her behavior. So, I guess that her 'revealed preference', as economists say when they mean, 'it isn't what you say, but what you do that is important', is to be left alone.

Because Martha would never seek any outside advice or analysis, I doubt that she will ever understand 'why' she cut me off from the physical intimacies; and consequently, she will never understand how the emotional ties between two people can just fade away, if a couple isn't always working to keep them fresh and solid.

I am happy. Stephanie doesn't put any pressure on me to get married, but one of these days we may. Right now I think that she is letting me have some time to be sure that I'm over Martha, and to convince myself that getting married again won't have similar results to my first marriage.

We live a satisfying life — we spend time with friends, we do all sorts of activities together, we've done a little travel, and are getting ready to take a big trip to the U.K. I've never been to London before, so I look forward to it. 

We may run over to Paris while we're there. I understand that it's only a little over two-hours ride on the high-speed train, and I've always wanted to travel through the 'Chunnel' that runs beneath the English Channel! A great piece of engineering.

And we dance together.

Tonight we are going out to a club where the beat is Latin, so we can try out our Cha-chas, Rumbas, and Salsa steps.

Oops, its getting late and I've got to catch up with Stephanie. It takes two to tango, you know! 

The End



Melting Point



Drip.... 

Drip... 

"Dammit." The wick base slid off center, sticking to the far side of the mold. Karen set the pan of wax back on the stove, intending to detach the base before the sealing layer she'd been pouring was irretrievably lost. Luckily, she was alone in the house, or Jeff would have come running at the sound of her curse, and would have smiled that beautiful and terrible smile at her, the one that told her he was amused with her. The look that told her she'd get a delicious spanking later, a reminder to pay attention to her task. But it would also be a gift, that spanking; he always knew what she needed, and he always made her feel like it was good to want it. 

She'd been daydreaming again, her mind wandering off, as usual, to all the fun they'd have with her candles when she finished them. In four years, she still hadn't trained herself not to let her attention wander; it was the only problem she ever had when she poured her votives. Chuckling to herself, she mumbled, "All your fault, baby," as she realized how much time she spent fantasizing about Jeff: his loving heart, delectable body and, particularly, his wicked mind. 

Immediately she grinned broadly, partially in appreciation of how good she had it, and partly in a kind of inward directed sarcasm, silent laughter at her continual amazement about her husband and what they shared. She had these little epiphanies about how much he meant to her all the time, and she knew it; nevertheless, each one felt like a brand new discovery. God, that man made her feel like a giddy teenager, and she both hoped and feared that he knew it.

She realized she'd been spacing out again, and gave herself a mental shove to get back on track. The wicking had now hardened, and she had to pry it loose to start over. Keeping her focus this time, she poured more sealing wax, taking care to let it set up this time. She wouldn't rush again and risk spoiling her own efforts.

She began slowly adding the wax. It was a faint lavender, the color barely perceptible, and smelled of vanilla. Just the smell of the molten paraffin made her pussy damp with arousal, even when she intentionally focused on something else. Karen wished she could make the color brighter, but the dye raised the melting temperature of the wax, and her most tender skin couldn't withstand the heat. Not yet, anyway. Satisfied with the her work, she put the remaining wax on the stove again before it started to solidify, knowing she'd have to top off the large mold as the lavender lava settled and thickened, and tiny air bubbles rose to the surface and burst. 

While she waited, she unmolded the previous days' effort, a fresh set of the low-heat candles she was using to train Jeff when he submitted to her. He too was growing to appreciate the feel of the liquid wax dripping onto his bare skin, the shiver it sent up his spine when she stopped teasing him with droplets and poured a steady stream down onto his stomach or back. They were ready to go, and she felt a little tingle of physical memory as she pictured how she'd use them. 

#

Several days before, she'd used the last of her previous batch, melting them down in their cups while Jeff watched with glittering eyes from the archway. His eyes flitted between hers and the small flickering fires, his bare body stretched taut against the wall. 

When he gave a slight shiver, there was a brief jingle of steel from his cuffed wrists, hanging from the hook just below the ceiling. She ran her hands down his body, and he flushed pink, avoiding her eyes, embarrassed at his nudity so unavoidably on display before his fully clothed wife, but more aroused by it. When Karen cupped the base of his cock in her hand, he gave a small moan that further inflamed his humiliation. It was exquisite torment, his growing erection throbbed in her hand as he continued to swell, causing the cockring he wore to draw achingly tight.

Content with his response, and very pleased by the mixture of emotions she saw playing across his face, she reached for one of the candles. Standing only inches from his exposed flesh, she slowly tipped the glass cup, allowing a single thin line of wax to spill over and into her open palm. Jeff gasped, though she was silent. He looked up into her face, eyes plaintive. 

"Do you want this, baby?" She spoke slowly, allowing the words to hang in the air, giving him the chance to decide he was ready for what she had planned, the incredible sensations she would create for him; it was time for him to surrender to his fantasy. Sometimes, he had a hard time letting go, giving himself up to receiving all that she could give him. But this time the answer was immediate.

"Yes." Nearly a whimper.

"I can't hear you." Her tone was resolute and confident but soothing, the voice of a guide. Both were growing more aroused with each passing word, every tiny glance that passed between them.

"Yes, please." With her free hand, she lightly tweaked his nipple before leaning into him and taking it in her mouth. She held the candle away from them as she teased him with her tongue and lips, sucking his nipple as if it were a cock until he began to twitch with small waves of pleasure. They knew each other so well.

"Sorry, baby. I got distracted. What did you say?" Her eyes danced with merriment as he tried to speak from within his orgasmic cocoon, worked to shake off the sudden rush of sensations he'd let himself be taken by. Jeff's skin grew warmer and his whole body flushed as she gently reminded him of his place; she was right, he realized. He did get lost in the moment, and he did desperately want her. At that moment, he felt he would have done anything to please or impress her, anything she wanted, so long as he would finally get to cum for and with her.

"Yes, please. Please...want.." In the rush of emotions and desires, he blurted words, whatever came to mind. He was no longer capable of embarrassment or directed thought. He just...wanted. There was no end to the thought; that was all he knew. He desperately wanted her, and the torturous tease he would relish withstanding at her hands.

She bent down to set the candle on the floor between his spread ankles. "I don't want to ruin my clothes, now, do I?" Her wink was barely perceptible before she dropped the open blouse from her shoulders, exposing a red satin bra that picked up the candlelight and made her pale skin glow. Jeff could only stare as she kicked off her sandals and turned her back to him, pulling down clinging bottoms with agonizingly slow movements, bending from the waist to give him a fuller view of her ass and long legs as she unveiled herself before his helpless gaze. Together, they were dancing on the edge of control, torn between a desperate desire to fuck wildly and without reservation and a deeper yearning to make it last, this barely contained passion between them. 

Their sex hadn't always been such an intricate thing; in the beginning, it was usually tender and sweet, but often clumsy and timid. She didn't like her body; he didn't think his cock was big enough. She thought respectable women didn't like sex as much as men; he feared she'd think him less manly for his involved fantasies, thought she'd judge him for not just wanting to jackhammer away and finish, like the men in movies always seemed to do. Both hid at least some of their desires for fear of rejection. Neither was quick to trust nor wanted to lose the other for saying the wrong thing about sex, the bad, deviant, unforgivable thing. At the time, such a ridiculous thing had seemed truly possible.

