0 comments/ 23824 views/ 1 favorites A Woman Like Maxine By: jay.palin A long, slowly developing romance in five easily-digestible parts. Please send feedback and, above all, please vote! Part 1 Most men would remember a woman like Maxine. In my case, she was the one who drove me to a sexual frenzy in my youth. I wasn’t yet a man, being an early teen. In my inexperienced eyes she was a sophisticated woman though, almost 20 years of age. She’d recently married an older man of 28, but didn’t really act like a wife. Instead, she was a temptress, and knew full well how she affected most males, including me. I’m in my sixties now, which means that Maxine is well on her way to seventy; if she’s still alive, that is…and wasn’t murdered long ago by a jealous woman. When I first met her, she was already sexually liberated, which means that she was called everything from a “flirt” to the less complimentary term, “slut.” At that time – the conservative fifties – everyone was supposed to toe the conventional line, especially women; most especially, married women. But with me she could do no wrong, and in defense of her independent streak, I think of her – in retrospect – as a beautiful, vivacious, strong-willed and ambitious person who knew what she wanted and strove to get it. She’d married Ken six months before I met her. He was helping my father build our large family home outside San Francisco. I was also helping on the job. My parents had entered their twenties during the Great Depression and, along with many American families, believed that growing sons should help support the household. Therefore, as the only male child – and the eldest – I was expected to labor on the house project when I wasn’t in school. Of course, that left little time for socializing with friends. So, like any other hormone-driven teen who’d had little experience with the opposite sex, my knowledge consisted of merely a vivid imagination when it came to the mystic powers of females. Maxine was a “script girl” working for a local TV station. Today she’d be called a “Production Assistant.” Her new husband, Ken, was a carpenter…tall, muscular, good-looking, but – to the impressionable Maxine – still a working man and not a true “professional.” On weekends, when Dad and I would be working on the house, Ken would bring his gorgeous wife to the building site...so she could be with him while he earned extra money in addition to his regular weekly paycheck. Maxine and I got along well while all of us worked as a group. Having nothing else to do, she talked with us constantly. When she and I were alone, though – which was frequently – I usually clammed up, especially when she probed me about my social life…about girls. I was tall for my age, 5’10”, skinny and raw-boned, with a shock of blond hair that she’d invariably push off my forehead as I shyly answered her questions, usually avoiding her eyes. For good reason. Maxine’s eyes were the largest and deepest blue that I’d ever seen on a woman, much like those of the contemporary blonde actress Heather Graham. They highlighted a perfectly proportioned face that was slightly tanned, along with the rest of her skin; the skin that I could see, that is. Her nose was petite and straight. Her jaw was strong and rather wide, with her chin cutely pointed. Her mouth was full-lipped yet appeared small, and was a deep pink, even without lipstick. It peeled open girlishly, like a ripe fig when it splits as a finger is pushed against its back. Her lower lip protruded temptingly, curving up at the corners to point at a dimple in each cheek. Her upper lip pouted outward in a pert, sensuous bow to reveal perfect, pearl-white teeth when relaxed. Years later I’d discover the boundless joys that her mouth could bring. Her hair was straight and black, matching her well-tended brows and eyelashes. She wore it scalloped, with a few long bangs, shingled on the sides and combed behind her small ears until it reached down her strong neck in back. Since she often combed her hands through it, its style matched her carefree manner perfectly, yet always looked neat…a welcome contrast to the heavily sprayed mode of the time. On those rare moments when she’d stand alone, silent, and look out at the fabulous view from the building site, my fingers would itch as I imagined them running through that casual, black hair. And at night, of course, alone in the shower and visualizing her, those same fingers would stroke my teenage dick until I spewed semen all over the tile wall. “You have nice hands,” she said to me one day as I was performing my construction specialty, which was shoveling dirt. “Big…with good veins. Very masculine.” I’ve forgotten how I first acted in response. It was probably an embarrassed grunt, accompanied by a blush while hiding my eyes behind my forelock. But I remember seeing her with one bare leg bent slightly at the knee, with a hand on her other hip and – tauntingly – tilting her head to one side with an expectant grin on her face, awaiting a meaningful response. My heart was beating so rapidly that I thought I’d collapse from nervousness, yet I wiped the sweat from my forehead and leaned on my shovel, saying, “You look nice all over.” Not exactly a comment worthy of a Lothario, but not bad for a feckless teenager. Maxine was about 5’4” tall, with a soft-looking yet firm, willowy body. While at that time I lacked the experience to make such evaluations, I’d now estimate her figure as probably 34B-24-34. Her legs were nicely muscled at the thighs and calves, and she had smooth knees – no bony protuberances – which seemed to actually smile at me, whether she was standing or sitting. She was in the habit of wearing Bermuda shorts and, when my eyes would wander to her crotch, seeking the outlined hint of her feminine mysteries, I’d become erect and have to excuse myself to walk into the surrounding woods. In those days, before it was mandatory to have portable toilets on building sites, we used the outdoors and a shovel. More than once – panting shamefully – I would frantically relieve my aching balls of their contents in that sylvan setting as visions of the shapely brunette drifted before my closed eyes. Eventually, Maxine and I became conspirators of a sort. We’d tell one another jokes, roll our eyes at my Dad and Ken when they were being what we considered too serious, and even played cards while eating lunch. She took to calling me “Sweetie” when we were alone, which was often. I told her I’d won a couple of contests with some essays and stories I’d written, and was currently a sportswriter for the school paper. She begged to see some of my pieces, saying that writing for TV was an up and coming profession. The following Saturday I shyly gave them to her to review, convinced that I’d die from embarrassment if she didn’t like them. The following day she’d not read them yet, and I was thankful. I got them back eventually…several years later. It was on that day that I grabbed a roll of toilet paper and made my way into the woods to relieve myself. As I progressed deeper into the trees, I saw Maxine from the rear, with shorts pulled down, peeing. Her lovely ass captivated me – it was so round! – and my breathing seemed to stop. I’d never seen a woman’s naked parts outside of my own immediate family. Well, excluding two amorous teen girl cousins from L.A. who were horny for me. In any case, her butt’s ivory fundament spurred an immediate erection in my pants as I watched. I was surprised to observe a couple of bruises on her globes and more on her upper