Their attraction to each other was strong, though, and they learned the responses and sensitivities of each other's bodies. The difference that knowledge made in their sex life was nothing compared to what they found when they finally started talking about their fantasies, becoming sincerely intimate and sharing their most hidden sexual selves. The trust that developed between them as they talked and turned each other on, even as they occasionally laughed about their own emerging kinkiness, seemed to remove all judgement and make every forbidden variation they discussed or tried seem beautiful. Those moments of connection infused everything about their life together, solidifying their bond to each other through an intoxicating combination of passion, trust, and real friendship. It was the secret they shared, and it created an energy that hummed between them constantly, even when there wasn't the remotest hint of sex in their activities or conversation.

With restraint and self-discipline, that power could be cycled and recycled between them, merging with the sensations they brought each other's bodies, growing more urgent by the moment until it became a nearly continual bliss. Over time, they pushed each other further with sensations, sometimes attempting to further develop their ability to stretch the moment of orgasm into a lingering Tantric state by allowing one to lose inhibitions and self-control, entrusting themself to the restraints their partner would apply and the discipline they'd enact. Whomever remained free and in control would win respect and at times a kind of awe as they held themself in check and choreographed the couple's lovemaking in pursuit of a magical moment of pure connection and true eroticism, an utter openness to each other. 

None of this was at the forefront of their thoughts, of course. At that moment, his eyes and mind were split between the woman he loved and the fire he feared; they were inseparable desires, intertwined in the flickering light. She though primarily of Jeff and the precious torments he had brought her; now was her time to pay them back in kind, and she wanted more than anything to make it beautiful.

Standing before him clad only in shining red wisps of satin, she again held the candle in her hands. The achingly slow removal of her clothing had given the soft wax time to melt and collect, and it was time to begin. Reaching for him with her left hand, she traced a thin line down the center of his freshly shaven chest with a short but manicured nail. Staying in the center, she slowed her hand as the reached the inches above his engorged cock, bringing the melting cup closer to him. As her finger traced the end of the line, reaching the throbbing head, she gently tipped the candle's holder, allowing a thin line of white fire to trickle down from his collarbone. He gasped aloud, but whether it was from the hot shock of the wax or her sudden, firm encircling of his erection in her hand, she couldn't have said. In truth, it was probably both. That was, after all, the whole point.

"You are so beautiful." She whispered these words to him over his low groans. Stroking him gently in her soft hand, she continued, "I know you hate when I say that, that you think a man can't be, shouldn't be, beautiful. But you are. You are beautiful to me, and beauty like that is for everyone, not just women." She looked him in the eyes, so close that he had little choice but to return the gaze, trapped by her proximity, and her power. "I love you." She spoke the words slowly and distinctly, making sure he saw the truth of the words reflected in her eyes. As the last word hovered in the air, she tipped the cup again.

Heat poured down his shaking body, saturating his senses. Cooling quickly, it became thicker and slow over his stomach. Knowing what was to come, she wrapped her hand firmly around the base of his cock, preventing his orgasm, but also providing a barrier for the wax to settle against. The last soft trickle stopped against her flesh and sealed there, hardening quickly. 

Seeing that their toy was spent, she set the cup aside, freeing her hand gently from the wax dam she had created. Jeff panted with arousal and anticipation, uncertain of what was to come next, but deliciously certain that their game was far from over. She moved briefly out of his sight, returning almost instantly with a fresh melting cup and a chunk of ice. She set the cup at his feet before straightening up and peeling the hardened wax from his chest. Starting at his collarbone, Karen traced the slightly red line of the fireway with ice, sending shivers down his body. She stopped peeling the wax at his waist, and began running the ice over it quickly, cooling it in place and teasing him with the cold he could almost feel through the slick barrier.

She held the ice at his pubic bone, small droplets warmed by his body heat and dripped into the wax dam just above his cock. Looking in his eyes, she asked the question they both needed to hear. "Baby, are you ready?" His look was plaintive and full of need. He nodded slowly. "Say it," she commanded. 

"Yes."

She kneeled at his feet, venting her hot breath only inches from his still-hard cock, teasing him with the tiniest preview of what she had in mind. Picking up the candle, she leaned forward, taking him in her mouth. She pressed forward slowly, until she could feel the cockring he wore brushing her upper lip. Using her tongue, mouth, and lips in a way they had perfected through years of pleasing each other, she pulled slowly back, milking his orgasm from him slowly until he was at the brink. Her mouth stopped at the softly pulsing head and she tightened her lips around it, working him with her tongue. Now safely distant from the flame, she moved the wax-filled cup to the dam and began to pour. 

The end came in a quickened blur of melting. As she emptied the fiery contents onto him, the lava collected behind the dam before melting through it, spilling its volcanic wake down the length of his shaft as he screamed. In her mouth, she felt him throb as the rush came. They were connected in the act, the wax stopping at her lips, but the trail continuing down his cock as he came in her mouth, coating her tongue with his own explosive burst of release. His knees buckled under him, and he was dimly grateful for the cuffs which held him in place, for the fire in his shoulders which let him know that the hook was holding, that he could lose his footing without falling down. 

As the moment faded away an unmeasurable length of time later, he spoke. "I love you, Karen." He voiced the words most profoundly in his heart, surprised to find his voice ragged, unaware of the power of his previous cries, only dimly aware that he had opened his mouth at all.

"Thank you," she answered as she began to free him from his restraints. The words hummed between them, responding to so many feelings, many of them unspoken.

#

She heard the front door and shook herself back to the present. The lavender candles were ready to be finished, and she was relieved to put this task to bed, looking forward to spending the evening with her husband. As she poured the final layer, she heard the scattered noises of Jeff's homecoming and settling in, and looked up to see his face in the doorway to her studio.

"Honey, I'm home." He did his best Ricky Ricardo, making her smile, as he always did. "Hmm, what's this?" He waggled an eyebrow at her mockingly, moving around behind her while her hands were still occupied with the pan and the molds. "Is that vanilla I smell? Oh, Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do." 

She giggled as he worked his rough hands up under her loose t-shirt, fondling her full breasts as he pressed his body up against hers. "But, Ricky..." she started, unable to finish as he slid his hands into her shorts, teasing her moist sex. 

"You been thinking about me, baby?" He growled the words in her ear, his hot breath melting her knees and making her ache with the need only he seemed to understand. 

"Always." It was true, and they both knew it. She counted herself lucky to have gotten the pan back on the stove without incident. "You been thinking about me?"

"What do you think?" he asked her, pressing his growing erection into her ass, pulling her firmly against him with loving but unyielding hands.

Karen gave herself to him, melting under his touch in the way only he could make possible. For Jeff's part, it was good, as always, to be home.



Melting the Ice



My girlfriend Tess was almost perfect. She had been my best friend since middle school, long before I even noticed that she was a girl. She was smart, funny, loved to watch sports on TV, had great musical taste and cursed like a sailor, when her parents weren't around. She was also incredibly beautiful. Her auburn hair cascaded around a pretty face, highlighted by legitimately green eyes and lush, red pillowy lips. She had creamy, strong shoulders, and toned arms. Her breasts? They were big enough to attract stares, but not too big, and sat proudly on her torso above a flat belly. Her legs were strong, long and well shaped. Even her feet were beautiful, her toes straight, nails well groomed and skin smooth, with a high arch. Her hands were smooth and her fingers long and straight. She kept her fingernails pretty short, with only smooth polish.

From middle school to high school, our relationship progressed from friends to dating, to going steady, all without any real discussion. It just was the way it was. We spent most of our free time together, and every day that we were together, I reminded myself how lucky I was to have Tess in my life. Our parents were friends, and mine adored Tess, and hers really seemed to like me, although they were definitely more reserved than my parents, who often touched and kissed in front of me and my sister. We had, pretty much, free run of each others' houses and spent hours together, working on projects for school, watching TV and videos, playing video games, messing around on the Internet and eating.

I did say that Tess was almost perfect, but by the summer before we went to college, her one imperfection had grown in my mind to the point that I actually considered breaking up with her for good, this time. Which would have been awkward, because we had decided to go to the same college. I assume that any man, and even most women, reading this could guess what my problem with Tess was. Right-she was a serious prude. And that is what this story is about. 

Being a red blooded teenager, spending so much time with my beautiful girlfriend made me incredibly horny. Ultimately, in 10th grade, Tess kissed me, but with no tongue, which only became available to me at the end of the year, and then only fleetingly. At the start of 11th grade, after months of slapping my hands away, she let me touch, but not rub, her breasts, but only over her shirt. And below the waist—let's just say that my forays into that region were consistently and strongly rebuffed. My whining pleas for her to help relieve my raging hard-ons were met with a crinkled nose (which made her look so damn cute) and the word "Gross." 

Every time I heard that one of my friends had advanced to another "base" with his girlfriend, I was jealous. But I wasn't upset because I was losing some race, it was because I really wanted our relationship to progress and to be able to give each other pleasure. I wanted to make her feel good as much as I wanted her to give me pleasure. O.K, maybe not as much, but it was pretty close. Really.

So, why did I put up with this, and how? "Why" is easy—I was in love with Tess. Wildly in love. I was happy when I was with her, if sexually frustrated, and sad when we were not together. And "how" is probably pretty obvious. Internet porn and lots of jerking off, for the most part.

At the beginning of the summer after 11th grade, I felt like I couldn't take it anymore. It was a Friday afternoon, and I was sitting, as I often did, on Tess' bed, and she was leaning against me as we watched some old TV show on her laptop. As always, she smelled amazing, and I buried my nose in her beautiful hair. Ignoring the laptop, I looked down and could actually see a way down Tess' shirt. I couldn't see much, but the view of her pale chest, the curve of the top of her breasts, a bit of cleavage and her utilitarian white bra was enough to make me hard. Which, of course, Tess felt against her back, and when she shifted her body to avoid the hardness, it only made it worse.

"Are you staring down my shirt, Alex?" she asked, not in a sexy way, but in an accusing way.

"Yes," I said, "And I like what I see, and I really wish you would let me touch you there." Over the years, I had stopped trying to play games with Tess, and we generally said what we wanted to each other. It mostly kept things open and worked, but occasionally, someone took offense, which we usually patched up a day or two later.

"I do let you," she said.

"Yeah, but barely, and only over your clothes," I sort of whined.

"Why is that so fucking important to you?" she asked.

"Because you are gorgeous, and I love you, and I want to feel your beautiful body and give you pleasure," I blurted out, for what seemed the millionth time.

"I'm not ready," she said, primly.

I started to get angry. "Elana and Bill are having sex. Jeannie and Mike are, too. Janet and Elliot might as well be, considering what I hear they are doing. And they all say it is fun and feels good. And they feel closer to each other."

Tess snapped back, "That's not what I hear, at least not from Elana. And anyway, we are already close. Why do we need sex? Look what happened when Emily and Howard did it? They broke up right away."

"Yeah, but that is a bad example. Howard is an idiot, and Emily is a crazy paranoid jealous bitch. They weren't a good couple. We are." I paused, and tried to speak more calmly. "Tess, I want you badly. I'm not saying we need to go right to sex right away, but I need more. I just don't understand why you won't. We've always been honest with each other, but you have never explained to me why you are open to me in every way except this."

I'm not sure Tess really thought about what she said next, but she sat up and spat back at me, "If you aren't getting what you need from me, then maybe we aren't the good couple you think."

I know that I wasn't thinking clearly, but I was pissed and my frustration just boiled over. "Then maybe we should break up," I said, almost shouting. I stood up and walked out so that Tess couldn't see me crying. I heard a sob coming from her room, but I couldn't turn back.

It was a hot day, and it took a while for the a/c in my car to make a difference, so I was sweating, in part, from the heat. As I drove home, I couldn't believe that I did it, but I found myself getting angrier and angrier with Tess. Why was she frustrating me so? I was honest with her, and I can't believe that after all these years, and our friendship, she thought that I would hurt her in any way. The truth was exactly the opposite. I wanted to suck on what I assumed were her beautiful nipples until she moaned with lust. I wanted to lick what had to be her perfect pussy until she screamed with delight, and I wanted to fill her with my hard cock until she came repeatedly, yelling my name. I had dreamt of that for years. But apparently that was not going to happen.

I went home, stormed upstairs, changed into my work clothes, avoided my parents and my little sister, and drove to the restaurant where I was a busboy and sometimes waiter. 

About midway through my shift, I took a break and grabbed some food for a quick dinner. I was joined, as I occasionally was, by Lara, a summer waitress who was a couple of years older than me and had finished her first year in college. She had gone to high school a few towns over, and we had met at the restaurant. Although we had worked together for a couple of years, we really didn't talk much on breaks, simply refueling and resting for the rest of the shift. I thought she was O.K. looking, with a nice set of tits, but her nose was a little big, and her hips were maybe a little wider than average. 

"Why are you so pissy tonight?" she asked, taking a bite of the burger that the restaurant let the waitstaff eat.

"Is it so obvious?" I asked.

"Yeah. Usually you are Mr. Happy, smiling and all, and today, you seem like you want to kill someone." 

She smiled at me to signify that she was joking, and I thought that maybe she was prettier than I remembered. "I broke up with my girlfriend about 3 hours ago," I said. It was easier to tell someone who didn't really know me or Tess, than a friend who would probably freak out about the end of the town's longest running relationship.

"Sorry. That sucks," she said, taking another bite. "Why?" she asked.

I was surprised that she asked—I figured that most people wouldn't go that far with a relative stranger, but on the other hand, there were people who just needed to know gossip, even if they didn't know the people involved all that well.

"Well," I said, hesitantly, "she kinda, wouldn't—"

Lara interrupted, smiling a little fiendishly, "She wouldn't fuck you?"

I was a little taken aback, but nodded, and said, "Worse, she wouldn't do anything past a little kissing and letting me touch her breasts over her shirt."

Lara shook her head with the worldliness of a college freshman and asked, "How long have you been dating."

"Basically since middle school," I said, sheepishly.

"And you held on this long with no action?" she said, incredulous.

I nodded. "She is amazing in every other way, and I love her, but I finally couldn't take it anymore," I explained. "We fought, and I broke up with her." I was angry and hurt, but still wished that we were together.

"Well," Lara said, "I think I know what you need. Some of my friends from high school are having a little party in Thompson Park tonight. I'm heading over after my shift. Why don't you come along, have a few beers and try to forget."

I knew that wouldn't get me to forget Tess, or how crappy I felt, but it seemed like a pretty good plan under the circumstances. I finished my shift, texted my father that I was going out, and found Lara, who had changed from her uniform into a pair of tight jeans and a low cut t-shirt. The jeans hugged her hips and butt, and rather than making them look big, it looked sexy. And the t-shirt highlighted her impressive breasts, and showcased her tan cleavage. Her nose was still a little big, but she looked pretty good, and she had a certain look in her eye that was promising. I followed her to the employee lot, and trailed her car to the park.