thighs, assuming that she’d gotten them from being around the building site…a constant source of bumps and such. She clenched her buns twice, reflecting two internal squeezes of her bladder to end her task, and I gasped. She looked around and saw me, smiled slightly as she caught me out of the corner of her eye, then slowly stood up to fasten her shorts. I took that opportunity to trot back to where I was working, with all thoughts of the shit I’d been about to take gone from my mind. Embarrassed beyond measure and knowing she’d walk out of the woods soon, I whacked the bulge in my pants a couple of times in vain, hoping that my stiff dick would subside. She soon joined me and said, soothingly, “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. You weren’t spying on me. It’s not as if you’d seen my pussy.” I was shocked that she’d use such an earthy term to describe her private female cleft, thinking that that particular word was reserved for use by men only. “Really sorry,” I mumbled, shoveling dirt as quickly as I could and hoping she wouldn’t see the boner in my jeans. “Sorry about your bruises, too,” I said. “You’ve gotta be careful around here. It’s easy to get hurt.” She stood watching me a minute, then walked past me, brushing her hand lightly on my shoulder before she went off somewhere. When she was gone, I smelled where her hand had been, hoping for a whiff of her sweet scent. That night in the shower I worked overtime manufacturing a Maxine fantasy, inventing an idealized picture of her pussy as I jerked off. Sometime later we needed to drive to the city for some reason I’ve forgotten…probably to pick up some unusual tools or building materials. Ken rode in the front seat as Dad drove, and Maxine and I occupied the rear, playing cards and laughing at her jokes. At one point, she won a game and, giggling hysterically, laid her hand on my thigh – quite high up – and squeezed to make some point or another. My whole leg tingled, and felt almost aflame until we reached our destination. But it was later, when she and I were alone in the car and Dad and Ken were inside the materials outlet, that I fell totally under Maxine’s spell. Offhandedly, I asked her if her bruises were gone and she said, “Yeah! Wanna see?” And as I froze and my heart rate doubled, she unzipped her shorts, pulled them down to mid-thigh past her panties, and showed me the pure, alabaster skin under them all the way to her crotch. She then pulled them back up, buttoning and zipping them. I exhaled quickly and said – very maturely – “Mm, good. Glad to see you’re all better.” Maxine looked at me for the longest time…it seemed like hours…then slid next to me across the old-time plastic seat covers. Her hand reached over my chest for my right shoulder and she leaned to kiss me. As our lips met, the static electricity from her journey across the seat covers – which seemed like miles – sparked, and the blood pounded in my ears so strongly I thought I’d pass out. Her breath smelled like ambrosia, and I tasted a hint of the sweetest saliva from her mouth. The scent of her perfume – White Shoulders, I later discovered – still stays with me as I recount my adolescent experience. Then she slid back, picked up the deck of cards, and we silently started a new game, shortly before my Dad and her husband returned. The trip back to the building site was quiet and uneventful. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her shapely legs…which extended all the way up to that sublime, panty-covered haven that she’d flashed during her impulsive striptease. Maxine won all the games, and my erection pulsed for hours – to the point of bursting – until finally relieved by my furious self-abuse that night in the shower. In those days I worshipped St. Onan a lot, in whose name sexually fantastic miracles often have been performed. Sometime after that I began seeing Maxine less on the building site. Though she still joined Ken when he came to work on the house, she’d spend a lot of time walking in the woods and otherwise occupying herself. Then, on one Saturday, Dad and Ken had to go to the city once again. Maxine didn’t want to make the trip, so Ken asked me to watch out for her and be the responsible person in their absence. I welcomed the opportunity to be alone with his luscious wife…immediately imagining lewd images of us doing…whatever, as I pined for some glimpse of her unclothed body. Little did I know that my fantasy would soon be realized. A neighbor of ours – Pierce – had met Maxine on one of her walks. He was a short, stocky guy married to an attractive brunette taller than he, had two young daughters, and was a radio and TV writer…obviously a drawing card for the ambitious young script girl. He was a very arrogant man, the sort who’s reasonably well educated, wordy, and assumes that he’s more intelligent than nearly everyone. He also drank a lot. My parents had joined him and his wife once for drinks – welcoming our family to the area – and he’d gotten falling-down drunk. Years later my overly critical mother would repeatedly recount this episode with all of the witch-burning fury of the archetypal Woman’s Christian Temperance Unionist. On the particular day that Dad and Ken were gone, I was working very hard, doing pick-and-shovel work in the hot sun. I decided to take a break and look for Maxine – who was wearing her typical Bermudas and sleeveless top – since she’d been gone for some time. Desiring her company and not knowing where she was, I wandered toward Pierce’s property and was heartened to hear her melodious giggle come from the other side of the house, a patio area under a grape arbor. Since Pierce spent a lot of time at his home bar, rather than landscaping his property, the shrubbery surrounding his home was thick and untended. Through some hedge-like bushes, I saw them standing closely together. No, they were embracing, I noticed, jealously, and they soon melded together in a passionate kiss. They were standing next to a redwood picnic table covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth, and two drinks were sitting on it…one nearly full, the other almost empty. Their kissing continued, becoming more fervent, and Maxine soon leaned her head back, causing Pierce to lavish kisses all over her muscular white neck, to which she responded by reaching down to stroke his groin through his pants. My heart pounded in my chest and there was a characteristic tightness in my throat as I watched. My feet were riveted to the spot. I spread some branches to see better. The two were in profile to me, and the hedge was so thick that they couldn’t see my voyeuristic pose. I then saw Maxine unzip the man quickly and kneel before him, pulling at what I then considered a prodigious, erect cock. She moistened her lips with a flick of her tongue, and planted her mouth over him, causing him to groan and flex his hips forward. As she continued, I noticed that what I’d previously considered her small mouth had expanded to an amazing extent so that she could completely engulf much of his rampant member. As she continued thrusting her head to and fro, Pierce’s pants and boxer shorts dropped to the ground, since he’d unbuckled, unbuttoned and stepped free of them. He left on his tee shirt with a TV network logo emblazoned on the back. And though I’d been jealous of him earlier, I soon became concerned about where his family was – while still becoming excitedly curious – and wondered in a clinical way if there might be more that I could see. My curiosity was soon satisfied, as Pierce brought Maxine up from her knees and began undressing her. “Gotta taste that gash, girl,” I heard him rasp crudely, as he drew her shorts and panties down her lissome legs. He then quickly removed her top, and she pulled up her bra – leaving it on – to reveal her firm B-cup breasts, topped by small pink nipples and quarter-sized aureoles. He nibbled at her tits – not nearly long enough, I thought – then sat her on an angle at the edge of the table, whereupon she spread her legs widely...directly open to me. The soles of her canvas tennis shoes partially blocked my view of the sexy tan lines that a bikini swim suit had made on some previous, sunny afternoon. But the beauty of her pussy – the first aroused one I’d ever seen – erased all other thoughts and had me entranced, as, inexplicably, the frontal lobe of my brain seemed to go numb. Her bush was black and beautiful. It was full, though not so full as to obscure the pink slit nestled in its center, with swollen, parted lips and – in retrospect – an unusually large clitoris near its top. I’d never before seen cunnilingus performed, and soon learned of the excitement its promise could cause as I heard Maxine gasp, “Ooh, God, yeah, Pierce…I want it!” Imagining myself standing in his place, I thrust my hand under the waistband of my jeans and grasped my hard prick. Pierce then placed his right foot on one of the table’s redwood benches, bent his leg at the knee, and offered his cock to Maxine’s pink open mouth. She took it with alacrity. As his buttocks flexed, I noticed several prominent zits on them…something that I knew would be repulsive to her had she known they were there. Then he leaned down and to the left and – with little ceremony – stuck his tongue in her pussy, at which she moaned and grasped his short, sandy hair with her free right hand. My right hand was busy as well, pulling at my dick, which I’d bared through the button-fly of my jeans. The two of them undulated against one another for several minutes, their ridiculous position causing me to grin to myself, partly out of nervous, voyeuristic guilt. But that giddy feeling vanished as Maxine began showing obvious joy at what they were doing. I was fascinated by her moaning and limber contortions, at the same time imagining what she might taste like. She pulled her free right leg up and over his head, pulling his mouth into her crotch with her heel on the back of his neck, until finally she erupted into muffled squeals. Her lower body pushed repeatedly against his face – his head bouncing back at me as she thrust upward – and finally stopped, trembling as she mewled to completion. My own orgasm peaked just after hers, and I sprayed my youthful seed deeply into the center of Pierce’s hedge. A few wipes with a bandana and my prick was back in my jeans as I anxiously prepared to watch some more. Pierce broke from her, pulling his cock from her gaping mouth, and I witnessed the rise and fall of her flushed chest as he quickly stepped between her splayed legs to sink his red cock into her. He took a few deep thrusts and reached for his highball glass to drain it. Then he reached for hers and – in three or four deep swallows – finished its icy amber contents to resume his mechanical plunges. From my position I couldn’t see much, but didn’t dare move. His buttocks clenched and her feet bounced on either side of his chubby waist, since she’d lifted her legs in the conventional pose that I’d later hear attributed to missionaries. And soon he grunted, “Aaagh…aaagh…aaagh,” a few times and his butt contracted as he spent himself in her. I stayed where I was, still curious. He pulled out of her and bent to pick up his shorts and pants to dress. Maxine appeared momentarily confused…disappointed, I thought…and drew her legs together, pulling down her bra to cover her tits, and grabbed for her panties and shorts. She was frowning slightly, and I detected trembling hands as she slipped into her clothing. “Want another drink?” he asked, breezily. “Umm, no thanks,” she said quietly. “I’m okay.” “Well, I’m gonna have one,” Pierce said, and turned to enter his house. That’s the last time I ever saw him. I ran back to where I’d been working. Soon Maxine returned from her adulterous sojourn. She was unusually quiet. When she left with Ken that day, it would be over four years before I’d see her again. Part 2 I was an 18-year-old freshman at the local university, and still living with my folks, when Maxine drove up to the house one afternoon. I’d heard that she and Ken had divorced several months after that day I’d watched her fuck our neighbor, who had since been divorced by his wife. As is the case with most college-age kids, my patience had worn thin with living at home, and I’d resigned myself to working so that I could maintain my own apartment. That was all still yet to come, though, on the day of Maxine’s visit. My Dad was outside, in front of the house, and my judgmental, Puritanical mother peered out to see the attractive young woman talking with him. She muttered, “What does that slut want?” Though she’d never approved of Maxine – thinking the girl’s husband, Ken, to be a prince – I’d never heard Mom refer to a woman in that way. A Woman Like Maxine Curious, I looked out of the window and my heart leapt to my throat when I saw the smiling face of Maxine…my early teen puppy love. My Dad opened the front door and called to me, saying that an old friend had dropped by. Early on, Dad, as well, had taken a shine to the succulent brunette. I sprinted down the stairs and walked toward her, in all my six feet of glory. I’d also put on about forty pounds of solid flesh since we’d last seen one another. “Sweetie!” she gushed. “God, you’ve gotten so…so big!” she murmured as she looked up at me. Dad soon realized that their conversation was over, and excused himself, inviting her to drop by anytime. “Or should I call you Philip?” she asked, absorbing me with those limpid blue eyes. “Uh, Phil’s okay,” I corrected. “Phil…Phil,” she repeated. “Phillll…,” she said once again, her eyes taking on a distant look as she exaggerated the “L” sexily by curling the tip of her pink tongue out to tease the center of her upper lip. “Let’s take a walk, Phil. We’ve got tons to talk about,” she said, once again in command of me. “Let’s go to our woods!” she said, gleefully, exhilarating me with her use of the word “our.” She was dressed in a tight, gray wool flannel skirt that hugged her delicious hips and thighs, extending below the knee as the style then dictated, and a tight, purple pullover sweater. My groin pulsed as I looked at her, and she observed my eyes resting momentarily on her breasts. Out of sight of the house, she took my hand, slung her bag over her opposite shoulder, and said, “Mmmm, I remember your hands.” She pressed the soft pads of her fingers into my palm, between the fingers, and along the prominent veins…all the way up to my forearm. “You’re a young man now, Phil. And it’s you who look nice all over!” she exclaimed. “Do you remember saying that? You devil!” “Aww, I was just a kid,” I said. “Still am, compared to you!” “That’s not so!” she said. “You were probably mature when you were five!” “Do you still bruise easily?” I asked, dying to make some reference to her body. Her face clouded, and she said, “You know, Ken and I got a divorce. He used to beat me.” I was shocked, disbelieving that such a nice guy could ever have raised a hand against this exquisite woman. I expressed my sincere sorrow, then asked, “Was it because of Pierce?” prying by