It was a warm, sultry night and suffice to say, feeling as down as I did, I had a few cold beers, sometimes pressing the cold, sweating bottle against my forehead. Lara convinced me to take a walk in the park, where we kissed and we got progressively naked. I truly enjoyed doing things with her that Tess would not allow, but before we went too far, I asked, "Is this a pity thing?"

Lara looked at me, and I took my eyes off of her large areolae and hard, dark nipples for a second and looked her in the eyes. "To be fair," she said, "it is a little. A nice looking, nice guy like you should not be a virgin at your age—how old are you, by the way?"

"Eighteen and a half," I said, realizing that I sounded like a little kid—"Almost 19."

She smiled, I assumed at my immaturity, and said, "but in part, not. I broke up with my boyfriend at the end of the semester, and I'm kind of horny. So I see this as a win-win. Now, do you want to talk, or do you want to fuck?"

We dropped to the grass and very shortly thereafter, I was no longer a virgin. I could go into detail about what we did that night, or most nights for the rest of the summer (and a few afternoons), but that is not what this story is about. What I will say is that Lara taught me that I had been right—sex is fun, it feels good and it does bring a couple closer. She also taught me what gave her pleasure and how to give it to her, and I learned what I liked. Lara was a smart, interesting woman. We enjoyed each other's company and had a great summer, but when she had to go back to school, I was sad, but not heartbroken. We promised to see each other over her breaks, and that I would visit her at school, but it never happened.

During that summer, I ran into Tess occasionally, sometimes when I was with Lara, and it was incredibly awkward and painful, because I still loved her. I never saw her with another guy, and never saw anything on Facebook that indicated that she was seeing anyone. Considering her obvious charms, I figured that either her frigid reputation had gotten around, or that she was just not interested.

On the Saturday of Labor Day Weekend, right before school started, I got a text from Tess—the first one since we had broken up. "Meet me at noon," was all that it said. Since she didn't say where, I assumed that she meant our place at the creek in Ridge Park. Obviously, it wasn't "our" place, but we had been going there forever, to sit on the bank of the creek, tossing rocks and crap in, and talking. It was also where I first held Tess' hand (other than as her buddy on an elementary school class trip), and where I first kissed her (when we weren't playing spin the bottle in middle school). I knew that she chose the place for a reason, but I wasn't sure yet what the reason was. But I could hope.

When I got there, Tess was already in our spot. Although it was a hot summer day, it was cooler under the trees. As I approached, I could see her back, and her hair tumbling down freely. Then I could see that she was wearing shorts, displaying her long, beautiful pale legs. I felt that same happy feeling that I always had in her presence, a feeling that I had missed for the past couple of months. But now it was tempered with a twinge of regret along with a great deal of lust. I thought of how much I wanted to do to and with Tess what I had done to and with Lara, and I knew how much she would like it, if she only would loosen up and let me.

She must have heard me approach, because she turned her head, and flashed me a smile that lit up her face. I sat down next to her, and for a while, we sat there, tossing rocks and crap into the creek and watching it flow downstream, like we used to do when we were kids. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what.

Instead, it was Tess who broke the silence. "I'm sorry, Alex," she said, simply.

"Sorry for what?" I asked, because although I sort of thought I knew, I wanted to hear her say it.

"Sorry for not doing all of the things that I know you want. For basically not doing almost anything that you want, really."

I was silent. I still yearned for her, but I wasn't sure that I could be with her, but not "be" with her. "So, what does that mean?" I asked. I knew that this was hard for her, even if I didn't understand why, and I figured that she needed to say what she wanted so I could figure out what I wanted, if that makes any sense.

"It means that I fucking miss you, and I'm sorry that my neuroses or fears or whatever meant that you are unhappy and that we aren't together. You know that you are my best friend, and maybe my only real friend."

"You know I feel the same way about you," I said, softly. 

Tess reached over and covered my hand with hers. It was slightly damp from the ground, but I felt an almost electric shock when she touched me. If this was a story, and not real life, we would kiss, Tess would roll over on her back, and we would make tender, passionate love under the trees, and be happy forever. And I would have loved for that to happen. But, of course, it didn't.

Instead, she said, "Alex, I cannot imagine being apart from you during senior year. I've always assumed that we would be together, go to prom and graduate as a couple. And I still want that. But I also know that things have changed for you this summer. I know that you have been with Lara, and I'm fairly confident that you and she—"

I interrupted. "You don't have to say it. Yes, we had sex, and it was great and all, but you should know that every time we did, all I wanted was for it to be you."

She paused and looked like she was going to cry. I squeezed her hand and waited.

"What I was going to say," she said, softly, "was that I can't promise you that. I can promise you that I will try to be more open, more physical, but I can't guarantee anything. If you can accept that, then please let's get back together. But I understand that might not work for you, especially now after you've had some experience, so if that is the case, then I will understand, and will not get in your way if you want to see other girls."

I wasn't sure what to say to make this right, so I decided to ask what I wanted to know. "What is the problem?" Then it struck me, on TV or in books, when a girl is afraid of sex, she must have been abused, so I asked, "Were you, you know-"

But this was real life, and, answers aren't always so easily found. Tess turned to me, surprised. "No, it isn't that. If it was that, I'd understand. But it isn't that. No one has abused me, raped me, hurt me. I just don't want to, and I don't know why." Her voice lowered to almost a whisper. "I wish I did; I wish for both of us that I was a normal horny teenager, but I'm not, and I hate that it has ruined what we had."

I was quiet, as I thought about my options, and Tess decided to fill the silence.

"I even went to the doctor, the gynecologist, and she did a full checkup. I'm sure that you'll be happy to know that the plumbing is all working right. It isn't a physical thing. She said that I may just have a low libido. It could be hormonal, or psychological or something else, but she suggested that it was premature for me to use medication or anything. That maybe it would come to me naturally, eventually. But maybe not."

So, I thought, I could be in a relationship with the girl I loved, and who loved me, and who was perfect in every way, but one. But was that one thing a deal breaker? I looked at Tess, really looked at her, and I realized that it wasn't. I needed to be with her, and she had promised to try.

I leaned forward and gave her my answer by kissing her on her soft, full lips. She kissed me back, and even pushed her tongue into my mouth. I pulled her tight to me, and could feel her ample, firm breasts pressing into my chest, which caused my cock to immediately stiffen. We kissed for a while, and I ran my hands up and down her back. It seemed like she was enjoying herself, but after a while, and before I could try to touch anything else, she pulled away. There was a bit of a flush on her pale skin, and a look in her eye that was either fear, or lust, or some combination of both. I just couldn't be sure. She stood up and I followed.

Without saying a word, I knew we were together again, and we walked, silently, holding hands, back to our cars, under the beating sun. Before we separated, I pulled her close to me, and we kissed. I put my hands on her perfect ass and pressed her against my crotch, and, for the first time, she didn't resist. But she didn't stay that way for long before disengaging, smiling at me, and getting into her car and driving away. I got into my car and drove home, happy.

When school started, it was as if we had never broken up. We slipped back into our routines of doing homework together, hanging out together, and going out with friends as a couple. We were co-editors of the yearbook, and easily coordinated, because she was more interested in the pictures and the business side, and I was more interested in the text and layout.