this time. “That asshole!” she flared, suddenly facing me. “He promised he’d make me a producer of one of his shows!” Then, she narrowed her eyes, “How do you know about Pierce?” Refusing to admit the first-hand experience I’d had in witnessing her adultery, I said, “Mmm, just put a few things together. You were gone a lot…at the end…before you and Ken stopped coming over.” “Well, that was years ago,” she said. “Pierce divorced too, and kind of dropped out of sight. He was an incorrigible drunk!” she spat, indicating to me that the relationship had been far less than satisfactory. We sat for a while as the late afternoon light shone through the leafy canopy, and I told her of my idealistic plans: an apartment; maybe grad school; saving the world by becoming a diplomat. She told me about her TV show, a half-hour special interest series on Sunday morning that she was producing. “Then it’s New York for me…and a big network job!” she exclaimed, as naively hopeful as I, with blue eyes shining. “I really wish you luck, Maxine,” I said, looking into those eyes. She saw my look and her face changed from its dreamy expression to a plaintive, searching one. And as she’d done several years before, she leaned into me, stopping with her face an inch away from mine as her eyes panned up and down…back and forth, and kissed me tenderly. I was an old hand at French kissing by this time, so my lips parted to invite her tongue into my mouth, which was soon reciprocated by mine in hers. Her scent and sweet taste overwhelmed me and I stood, bringing her up with me – remembering my adolescent hunger – to press my erection into her upper tummy. Our breathing quickened and our hands flew to every part of one another’s body within reach in just a few moments. Her succulent breasts and soft bottom seemed to quiver at my touch. Our tongues dueled as we tried to consume each other with our mouths, until, finally, we were at a physical crossroad. “Ohhh, sweetie…Phil, I could…so easily,” she gasped, leaning her face against my chest. “But here…and now…just isn’t right. Please come and see me,” she plead, looking up at me. I agreed, silently nodding my head as I tried to even my breathing. Hand-in-hand, we walked back to the house. “Oh, I almost forgot!” she said, pulling some papers from her bag. “When I was going through some boxes, I came across your stories!” she beamed, handing them to me. “They’re excellent! Especially since you were so young then!” Extremely flattered that she’d kept them all those years, I took them and noticed her business card under the paper clip, on which she’d written her apartment address and phone number in the city. At her car she gave me a peck on the lips, grabbed my hand in both of hers, and said, “Please watch my show…and call me, okay?” I never did. The following two years flew by. Studying full-time and working left little opportunity for such a friendship. And there were local girls, much closer than San Francisco. Then I took an extended backpacking trip to Europe, as I was disenchanted with school and yearned for a broader education. On my return, I got my degree and was promptly drafted into the Army. As I remember our next meeting, it’s so vivid that I’m compelled to treat it as if it were the present. Part 3 In January, 1966, I return to California, recently shipped out of Viet Nam. Two months prior to my separation, my unit in the First Air Cav Division has been involved in an altercation with North Vietnamese regulars in the Ia Drang Valley, a picturesque little spot south of Pleiku that has claimed many lives on both sides. I’ve become a Sergeant, having refused on principle to go to OCS, and serve as a Crew Chief on an HU-21 reconnaissance helicopter. I’m profoundly shaken by the Ia Drang experience, as well as the loss of several friends during my tour, and my combined feelings of shame and horror render my self-image somewhat lacking in esteem. In San Francisco, I stay for a few nights with the sister of a G.I. buddy, whom I’d met in Georgia before shipping out and who’s moved to the West Coast to see me when I get back to the States, which is called, “The World.” And though it’s interesting to be with a Caucasian woman for a change, I find myself unable to kindle the slightest romantic desire for her. We hump away, she climaxes any number of times, yet any feeling for her is lodged only in my sex organs, light-years distant from my emotional center. Leaving her after a few days spawns few repercussions, since she’s developed a network of friends anyway. And I don’t want to see my folks for a while, since nightmares and daily depressions make me a pain to be around. Besides, I’ve saved a good bit of money from my hitch, and want to reconnoiter with my buddies as they trickle back from Saigon. After seeing them, perhaps to test whether my Army friendships are real or manufactured, I plan to sever all ties with the military – even social ones – and try to eradicate memories of it. Strangely enough, though I’ve always loved the city, I find San Francisco to be less than welcoming. Nevertheless, I move into a fleabag hotel just so I can come and go, and drink Jack Daniels when I wish. Forsaking the uniform, since I’ve been spat upon by a disapproving citizen my first day back, I put on my freshly pressed, custom-tailored suit and go out to what I hear is a nice bar. It’s called a “café,” populated chiefly by what twenty years later will be called “Yuppies.” I want to meet some nice, intelligent girls; that is, young women. I start sipping my fourth drink after pounding back the first three for a buzz, and about eight seats down the bar sit two attractive women, talking animatedly. I know immediately that one is Maxine, since she’s turned halfway toward me in beauteous profile. She looks a bit older, but not more than her actual age of slightly over 30, and I nearly choke on the growing lump in my throat. As I look at her back, I see that she’s developed a fuller body, though it is not at all fat. Her figure has blossomed and she’s never looked lovelier. She’s reached that point of sublime flowering that blesses a small woman whose hormones are screaming for her to conceive…to reproduce at a most desirable age – before her sexual peak arrives – well in advance of the sands in the hourglass adding the telltale bulges of middle age. I know that I want to speak with her…that I have to, yet my hands shake as I lift my glass to hatch some innocuous subterfuge to do it casually…accidentally. Just at the right moment, my bladder stimulates me to go to the latrine – rather, the restroom – which requires me to pass by her twice, thus making it impossible to avoid one another. Covering my glass with a napkin to save my seat at the bar, I walk past her back, which faces me. While urinating, I nearly puke from excitement. I almost cut the stream short, but finish and wash up. Combing my hair, I stray into the hallway, walking slowly toward her. She’s talking with her friend, glances at me and away, then stares back as her brain signals recognition. She stops talking, rivets me with her gaze, and begins a slow, dimpled smile. As I reach her, she inhales, her blue eyes flash, and in a tone coming from deep in her throat she says, “Hi, sweetie!” Her female companion looks at me, probably wondering who in the hell I am. Grabbing me hard by the upper arm, almost so that I can’t walk away it seems, Maxine says, “Jen, this is Philip…Phil. Phil, Jen. You still call yourself Phil, don’t you?” she asks, probing my eyes with hers. “Yeah. And you’re still Maxine, I trust,” I respond, wanting to appear cool and blasé, regardless of my nervousness. “S’cuse me a moment, ladies, gotta get my drink,” I say, touching her arm, which she raises and stretches toward me as I step away, letting my fingers trace its entire length until our hands part. Grabbing my glass, I look back and see her speaking heatedly with her friend, who’s nodding and – it appears – is preparing to depart. I return to them and lean against the bar, remembering every contrived Cary Grant pose and line that I can, intent on charming their pants off. Well, at least I want to see if I still remember how to converse with an American woman. Maxine immediately grasps my forearm and says, “Jen was just leaving, so you can have her seat, okay?” “Sure,” I say, extending my good byes to her friend and sliding onto the stool to face Maxine, whose legs are crossed to reveal smiling knees under nylons. “You look awfully good. And you never called,” she pouts, teasing me pointedly. “Sorry,” I apologize. “Had to finish school, went to Europe, then the Army got me. Just got back.” Her eyes get big and she asks, “From Viet Nam?” “Yeah, for a little while,” I say, not really wanting to talk about it. There’s a pause as she scans my eyes, and says, “I’ve gotta make a call, Phil. Will you come with me?” “Sure,” I say. We do the napkin thing with our glasses and I follow Maxine as she walks rapidly down the restroom hallway to a pay phone booth. She wears a white, pleated wool skirt and navy blazer, and my palms tingle as I remember the brief feel of her bottom at my folks’ house several years before. She opens the door to the booth and I stand there, dumbly, until she pulls me in with her. There’s no seat, yet it’s still tough to close the bi-fold door behind me. At that moment I’m hers. She throws both arms around my neck and leans her head up, pulling mine down to her sweet, hungry, martini-tinged lips. I smell the perfume she’s always worn, inhaling its bouquet like an emphysemic starved for oxygen. She moans as her tongue clings to the roof of my mouth and I lift her, planting a leg between hers, so with our combined efforts she remains off her feet, squishing against me while straddling my thigh. I feel her heat through her undergarments and skirt. Army food and conditioning has grown me to 6’2” and I weigh in at about 190, so the fit in the booth is very tight. We go at one another like ravenous wolves, sucking, licking, nipping, groping, grunting, moaning, whimpering, bruising our lips against teeth, both finally ready to consummate a relationship that began nearly a dozen years before. One of her hands strays to my groin and palms my cock as I release a loud moan and she pulls her mouth an inch away from mine to exclaim, “Ohhhhh… Gawwwd…Philll-lllip!” “It’s been a while,” I gasp, lying, as she moves her hand up and down the bulge. Well, it has been six or seven years since our last kiss. “Where are you staying?” she murmurs, her honeyed breath feeding my soul. “Hotel,” I rasp, as I go back for another kiss. “Not anymore!” she scoffs, as she eases down slowly from my arms. “You’re coming home with me, soldier! Are you hungry?” “Not right now,” I chuckle, as I elbow the door open. She looks down at my crotch, which is very prominent, and grins slyly, saying, “You’re not, huh?!” It’s a very short cab ride to Maxine‘s apartment…or seems so, since we’re locked in a breathless, grappling, searching embrace the entire time. She trembles as she unlocks the front door to her building, saying, “I’ll get the mail tomorrow.” She trots up the stairs, dragging me behind her and saying, “I’ve missed your great hands!” as she grips my fingers. Her stunning ass beckons to me, twitching its remarkable flesh under the white pleated wool of her skirt. Her extraordinary calves flex at my hungry eyes as she hops from step to step in her black heels. Then we’re inside her apartment. As her door slams shut, I finally feel safe from the critical, prying eyes of a judgmental citizenry. I also escape – for a while – the flopping noise of chopper blades, the razor’s edge of elephant grass, the flat thuh-wapp…thuh-wapp…thuh-wapp of small arms fire piercing the skin of my ship, and the dull ache I’ve carried in my gut for so long. Our clothing isn’t much of an impediment. She wears a garter belt and stockings, since pantyhose aren’t yet the thing. But who cares? We’re soon naked and pawing at one another like beasts as our seething flesh burns for that of the other. There’s no gentleness as our mouths drool and cover every part of one another’s torso until our knees weaken and we start to drift to the floor. I’m groaning…Maxine is sobbing…then mewling…and I lift her just enough for us to collapse on her sofa with me on top of her. Her legs wrap around my hips immediately as her tongue whips in my mouth, alternating with her whimpers of, “Ohhh, sweetie…baby, yessss. Lemme feel you! Gawwd…come inside me…pleeeze!” I know that if I do I’ll cum in thirty seconds. I have to take refuge behind my mind. If I don’t, I’ll erupt into a savagery that is boundless and known to – but not yet understood by – only me. That dullness in my frontal lobe stops me – the physical reaction that has prevented panic, and kept me alive in life-threatening situations for over a year – and I shake my head quickly to cover her face, neck and chest with nipping kisses. She’s thrashing under me, whining and grabbing my engorged cock to try to stuff it into her pussy, so I move down to capture a breast in my mouth. Her luscious tits have grown since I first saw them years ago, now perhaps into a C cup. She tilts back her head, closing her eyes tightly, and breathes little sounds: “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” as her splayed wet crotch bumps into my taut stomach. I suck hard on her tit, teasing its nipple inside my mouth with my tongue, and switch suddenly to the other breast, causing a scream of delight and a crescendo of passionate affirmations from deep in her throat. Her fingers grab my head, and mine go immediately to her hair, weaving themselves through the dusky thickness remembered from adolescence. Maxine’s eyes open to slits as my nails softly touch her scalp, and her frantic gasps change in timbre to a low, gentle moan, accompanied by a slowing of her pelvic thrusts at my belly. I smell her richness wafting up from her soaked pubis as I continue to comb through the black locks that I so longed to touch as a lad, and my attention once again turns to laving her hard, red nipples. “Baby…baby…baby…baby,” she murmurs as her hips continue their languorous upward pushes. We’re now very gentle, and I’m pleased that we’ve waited. She appears to be, too, yet soon her stomach muscles tighten and there’s a hint of willful urgency to her movements. And soon she’s muttering my name, “Oh, Phil…Phil…Phil…uhh, Phil…baby…I’m…I’m…I’m…uhh…uhh…Phil,” as her eyes clamp shut again and her head twists to the side. I notice that her lips are dry, so I withdraw one caressing hand from her hair, lick my thumb and forefinger, and paint her lips with my saliva. She jumps at the contact and her pelvis freezes into immobility, hard against me, and she lifts her head to glide through an orgasm, her strong neck muscles knotted. Her eyes look through me, glazed as they are, and she trembles as she peaks. The sound she makes is an unearthly, muted wail that empties her lungs as my hands move to her breasts to caress her nipples softly. As she relaxes, her head falls back to the sofa and a single tear