I could tell that Tess was trying to be more liberal about the physical part of our relationship. Ultimately, she let me see and fondle her actual breasts, and they were as beautiful and perfect as the parts of her that I had seen. She even let me kiss them occasionally, and seemed to enjoy my attention to her little pale nipples, and I was entranced by the sprinkling of freckles that broke up the uniformity of her alabaster skin. A few weeks after steeling herself and reaching into my pants to touch my cock, she began to somewhat regularly be willing to give me hand jobs, which went a long, long way to relieving my sexual tension. It wasn't perfect, but it was much better than it had been.




Melting the Ice



In March of our senior year, my neighbor, Mr. Stephens, died. After about a month, his kids sold his house, and I came home from school one day to see a moving van unloading boxes, being directed by what appeared to be a pretty good looking dark haired woman in her mid to late 20's. When my parents invited her over to dinner a few weeks after she had settled in, we found out that she was Serena Poulson, a financial advisor with an office downtown, and that she was recently divorced from her husband, a slightly older guy who she had married right after college. Unfortunately, her husband had been carrying on an affair with his secretary, so she divorced him and used the settlement to buy the house. 

She was, in fact, an attractive woman, with short, business-like brown hair, and an excellent figure. It was hard for me to imagine why anyone would cheat on her, but I guess not every guy is as committed to monogamy as me. Again, if this were a story, and not real life, Serena would seduce me to satisfy her now unfulfilled needs. We would have acrobatic sex in every room of her house, allowing me to keep dating my virgin girlfriend, while being satisfied by Serena's insatiable sex drive. But that is not what this story is about, and stuff like that only happens in the movies, or in stories. Not only that, but Serena also was dating Laurence (never "Larry"), who was a big, well-built, good looking guy who worked in her office. I know this, because we sometimes chatted when I mowed the lawn or did other outside work around the house.

That being said, once the weather got warmer, Serena did lie out in her backyard, wearing very skimpy bikinis, and I have to admit that the sight of her, after a frustrating day with Tess, often led to my thinking of her, and not my angelic love, when I released my tension. 

By the time prom came around, Tess and I had reached some equilibrium. We had great times together, doing the yearbook, going to movies and concerts and hanging out with our friends. I was given free rein to fondle and kiss her breasts, and many nights she would jerk me off, increasingly skillfully, but without much passion for the task. I was not allowed anywhere near her pussy, although I occasionally tried brushing it with my hand, "accidentally," but it never seemed to get her motor running the way I hoped. However, we were going to prom, and eighteen, so our parents didn't object when we booked a motel room at the shore, along with our friends, for the weekend after prom. Although I didn't say anything, and was afraid to press my luck, I kind of hoped that the classic prom tale would play itself out, and we would make love in a cheap motel, like millions of other teenagers throughout America since time immemorial. 

And if we had, I would tell the details, but that is not what happened. Prom was great. Tess was the most beautiful girl there, of course, and I even thought I pulled off the tux pretty well. Our friends all looked amazing and had fun. The after parties were great, and Tess and I even made out in the party bus in front of people, which was a pretty big step for her, possibly facilitated by the cheap vodka we had been drinking. But when we got to the Sandbar Motel and checked in, Tess made it clear to me that the breasts and hand job limitations were still in effect. I despaired of ever using the package of condoms I had, optimistically, stashed in my suitcase.

I pleaded my case, citing to my love for her, the length of our relationship, her beauty's effect on me, her promise to try to loosen up, and, of course, the fact that it was, for fuck's sake, prom night. But it didn't work. Her legs stayed stuck together, although she did sleep in my arms, with my hard on pressed futilely against her pajama pants clad perfect ass. It didn't help that I could hear the headboard in Jeannie and Mike's room next door banging against the wall, and Jeannie screaming Mike's name over and over and over and over again.

Although I feigned contentment, I had begun to approach the point where I needed her to give herself to me, to let me give myself to her, and I started to get angry, believing that she just didn't trust me. Tess chattered all the way home from the shore, and I was quiet, half listening, and half trying to figure out what to do. 

Ultimately, I convinced myself that it was stupid to do anything until after graduation, because I didn't want the craziness and I didn't want Tess to be hurt or unhappy. And we cruised through the end of the year, APs, finals and graduation, where we ended up tied for 9th in our class. There was a huge party after graduation, and Tess and I went, with a bunch of our friends. I got a little drunk, and Tess did, too, and somehow we found ourselves alone in a spare bedroom. We made out a little, but Tess turned out to be drunker than we both thought, and she passed out. I took her home, woke her up and got her into bed without her parents suspecting anything amiss. The next morning, Tess and her family left for a month's vacation on the West Coast to visit her grandparents and celebrate her graduation, and I devoted myself to working to make some cash for college. Tess and I texted, and I think she was happy when I told her that Lara (or "that girl," as she called her) wasn't working there that summer because she was in Spain. Although I'm pretty sure that I could have scored with some of my fellow employees, I was in love, and was, as always, faithful.

The second week that Tess was away, I was sitting at my desk, wasting time on YouTube, when I saw Serena laying on her porch, wearing a truly small bikini—so small, in fact that it hardly seemed worth the effort. Just watching her there kind of set me off again, and I missed Tess, and I also realized how much I missed actual sex. But, I wasn't going to break up with Tess just for that reason by phone or text, and before we went together to college. I knew that would be wrong, and whatever happened, the right thing to do was to do it face to face. Instead, I fantasized about Serena. And as the summer went on, my fantasies were mostly about my sexy neighbor, and not my beautiful girlfriend.

I knew when Tess was supposed to come home, and I both anticipated and dreaded her return. Obviously, I wanted to see her, but, as I mentioned when I started this story, I was approaching the point where I was thinking about breaking it off for good, if she continued to maintain the last wall between us.

It was a scorching summer day when I got a text from Tess that she had gotten home late the night before, and wanted to come over. I had gotten up early and mowed the lawn, then showered and was taking refuge from the heat in my air-conditioned room before my evening shift. Of course, I told her to come over, and figured I needed to just say what I wanted to say—that I loved her, wanted to make love with her, but that if she still wasn't interested that it would be better to just break up for good, so that we could adjust, and deal with college as individuals, and not as a couple. I really, really hoped that she would see it my way, especially because my parents had taken my sister to the town pool, and the house was empty. 

As I waited, I noticed that Serena was on her porch, under the shade of an umbrella, wearing that same tiny bikini. When she started to rub sunscreen on her voluptuous body, I almost lost it, but realized that I couldn't relieve myself because Tess was on her way. As usual, Tess didn't knock on the door, and just came into the house and yelled my name. I told her to come upstairs, and when I saw her, she took my breath away. Not that anything was different—it was just seeing her after a month that did it. That, and the tight t-shirt that she was wearing, and the shorts.

I wanted to throw her on the bed and rip her clothes off and make her scream with pleasure, but had to settle for a very nice kiss, and the feel of her body pressing against mine, and her ass in my hands. When we came up for air, she handed me a silly t-shirt from what she called a tacky tourist trap, the latest in a series of goofy little gifts we would bring back for each other when we went on family vacations, and she started telling me about the trip. I couldn't get a word in edgewise, and figured that I would just let her talk until she ran out of stuff to say.

She suggested that we watch this video on YouTube that was hysterical, and she stood behind me as I pulled it up on my screen. I was heartened by the casual way she rested her hand on my shoulder as I sat in my desk chair.

As the video started, she said, "Does your neighbor always lay out in her backyard naked?" 