courses down to disappear in a wisp of hair. “Ohh, Philip…you’re a genius,” she mutters. Embarrassed by her praise – so typical of me when I’ve been with Maxine – I try to appear cool and accommodating, but succeed only in sounding stupid: “The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am.” “That’s exactly what I have in mind,” she says playfully, twisting out from under me so I’m lying on my side with my cock bobbing in front of me. “C’mon, lie on your back. I wanna have a good look...and taste...of you! Mmmnn," she utters, as her small, soft hand strokes my ample prick from balls to tip, causing a sharp inhalation from me. Still stroking, she kneels on the floor in front of the sofa and, licking her lips, opens her small, bow-like mouth enough to cover the crown of my member. “Nnnn-gaaahh!” I grunt, as her wicked tongue flicks around the corona. “You’re just as I imagined you’d be, sweetie!” she says glowingly. “Now, gimme!” she demands, as her mouth stretches open to engulf half of me with one slow descending movement of her head. “Yummmm!” she says, her eyes flashing as she pulls off, then once again she takes me, deeper now, to the top of her throat. Her eyes close and I feel the muscles working above her esophagus, familiarizing themselves with my thickness. She pulls back a ways, breathing deeply while she gives my cock quick little gobbles, then pushes her lips all the way to my scrotum, announcing the arrival of my glans in her throat with a deep moan. Her pink lips stretch obscenely around my girth, and I’m fascinated by the elasticity of her entire oral cavity. It’s several years later before Linda Lovelace becomes famous by demonstrating such skill on film. The blinding pleasure I’m feeling is enhanced by a fantasy of a dozen years as I see the idyllic beauty of this raven-haired woman throat me. The blue-to-purple makeup on her eyelids – and the midnight hue of her lashes – feeds the prurient fires lain dormant in me for so long. The simmering coals of her memory are igniting as her sweet mouth coaxes my barely smoldering libidinous fuel into what I want to be a flame…then a raging conflagration. I ask myself, why has it taken so long to get here? and in so doing, I deny myself the immediate pleasure of an explosive orgasm. As has happened so many times before, I fear letting go…to inadvertently bare my dissembling soul to the lethal aims of another human being. Yet that behavior has kept me alive. I’ve kept my own personal beast under wraps, except perhaps once, as two score of my buddies who didn’t are lying dead. So, ambivalently, I retreat to being a technician – even with a woman as desirable as Maxine. A Woman Like Maxine I reach for her while she’s in mid-stroke and, without breaking from me, she understands that I want to taste her. As she straddles my head, I take a brief, close look at the cunt I’ve idealized for years and breathe hotly on its swollen wetness before taking a long, penetrating lick from her clit to her anus. She groans deeply as my tongue flicks at her tart pucker, and I vow that I’ll eat a mile of her shit to get into her ass. But first I have to drink deeply of her nectar. I open her labia with my fingers and place my mouth completely over her opening to suck her juices into my gullet. She moans continuously as I plunge deeply into her slit, squeezing her sweet inner lips with mine stretched over my front teeth. I lash out with my tongue to pierce deeply up into her sopping vagina, and am rewarded with a copious gush of fresh, salty honey. Her smell is intoxicating, and I finally probe forward to rasp at her clitoris, causing her to pull off my cock and yell happily. I continue to slip the hood on and off her nubbin, which grows to the size of a pea, engorged with her hot blood. I remember seeing its generous size from adolescence, and continue to torture it sweetly to her slobbering moans of delight, as her mouth plunges incessantly on and off my vertical member. I know that I must bring her to orgasm again – make her cum ‘til she’s weak – before I grant myself the release she’s causing my body to demand. I must, physically, show her the thanks owed her all these years that I’ve sawn away at countless different women, while clamping closed my eyes and imagining her luscious body writhing in my arms. It’s not genius, Maxine, I think to myself. It’s obsession – leavened by loneliness and stark terror – that drives me to be this way with you. “Oh, Phil,” she whimpers suddenly in the midst of her moaning.“ Again…baby…I’m…Phil…I’ve gotta…oh…ohh…ohhh…ohhhh, gawwwwd, Philll-lllip!” she screams as her hips grind down against my mouth to slip her clit to and fro in tremulous spasms against my stiffened tongue. She’s taken her mouth off me and has laid her head on my thigh, kindly yet feebly pulling on my cock to help me, but only for a moment. What a trouper she is! She rises up, still hyperventilating, and reverses her position to smother me with a deep kiss. I taste my own sweat and maleness on her stabbing tongue as she drools on my face, varnished with her slick juices, which she licks from my lips. Incredibly limber, she plants her feet on the sofa cushion and squats on my rod, taking enough of me in her tightness to strike her cervix, as she screams, “Yeeeaahhh!” Rockets flare behind my eyelids as I lose myself in the depths of her body. I’ve never felt such feminine heat – nor such welcoming moisture – as I thrust deeply and quickly up into her center. The mere idea of being inside Maxine makes me want to cum immediately. Yet now my ego…and a sudden, grasping resolve for self-control…drives me to slow down. Seemingly still in orgasm from my tonguing, her continuous high gasps – that sound like a puppy being disciplined – cease and become long, melodious moans as she spirals off of me to return, now in a languorous fashion. Her juice seems to pour from her, coating my entire groin with a slick, loving glaze as our loins become acquainted in the most primal way. Her hands leave my chest to hold my face, and she looks into my eyes from above, uttering sweet little mewls as I hurry the pace a bit. It’s as if she’s studying me from a new perspective, yet the lusty scorch of her eyes hints at the kind of love – kept from me ‘til now – that she’s been forbidden to show since I was just a pubescent lad. “I’ve wanted you…all this time…sweetie,” she says, reverting to the childlike nickname she’s used in the past. “You were…so sensitive…so innocent…I had the dirtiest…thoughts about you when you were…were a little guy,” she confesses, haltingly. “But now…oooohhh…honey, you’re so big…and it’s…nngh, so good…I’m gonna…ohhh, Phil…I’m gonna cum again, honey. Real quick. Ohhh, yeeeaaahh! Ohhh, please…look at me…when I cum…babeeee,” she whines as she drops her knees to my sides and her eyes glaze. She’s trying to keep them open while her hips grind downward at me. Her nails dig into my upper arms and chest again and her eyes begin to close rapturously, but she shakes her head to clear her vision and opens them more widely, again to stare into me. I want everything to slow down again. I want to memorialize this moment in stone, when the expansion of my body – I’m all cock now – meets the contractions of hers – she’s all cunt – and our fluids flow together, mingle, and blend into one unique, viscous dew. I want to climb into her, to draw her around me, to gambol and frolic as a child in her depths…to escape the screeching, butchering specters of death that visit me each time I sleep. I want to create an isle of safety for us, secure in her inner convolutions. For all of my cynicism, I realize that for the first time in my life I want to impregnate a woman...and I’m exhilarated that it’s this Maxine woman. We both cum at the same time, but I’m focused singularly on my climax. It seems to take hours, yet I finally feel the dam burst as the seed boils up from my balls. I hold her hips firmly against mine – my glans pressed against her cervix – growling wildly as I pump her full, and she shrieks harshly each time a fresh blast of semen splashes into her. I almost hear the cellular explosions within her uterus as my feverish imagination pictures her conceiving. She clamps on my rigid cock like a vice, her vaginal muscles working furiously, and finally collapses onto me to lock our mouths together. We breathe one supply of air, from our linked, starving lungs, and moan a harmonic duet scored at two different octaves. Finally I am spent, though I remain hard for a while, and Maxine’s cunt flutters around me in tempo with her racing heartbeat. I find it amazing that the room is cold – though it’s the month of January and she‘s not turned on the heat – yet our clinging bodies are soaked with sweat. Then we lapse into a half slumber. Maxine stirs first after many minutes, stretches out her cramped legs, and mumbles, “Jeezus Christ…Philip! You’re really something!” “C’mon, Maxine. Just doing my duty…for God and country,” I say, again ill at ease with her compliment as I use the hackneyed military phrase. “Well, I don’t know about God, but I sure do appreciate your patriotism!” she jokes. “I’ve never cum three times in a half hour before!” I guess I didn’t expect a sexual confession from this woman…the embodiment of all that is sensual to me. Yet I file away the information and remain mute, determined to use her frequency tally as a standard in any future trysts that we have. My silence causes her to stretch full length onto me, lay her cheek on my chest, and hug me, shivering as she does so. “You sweet, sweet man,” she murmurs. After too short a moment of feeling her silky skin against mine, she sits up and reaches for the phone on the table at the other end of the sofa. “Now, I really do have to make a phone call. Gimme a minute, okay?” she asks. Dialing a number, she asks for Sharon…Sharon something…I don’t remember. “Sharon? It’s Max. Listen, I’m gonna take a few days off,” she says, shifting and leaning back against the armrest and pulling one knee up so that I see her pussy drooling my semen from its appetizing pinkness. My prick jumps automatically at the sight, and she watches it pulse as she speaks. She reaches over without hesitating and lays her warm palm on it. “Yeah,” she continues, “…we’ve got four shows in the can and I’ve got tons of vacation coming. Hmm? No, an old friend that I haven’t seen in years is in town…and I wanna spend some time with him. Five days, okay? Call me only if the sky is falling. Thanks. Bye-bye.” She hangs up, looks at me and unconsciously smells her hand, asking, “Want a drink, honey?…or some pot?” “Yeah. JD if you’ve got it. Smoke’d be nice, too,” I say, looking forward to some real relaxation…with the first weed I’ve had since Nam. She leans forward and climbs up to look down at me, the nipples of her breasts caressing my chest softly, and kisses me quickly before she rises to trip into the kitchen, her sumptuous ass winking at me under two deep gluteal dimples. During her brief absence, I use her bathroom and marvel at my phenomenally good luck. I also notice a bottle of White Shoulders perfume on her vanity and pull the stopper to smell the fragrance I’ve remembered since my teens. In a moment, Maxine appears in the doorway – still naked and now bearing two drinks – looking sexily over her left shoulder at me and heading toward another room. There’s an unlit joint between her lips. “Well, are you coming?” she asks, out of the side of her mouth. “Coming where?” I ask in return. “To the bedroom, silly!” she grins, and disappears from sight. As I wander in, she’s turned down the large bed – queen size I think – the drinks, two joints and an ashtray are on a bedside stand, and Maxine’s succulent body is leaning back against a spooled wooden headboard, surrounded by several pillows. Her breasts are full and don’t sag, their pink nipples challenging gravity. The shapely leg on her far side is attractively bent up at the knee, and her right index finger rests on her smiling lower lip, close to the corner of her mouth. With her flat left hand she’s smoothing the sheet next to herself, inviting me to join her. “Bring that big, muscular body right here, soldier. You look like you’re ready for some more R&R!” We’re exhausted after about three hours of lovemaking, and both lapse into a deep sleep. Though Maxine has climaxed repeatedly, I haven’t. Part 4 It’s a moonlit night and, as a CQ designate, I’m checking the guard posts on the perimeter surrounding our fleet of Huey gunships parked in a clearing. The posts are at the edge of the jungle outside the clearing and discipline is high…only whispers into the linking radios. Everything is blackened – weapons, gold badges of rank, hands and faces – and the moon is full. The OD is Lt. Hunter, a brash 90-day wonder out of a southern college who thinks his ROTC experience renders him close to God. I tap the 19-year-old trooper on the shoulder – Petrill’s his name – who’s manning a .30 caliber machine gun in his hole, and we watch silently…the only sound being the rasp of our breathing as we inhale the stench of rotting vegetation. Though it’s about midnight, the temperature is probably near 100 degrees and I wipe trickles of sweat from my eyes with the back of my sleeve. My frontal lobe feels dull, though the hair on the back of my neck and arms sticks out electrically. The night sounds have ceased: no fluttering birds, slithering snakes, crawling insects. We have other visitors. They are near. I release the flap on the holster of my .45 and reach into my bloused pantleg for the .38 snubnose, which I keep as a backup. I stare ahead, nostrils twitching and ears straining for the slightest movement and…there it is! My eyes catch the movement of leaves, then another to the left, then yet another further to the right. I touch the kid and he regards my hand signals, three fingers and the approximate positions of the intruders. I indicate that I’ll take the one on the right. We see one more movement and I slap him on the shoulder as all hell breaks loose. The machine gun belches fire and I empty my .45 clip, reloading as I fire haplessly with my revolver and trip some Claymore switches, causing deafening explosions in the jungle facing us. The kid is good and beats the zone thoroughly as I’m shouting the position into the radio. The night is bathed white from flares and lights, and broad leaves pop around our heads from enemy small arms fire, as if they’re gathering huge, tropical raindrops. The kid stops firing and is in repose with a peaceful look on his face. He is dead. I’m now screaming at the Lieutenant to cut the lights since our ships are standing out in bold relief. I cry, “Stop! Stop! Stop!” and awaken, bathed in sweat, with Maxine clutching my soaking body. “Baby! Baby! Baby!” she’s cooing to me, mopping my face and kissing me all over. “It’s okay, sweetie, you’re here now…I’m with you…I’m here.” I sit bolt upright, shaking, and moonlight is pouring through the bedroom window. Maxine faces me, looking directly into my eyes, as her hands stroke my face. Tears cascade down her cheeks as she