That was something I hadn't quite seen yet, so I looked up, and, in fact, Serena was lying on her chair, completely nude. I had already seen pretty much everything she had, but I had to admit that, even from a distance, her tits looked nice, with very dark nipples, and I could see that she shaved her pubic hair into a thin landing strip. The heat of the day had caused her to be covered in a light sheen of perspiration. Overall, it was a pretty sexy view. After I had finished gawking, I responded, "She sometimes sits out there in a bathing suit, but I've never seen her totally naked." 

I reached up to close the curtain, but I was shocked when Tess grabbed my arm and said, "No, that's O.K."

I restarted the video again, but after a minute or so, Tess said, "Have you ever seen that?"

I looked up and saw Laurence standing next to Serena's chaise, and he, too, was naked, the skin of his ass pale white, in contrast to the tan of the rest of his body. He turned slightly, and I could see his aroused cock, which, frankly didn't seem any bigger than mine. I couldn't blame him—I'd be rock hard, too, if I was standing that close to a naked Serena—In fact, I was rock hard just watching her from the window.

Surprisingly, Tess had stopped talking and was standing behind me, hands grabbing my shoulders, looking out the window.

The YouTube video was forgotten in favor of the real scene playing out before us. We watched quietly as Laurence kneeled down and kissed Serena on the lips, and as they made out. When Laurence began to stroke Serena's full breasts, Tess sighed, and pulled my shoulders back so that my head was resting on her stomach, just below her own fabulous chest. And when Laurence began to suck on Serena's nipples, Tess leaned forward so that her tits rested on my head, and she crossed her arms over my chest and pulled me closer.

I could hear Tess' breathing become a little harder while we watched, and I wanted to turn around, but between her grasp, and my belief that it would be a huge mistake to break the spell, I sat there, feeling the weight of Tess' breasts on my head and enjoying her embrace. When Laurence started to kiss Serena's stomach and then buried his face between her thighs, Tess' breathing became even harder, and her grip on me tighter. I think, but was not sure, that she actually pressed her crotch against the back of my chair. I, of course, was painfully hard, my cock pressing uncomfortably against my shorts from the sensory overload.

We watched as Laurence ate Serena out and she began to writhe on the chair, her legs flailing wildly until we saw her hips buck repeatedly and her arms and legs windmill before she slowed and stopped. Her chest was heaving, and Tess' seemed to be matching it. I so wanted to turn around, but knew instinctively that it was a bad idea. Then, Serena motioned to Laurence, and he moved toward her, his hard cock aiming for her sexy mouth. She grabbed his shaft and engulfed it, taking him fully in, and Laurence started fucking her mouth. Tess started to gently stroke my chest, while pressing against the chair and leaning in, apparently not wanting to miss anything.

Laurence pumped faster and faster into Serena's mouth before jerking back and shooting a huge load of cum all over her face and breasts. I felt Tess yank her head back and shudder before leaning forward and resting her chin on the top of my head. While Tess was changing position, so were my neighbor and her lover, swapping so that Laurence, who impressively was aroused again, was on the chair, and Serena mounted him and slid down his cock. As she rode him, increasingly fast, Tess grabbed me tighter and tighter, and breathed quicker and quicker. I reached back and was able to awkwardly embrace my girlfriend, holding her as we watched Serena and Laurence fuck to another powerful orgasm. Serena collapsed on to Laurence's chest, and Tess gasped and went limp against me.

It was time for me to make my move. I disengaged from Tess and turned to face her. She was flushed and her hair was wild. There was a look in her eyes that I had never seen before, except in about 5 years of fantasies.

"Are you O.K.?" I asked.

She looked at me, and her look sent chills through me, and into my already throbbing cock. "That's what sex is like?" she asked, panting a little.

"That's what it's like," I said, trying to control myself.

"That?" she said again, pointing out the window.

"Exactly," I replied.

She lunged forward and began to kiss me with a passion that I had never felt before, and I stood so that while we were kissing, our bodies pressed against each other. Tess ground her hips against my aching cock, and I ran my hands under her shirt, feeling her back, then her tits. Her nipples were hard and she started to bite my neck. 

I pushed Tess gently down on the bed, and she collapsed willingly. I fell on top of her, and kissed her incredible lips and down her neck. I pushed her shirt up over her chest and kissed above the bra and into her cleavage as Tess arched her back to let me unclasp and remove her bra. Although I had done this before, I sensed that today this was far from the end of the line. Nevertheless, I took my time, rubbing, kneading, kissing and sucking her beautiful pale breasts and sensitive nipples.

Tess was pressing my head into her chest and her crotch into me. I decided to reach down, and placed my hand gently between her legs, on her shorts. She moaned slightly, so I started to softly stroke her there for the first time ever. Tess moved her hips to meet my strokes, so I took a chance and unbuttoned her shorts. Getting no resistance, I unzipped them and slipped my hand inside the elastic of her panties. I expected that her bush was untrimmed, considering her lack of interest in sex; what I didn't expect was that she was dripping wet—her panties were soaked. I could smell her arousal, and it was delicious. I explored downward until my fingers touched her lips—they were slick and hot, and Tess moaned and sighed as I touched her. 

I was surprised when she pulled down her shorts and panties and tossed them on the floor. My love was, for the first time ever, totally exposed to me and, if anything, was more beautiful than I had ever thought. I kissed her belly, then moved down and kissed her bush, above her opening, and she pushed my head down. It was a hint that I understood, so I rolled myself between her legs and buried myself into her fragrant pussy. Using every bit of knowledge I had learned from Lara and the Internet, I teased her, nibbling on her inner and outer labia, briefly flicking my tongue into her opening, and enjoying her noises and moves that made it clear that she was enjoying my work. When I finally gave her clit the attention that it needed, Tess actually squeaked, then began panting and thrashing. And when I sped up tongue up, and inserted a finger deep into her, she shuddered and screamed my name. Just as I had wanted for years.

I worked my way back up her belly, kissing and licking as I heard her trying to catch her breath, and grabbed her tits, kissing and nibbling on her hard nipples until she may have come again. I yanked off my shirt and pressed my chest against her, and pulled her close, burying my nose into her neck and feeling the warmth of her body against mine.

We lay there for a while, and as happy as I was, I was also desperately in need of my own release. I rubbed my hard cock, which was still in my shorts, against her, hoping that she would take the initiative, and Tess pulled my head away from her neck, looked at me, with a happy look on her face and said, "Why are your pants still on, you idiot?"

I can't believe that anyone in the history of the world got their pants off faster than me, and I was then lying next to the most amazing girl ever, naked for the first time. I looked at Tess, and she got a playful look in her eyes, then pushed me onto my back, slid down the bed and grabbed my cock, putting it into her mouth. I was in heaven, and despite the fact that her technique was nowhere near that of the more experienced Lara, and despite the occasional painful nip from a tooth, I quickly was on the edge of an orgasm. "I'm going to cum, my love," I warned, and Tess pulled my cock out of her mouth and jerked it a couple of times before I blasted easily the biggest load of cum in my history. I hit her chin and sprayed into her face and onto her chest, and I kept cumming onto her smooth white skin until I was spent.

"That was kind of disgusting, but oh my god," she gasped, panting.

I looked at my sweet Tess, covered in my cum, and couldn't believe what was happening. I jumped out of bed and went to the bathroom for a towel, and returned and wiped her clean. Of course, that got me hard again, and Tess reached out and grabbed my cock.

"I'm ready," she said, laying back on the bed and spreading her legs, slightly. I could see the moistness seeping from her. I reached into my night table, grabbed a condom, ripped it open and rolled it down my cock and positioned myself between Tess's strong thighs. I rubbed the head against her, lubricating myself with her juices before slowly inching my way in. Tess was sighing with what seemed like pleasure as I pressed slowly forward until I reached an obstruction.

"This may hurt," I said, and she nodded, so I thrust through. She gasped, and I stayed still and let her adjust. When I felt her move against me, I resumed my thrusting, but slowly and gently, using long, smooth strokes, and Tess moaned with pleasure, whimpering when my pubic bone pressed against her clit.

"Oh god," she whimpered, turning me on even more, and I increased my pace. It felt so good and so right that I wanted it to last forever, and when I looked at Tess and saw the look of pleasure on her amazing face, I wanted to be able to make her feel like that forever. I kept thrusting, involuntarily speeding up, and Tess kept up with me until we were thrashing together on my bed, faster and more intensely than in any dream that I ever had until Tess fulfilled maybe my last fantasy, screaming, "Yes, Alex, yes, oh my god," as her body trembled, then shuddered, then shook, setting me off for yet another powerful orgasm.

I collapsed on top of my now sweating soul mate, in awe of how close I felt to her. Everything I ever believed about sex with Tess had, to me, come true. Every barrier had dropped and I knew that I would spend the rest of my life with her. I made sure to withdraw from her and remove the condom, and I took her in my arms and cuddled. The moment was too intense for speech, and we just lay there, listening to each other's breathing get back to normal. I waited for her to speak first, and when she did, she said, "Alex, I love you."

"I love you, too," I responded, and kissed her.

"You were right," she said softly. "That was amazing, and I shouldn't have tortured you all of these years."

"That's O.K.," I said, not completely truthfully. "It was worth the wait."

After a few more minutes, Tess got out of bed and walked, naked, to the bathroom. I was transfixed by her beauty and could not take my eyes off of her. When she left the room, I stood up and looked out the window. I was startled to see Serena and Laurence, standing in a second floor window, wearing robes, and looking at me, smiling. Serena gave me a thumbs up sign, and I felt myself blush before I closed the curtains. I was a little embarrassed, but on the other hand, we had watched them do it, which seemed to be the thing that made Tess want to sleep with me. So, I figured we were even.




Melting the Ice



I got back into the bed before Tess returned, and was treated to a view of her firm breasts and sexy pussy walking toward me, topped by her smiling face. Unfortunately, she started getting dressed, so I did the same.

"I have to get home," she said, kissing me and hugging me with a passion I felt was more intense than before. "By the way, why did you close the curtains?"

"Um, I thought we needed some privacy," I responded.

If this were a story, and not real life, I would tell you about how Tess and I made up for lost time, having constant sex for the rest of the summer, at college and afterwards; that the former prude became a nymphomaniac and we lived happily ever after in a nonstop sexual carnival.

But life isn't that easy. Tess still had issues, and there were long stretches that she would barely let me touch her, and others when we had great sex. It was difficult, but she was worth it to me, and eventually, with time and some therapy, both individually and as a couple, she mostly got over it.

That's right. In real life, Tess and I got married, had a pretty awesome sex life, great jobs and three beautiful daughters, all of whom are lucky enough to look more like their mother than me. Because sometimes, real life ends up as a great story.



Melting the Ice



Julie Yi was my Sales Director at a medical equipment company where I was recently employed. At 46, she was a few years older than I was but I couldn't help but notice her when she walked through the department. She had long hair that was as black as a raven that she always wore pinned up into a bun. Her eyes were sexy petite almonds that sparkled when the light hit them just right. She had the body of a much younger woman and that tight little ass of hers made me want to get to know her in spite of what she represented in the hierarchy of the company.

Julie was also purported to be an Ice Queen. She did little of the hiring for the sales department but she did all of the firing. The rumor was she didn't even do it in person; she'd just send you an email at the end of the day to see HR.

The first time I was introduced to Julie would be my last day at R & S Medical, though I did not know it at the time. My manager and I were going over my resent sales numbers when Julie walked by his desk. He quickly stood up straight at attention; it was obvious that he was completely scared to death of her. He was a career man so I kind of understood why, but I was the new hotshot salesman who was at the top of the sales board with only a few weeks in. I had no fear.

He introduced her to me as "Miss Yi" and I offered my hand. She ignored it and dressed me down with her cold dark gaze and finally said: "I think you'd look better if you shaved." 

I quickly raised my hand to my rough five o'clock shadow and shook my head in disbelief. Miss Yi started to walk away.

"And you should smile more," I said to her back.

Julie stopped dead in her tracks, turned slowly with her head to the side and looked into my brown eyes. 

"What did you say to me?"

I pointed at the corners of my mouth with my index fingers. 

"You're never fully dressed without a smile," I said.

Julie glared at me, then at my manager, who looked like he was about to pass out.

As word spread throughout R & S Medical, I became the man to avoid at all costs that day. I was the plague carrier, the man who could possibly get you fired. Even my boss didn't say another word to me for the rest of the day. At 4:30 PM an email came from Miss Yi, telling me to go to HR.

In the back of my mind I knew it was coming but the reality of getting fired was still shocking. I knew I was a talented salesperson and I had plenty of savings. So I put those feelings aside, I would find another job soon.

I decided to go out that night, partly to drown my sorrows and partly to celebrate. Club Liquid was featuring a local band I was really getting into, so I decided to go there. I put on wine-colored button-down sport shirt to complement my dark skin tone, midnight blue jeans and a blazer to complete the look. I even shaved scruffy beard and when I checked my smooth skin in the mirror I thought maybe Miss Yi had something there.

I paid my cover, casually walked over to the bar to check out the female population, and who should catch my eye but Miss Julie Yi. She was at the end of the bar, sitting with all her friends, which was really a sarcastic way of saying she was sitting all alone.

Julie wore a tight mid-thigh black dress that showed off her gorgeous shapely legs. She was drinking an Island Breeze in a fancy glass that was just about empty. I asked the bartender to send her another one and I ordered a Sam Adams for myself.

Julie she looked up to see who had sent her the drink; held up her glass in a mock toast and smiled. Then she recognized me, and her pretty smile disappeared. I grabbed my beer and made my way over to her.

"I was right," I announced.

"About?" She was as cold as the arctic wind in deep winter.

I gestured to her face with the neck of the bottle. "Your smile, it's positively breathtaking."

She tried to look unfazed by the flattery but she couldn't hide that she appreciated the compliment for a brief moment. 

"Richard, one would think since you are recently unemployed that you wouldn't be spending your money on women in clubs."

"Julie, we're old friends," I said. "Look, I'm not pissed at you. Lighten up, okay?" I smiled and took a sip of my beer.

She picked up her drink and slid off the barstool, her dress rode up a little and I got a glimpse of her silky smooth upper thighs. Julie tapped her glass against my beer bottle.

"Thanks for the drink, Richard," she said and walked off toward the dance floor.

She stopped near the stage and moved stiffly to the music. It was obvious she was not too great at relaxing, but God bless her for trying. I watched Julie's awkward little dance and waited for the moment that I knew would come. There it was: she turned back to see if I was watching her. When she saw that I was, she quickly turned back to the stage.

I slipped up behind her, wrapped my arms around her body and pulled her back against me.

"I beg your pardon," she stepped quickly away and turned to face me.

"Julie, in all the time you've worked at R & S Medical, no-one has ever stood up to you. I think you liked what I did today, you wanted someone to take charge and maybe put you in your place for a change."

"And where exactly do you think that is," Julie questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"At the moment, it's here with me, listening to good music on this dance floor. Maybe later..."