sniffles, then her shoulders jerk as she begins to sob. “Oh…God…what’ve they…done to you?” she gurgles between words. “Why you?” “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “Just a bad dream,” I explain, embarrassed at showing such weakness, and remembering that the dangerously incompetent Lieutenant wheeled several 105 mm howitzers around from the opposite side of the perimeter, and blew the tops off of 13 parked gunships. The friendly fire also killed two radio maintenance guys working in the dark, installing equipment for the next day’s mission. “I have ‘em all the time,” I say, reaching for my glass on the night table, which I hope to drain to rid myself of momentary guilt and self-contempt. It’s empty. She holds me as I lean back on an elbow, gluing her body to mine, and – whispering comforting woman things – kisses me a hundred times on my face, neck, shoulders and chest. When I’ve calmed, she says, “I’ll get you a drink, sweetie,” and is gone for a moment. I gulp half of it on her return, the warm, sweet whiskey soothing the tightness at the base of my skull. She’s brought a glass of water for herself. “Now,” she murmurs, “…lay back and relax, honey,” as she begins to lick my collarbone and chest, hardly missing an inch, as my heart rate increases at her lingual caresses. “You scared the shit out of me,” she murmurs, as her tongue licks in, around and below my navel, following the thin strip of hair down to my groin. I exhale deeply, for the first time in over a year it seems, as Maxine ministers to me like – I shake my head to exorcise the image – like some Saigon whore. I’m half erect. But she has other ideas. She’s kneeling between my legs and lifts my cock and balls to lick at the goo in the creases on either side of my scrotum. I shrink slightly, sensitive to the foul combined tastes that she’s savoring as she sups at my crotch. Her knowing tongue then flicks lightly at my perineum – my “taint” – and I groan loudly. She glances up to smile at the sound, her face framed so gorgeously in the moonlight by her black hair, and her dark blue eyes flash behind long, dusky lashes as she utters an “aaanghslp” and licks lavishly at my balls. She rolls each in the hot cavern of her wet mouth, and slavers up the underside of my cock slowly to take me – oh…fuuuck…yeah…take me! – into her throat again this night. “Will you cum in my mouth, darlin’?” she asks before sliding her lips down and up, then lodging me in her throat again. “Not sure I can,” I gasp, fearful that she’ll spit out the foul stuff in disgust. “Mmm-no? Okay,” she says understandingly. “Then I’ll try something else.” Slowly, and with her hand gently pumping the length of my rigid erection, she swings around with her back to me to straddle my hips while resting on her knees. Her succulent, round globes are parted and she raises her butt up enough that I can see her protruding inner lips, already wet and glistening in the moonlight. Holding my rod between her legs, she descends to envelop the crown of my dick and clenches her internal muscles a few times. Her pink anus blinks with each contraction. “Watch me, baby. Watch me fuck you…watch me love you,” she whispers, as she slides down my length until her buns rest close to my hips. I feel her cervix as she continues to work her vaginal muscles. She pushes down a bit more, groaning deeply, and I feel her internal sphincter dilate a fraction. “I don’t want to hurt you, Maxine,” I gasp in a stage whisper. “Shhh!” she utters, rather harshly. “I wanna do this, Philip!” Of course, Maxine always does what she wants, I remember from long ago, as she slowly impales herself on my prong, the head of which is now inside her womb. Her uterus is so hot inside that my glans feels nearly scalded, and she puffs many quick little breaths to aid her tender tissues in accommodating me. I lay motionless, afraid that any movement will rip her apart, and she begins a slow, stirring motion with her hips. “Aaahh, Gawwd…yeah! Yeah!” she exclaims now breathlessly, delighted in accomplishing her mission. “Now…cum for me, baby! Cum way inside me! I wanna feel your hot jizz pour into me! C’mon…c’mon…c’mon,” she whispers lewdly while screwing her hips 360 degrees in a full, flat circle. I’m totally captivated by her body. The gentle, V-shaped outline of her torso from shoulders to waist is enough to halt my breathing. And the smooth muscles below her shoulder blades invite touches from my shaky, caressing fingers, as my thumbs trace down the barely perceptible bumps of her spine, perfectly bound on either side by a taut, vertical ridge. The flare from her waist to the outside of her splayed hips, though, is the most inviting, and the two deep gluteal dimples above her buttocks are the source – in retrospect – of a lifelong fetish. Each of my thumbs press gently into these, and I feel the striations in her silky butt as she swirls her lower body around my anchoring probe. Even the smooth, pink soles of her feet make my mouth water, with her toes that curl and uncurl as she executes her equatorial move. I move one hand to the nape of her neck, first caressing it softly under the short hair, then I slide the other hand up and link my fingers softly around the whole neck, exploring the ridges of her windpipe and feeling its vibrations as she moans in her throat. I must have more of this woman. I’ve yet to scratch her surface, I think. As if in agreement, she murmurs to me some more. “Like the way I…feel, baby? Like to be…way up…inside me? Like the way…I fuck you? Hmmm?” she asks, gently and not really teasing. I get the feeling that she’s wary of my inner demons, and perhaps is trying to mollify them. Yet I growl, “Ohh…yeahh…Gawwd, yeah,” and notice her hand between her legs, its movements indicating self-stimulation. I wish I could see her doing it but don’t want to interrupt. I want her to continue, and hope that at some point she’ll want to watch me do the same to myself. “Goo-ood, honey,” she coos, her breath catching in her throat. “’Cuz I want you…to fill me up…fill me full of cum…please, Phil…cuz I’m gonna. Philip! I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna, I’m, I’m, I’m…I’m…I’m…oh, Philllip…sweetieeeee, I cu’…cummm-mmming! Unh, unh, unh, unh, unh,” she grunts, thrashing her bottom at me frantically as all I do is hold her up to keep her from rolling off of me. As she winds down I pull her back against me, still in her womb, and she undulates to and fro atop me while I pinion her little body backward against mine. We wait for several moments before moving further. When we do, she snuggles closely into the crook of my arm and, since I’m curious, I ask her where she got her lovely black hair. “Grandma was Persian. I got her hair genes. There’s some French. All the rest is Irish…including my temper,” she says. “And you’re gonna see some of that if you don’t cum in me, buster! I don’t care if you’re a stud, you’re making me feel inadequate as a woman!” she says, half frowning. She takes a deep drink of water, is silent a minute, and gets up. “Time for a bathroom break. Gimme a while, okay, baby?” She’s taking a long time, I think, as I finish my drink and the joint she and I started hours ago. The dope’s good…Mexican stuff, I assume. But I think I’ll lay off it, now that I’m back. Besides, oh, here she comes… . “Miss me?” she asks, placing a jar of Vaseline on the stand. I nod, grinning and stoned, and reach for her as she flounces on the bed. “I see you finished the ‘J.’ Lemme catch up,” she says, lights the other one, and takes a few tokes.