Before I could finish my sentence Julie put her arm around my neck and pulled my lips to hers. Her sweet-tasting tongue probed my mouth and her legs straddled mine as she rubbed herself against my thigh. To the casual observer it might have looked like we were dancing, except we were joined at the lips. 

Julie broke our kiss; she breathed heavily and gazed into my eyes with a burning lust in her eyes. I took her drink from her hand and put it on the edge of the stage with my beer bottle. I grabbed her wrist and lead her out the fire exit. We found ourselves alone in an access alley between the club and another building. I pressed her warm body against the rough brick wall as I kissed her painted lips. I ran my hands up her smooth thighs under her dress and when I squeeze her tight little ass for the first time, my cock pulsed in my jeans. She moaned and pressed harder against me and felt my cock throb through my jeans. I ached while my cock strained against my button fly jeans.

I wanted to liberate her tits from her dress but because of the cut, there was no way to do it from the front. I turned her around and she placed her hands against the brick wall as I pulled her black lace thong down her legs. I slowly traced my tongue up her thigh then and buried my face between her lovely round ass cheeks. I pulled her hips back slightly so I could have more access. I leisurely licked her clit and when my tongue teased her asshole, her body quivered. 

"Oh you're so fucking naughty," she moaned and spread her ass open with her right hand.

She tasted sweet with a soft musky flavor that was intoxicating. Her pussy was drenched by the time I plunged my tongue into her folds. I flicked and teased her clit, then sucked it between my lips. I could hear Julie's moans echo off the walls even as she pushed her ass back into my face. I took her hips into my hands and pressed her body into me as I tongue-fucked her pussy and super-tight ass hole.

"Oh fuck! Richard, I need to feel you inside of me," she whimpered as her long nails dug into my scalp as she grabbed the back of my head.

I quickly stood up and unbuttoned the fly on my jeans. I pulled my cock out into the damp night air and slapped the head against her juicy pussy lips. She jumped and tried to push back against me to force me inside her, but I was in a teasing mood. I dipped the head of my black cock between her juicy lips and slowly moved it up and down teasing her engorged lips. She pushed back again, this time spreading pussy open with her fingers to invite me in. I pulled back and spanked her ass with my hard cock, letting Julie feel how hard and hot my cock was before ramming it deep into her pussy. 

"Oh God yes," she slurred.

She pushed against the wall and fucked back against me. I ran my hand through her silky black hair and clenched it right at the scalp line, and pulled her head back firmly, making her moan with pleasure.

Her pussy muscles squeezed my cock, straining to pull me in deeper and not let go. With each stroke she became wetter and wetter; I struggled to keep from exploding inside her exquisite pussy. I reached around and felt her small firm tits through the dress. I could feel her nipples rising against the fabric begging to be touched.

"Oh fuck, you're going to fucking make me cum," Julie cried out. Her body twitched and shivered as her orgasm flashed through her. 

We were oblivious to the world; neither of us would have cared if we were being watched. My jeans were bunched around my ankles and Julie's black dress was pulled up over her taut ass. Her muscles flexed as my cock slid in and out of that tight wet pussy. My cock glistened from the neon street lights making it a shiny deep red then deep blue as it plunged in and out of Julie's beautiful smooth pussy.

She turned around swiftly, and I popped loose from her sex. I pushed her back against the wall, her legs went up and wrapped around my hips like two ravenous pythons. She braced herself against the bricks and lifted her hips to mine as I held her ass in my hands. We intently looked into each others' eyes while she slowly impaled herself on my cock.

Julie slapped my face, hard and ground her pussy into me. She forced my cock deep into her drenched cunt. I was shocked by the slap, but it only made me want to fuck her more. She looked so fucking sexy with her legs wrapped around me and her dress pulled up around her waist.

She pulled my mouth to hers, sucked my tongue into her sweet mouth as she moaned. Then suddenly she pulled away and slapped me again. My hands were full of her sexy behind and I couldn't protect myself, which she seemed to enjoy. The burning sensation on my cheek made me desire her even more than I ever thought I could. I plunged deeper, inch after swollen inch of my cock slid into the taut depths of her pussy. Her mouth made a silent "O" and her sexy eyes reflected the red and blue lights. Her silky black hair bounced with each thrust of my cock like waves in the ocean during a violent storm.

Julie squeezed her eyes shut and a convulsive orgasm detonated. I felt her pussy contract around my cock. I was almost at the point of no return, my cum churned in my heavy sac. My head snapped back and my body trembled. Julie uncoiled her legs and slid down my body like a gymnast, she settled on her knees in front of me, and firmly took hold of my iron-hard cock into both of her hands. A pearl of pre-cum surged to the slit of my cock head. She thrust her head closer and flicked out her tongue, and snatched the clear drop into her mouth. I shivered as Julie engulfed my leaking cockhead with her warm, wet mouth, then the shaft; easily and expertly consumed my whole cock. Her cheeks puffed out and her throat widened to accommodate all of my erection.

I marveled as I stared down into those beautiful almond eyes as they looked up at me. Her face glowed, her lips kissing up against my balls, my cock gone, disappeared inside her mouth. She kept my member locked down in her mouth and throat for ten torrid seconds. I felt hot, humid breaths steaming out of her flared nostrils. Then I watched her as she pulled her head back, releasing my dripping shaft oozing out of her mouth until she clung to the meaty cap of my cock with her teeth. She flicked her tongue over the tip of my rod then pushed her head forward again, and swallowed my over-engorged cock. 

I gasped for breath in the damp night air. Her head bobbed up and down on my pussy-slick dick, taking it to the back of her throat and beyond.

"Oh fuck, I'm gonna cum!" 

She sucked me harder. Bursts after burst of my hot, sticky cum exploded into her mouth. Julie didn't let a single drop hit the pavement as she moaned with pleasure. Her hand milked my jerking cock, and made sure she drained me of every drop I could give her until she thought I was dry. I then uncontrollably shot one more burst of hot cum on the front of her black dress.

Julie looked down at the dress, scooped up my cum onto her finger.

"You fucking bastard," she said in a soft sexy tone, then licked my cum from her finger. "This is dry clean only."

"Send me the bill," I replied, as I pulled my underwear and jeans up over my deflating cock.

"How will you pay to get it cleaned?" Julie asked. "You're unemployed."

"Yeah, about that. Why did you fire me anyway?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Julie answered as she shimmy her dress back down around her hips and leaned in to kiss me. I could taste myself on her lips and tongue.

"I can't go around fucking a guy who works for me," she finally whispered.

I took her to her house that night and Julie peeled herself out of that tight, stained, black dress. For the first time I was able to see all of her exotic naked beauty with her perfectly perky breast and her thick chocolate nipples.

We fucked all night by the glow of the candles. I was abruptly woken up by the touch of Julie's right hand rubbing my cock with oil and her left hand holding her cell phone to her ear.

"Hey Betty, you know that Sales Director's position you have open over there," she spoke as she continued to oil up my hardening cock. "I have the perfect person for the position; he's extremely talented and would be an excellent leader in you company."

Julie moved closer to me, and then licked her lips and mouthed the words, "I want you to fuck my ass." 

"Yes, he can be there Monday at 10," Julie hung up the phone. She threw the phone on her nightstand, straddled her body over my cock cowgirl style and rubbed my dick against her tight asshole.

I gazed up at her with an inquisitive look on my face.

"What?" She questioned. "That dress was fucking expensive and you need a job."