Coming of Age

Clarity finally entered my mind, corresponding with the normalcy of my heartbeat. I pushed up and stepped back, taking Mrs. Fontana's hand as she turned around.

"Now," she said dreamily. "You can put the panties on me."

I chuckled, finding the pair of silk panties. I knelt before her, and Mrs. Fontana stepped into them. Her sex was ripe and saturated with our mingled fluid, but she did not seem at all put off. Once the cool, smooth fabric was settled snugly around her hips and against her sex, I stood.

She gave me a soft, but long kiss, then slipped her lips from mine and picked up her top and skirt. I suddenly felt self-conscious with my jeans halfway down my thighs, and jerked them up.

"Walk a girl to her car?" she asked.

"Uh, sure," I said, following Mrs. Fontana to her Mercedes. She approached the driver-side door then turned and gave me an expectant look.

I frowned. "What--"

"A gentleman always opens doors for a lady."

I felt chastised. "Oh, right. Sorry," I said, reaching for the handle and pulling open the car's door. "I kind'a thought that was old-fashioned."

"It is," she agreed with that catty smile of hers. "But some old fashions should be kept new, don't you think?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I'll work on that."

She caressed my face over the frame of the window. "It's all about respect, Andy," she told me. "A good man treats a woman like a princess in public, even as he fucks her like a whore in private."

A chuckle escaped my lips. "I'll remember that."

"Oh, one more thing," she said as she got behind the wheel.

"Yeah?" I asked, leaning on the frame of her door.

Her unearthly blue eyes flashed. "Call me Dee."

I smiled. "Okay . . . Dee."

* * * *

I felt like Marc Anthony returning from Egypt the following day as I strode through the doors to work. Considering how high my nose was thrust into the air, I'm surprised I didn't trip over my own feet. The secretaries in the hub office could tell there was something going on, but I wasn't the type to brag. Mrs. Fontana -- Dee -- told me that a gentleman doesn't brag. He lets his confidence speak for itself.

Melvin, of course, was also quick to notice my improved mood, and shook his head with a knowing smile as I entered the warehouse. "I ain't gonna ask if you got some, man," he said. "'Cause I'd be really surprised if you didn't."

I grinned in response.

"You gonna see her again, stud?"

My grin faltered. "To be honest, I really don't know. I think so, but--"

"Lemme guess: she's calling the shots, right?"

I shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah."

Melvin laughed and slapped my shoulder. "That's part of the game, my man. Enjoy it while it lasts."

* * * *

At lunch, I found myself searching the crowds in the food court. It seemed there were slender, older women with short black hair everywhere, yet not a one of them was Mrs. Fontana. Back at work, I kept hearing faint echoes of my name reverberating through the warehouse, making me think someone was calling me to tell there was a woman waiting for me at package pick up.

But the workday passed without a visit from my new obsession. Dejection rose in my heart once again as I trundled toward the bus stop, but I wasn't angry. Just disappointed.

City buses always have a certain smell, the stink of dirty bodies mixed with diesel fumes and mold. The closer the Swinger came to being finished, the more exaggerated the smell was each time I set foot on a bus. I still had at least a good six weeks, I figured, before the Swinger would be finished. Six weeks of enduring that stench five out of every seven days.

It was going to be a long summer.

* * * *

The box lay out of sight near the front door of the house, behind the low hedge my mother cultivated. It was a plain box, having obviously been used to hold something else at some point. The shipping labels had been blackened out with marker, and a piece of plain white paper was taped to the top. "For Andy."

Inside, I set the box on the table and cut through the tape sealing it with a knife from the cutlery drawer. Within was a hand-written note settled atop something wrapped in tissue paper.

"My Dear Andy,

I'll be around at eight o'clock to pick you up. Shower, shave, and otherwise make yourself presentable. I want to see how well you clean up. Make sure you wear both items I've included in the box.

P.S. You won't be coming home tonight, so be sure to pack whatever you need for tomorrow.

Dee."

My heart was pounding by the time I finished reading the note. I couldn't help but wonder what delicious variations my mature lover would be introducing me to this night. I had already masturbated that morning, remembering the evening before. Going out to the garage, I swore I could have smelled the lingering traces of our coupling. Mrs. Fontana's sexuality was a very palpable thing, present even when the woman herself was not.

My excitement over the carnal enjoyment I was sure to experience became tempered as I took out the other items in the box. Wrapped in tissue was a pair of silk boxers in the darkest red I had ever seen. Not exactly intimidating, but they were not what made me hesitate.

It was the thick, purple plastic ring with some kind of small, oval device attached to it. I didn't have to be a genius to figure out where it went. I'd heard of cock rings before, but had never actually seen one. There was another note beneath the device: "The bullet goes underneath, cowboy."

I figured the polished metal object in a little plastic sheath was the "bullet." Holding it up, I had to wonder if my penis would fit through the opening, which was only about two inches across. But the ring was somewhat stretchy, though not much.

"Jeez. What am I getting myself into?"

* * * *

I showered, shaved, applied fresh deodorant. Standing naked before the mirror in the small bathroom across the hall from my room, I felt more than a touch self-conscious as I considered the cock ring. I wondered what the "bullet" was for. Weight? Was it supposed to make my dick stick straight out, instead of curving up, or something? Not to brag, but it would take more than a few pounds to do that, and the little silver bullet didn't weigh more than an ounce.

My curiosity bade me pushed against the protruding part of the bullet. I nearly dropped thing out of startlement when the whole thing started vibrating. It took only a millisecond to understand.

Cool.

Pressing the bullet again turned it off, and I lowered the ring toward my crotch. The first few tries to get my dick through the aperture were almost painful. Then I took a moment to think and applied some of the hand lotion on the sink. Working it into my cock was like masturbating, and it didn't take much for my dick to start its journey toward full raging thickness. I didn't want that.

About a minute of thinking about old, naked, unwashed nuns killed Andy Jr's rise to power, and I set about, as clinically as I could, to fitting the silicone ring. With my penis soft and slippery, I had to work the ring back and forth to push the head through, then the spongy tissue of the shaft. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but once I got a few inches through the ring, I was able to push the ring all the way to the base and position the bullet correctly. Just for experimentation's sake, I turned the little vibrator on.

Wow. Um . . . damn, that's different. But good different.

My cock responded to the stimulation by thickening and angling up. The pressure of the cock ring increased as I hardened, but it wasn't exactly painful. Maybe a little uncomfortable, but the vibration felt strangely sexy against the base of my dick and my balls.

Penis leading the way, I returned to my room and eyed the articles I had placed on my bed. I only one set of "good" clothing, consisting of black slacks made to resembled silk and a matching blazer. I had only worn it once, and that had been to my Uncle Jeff's wedding the year before. I hoped it still fit across the shoulders; at the time, I had only been working at the department store for a couple of months, and did not enjoy the broad shoulders and trim waist I sported now.

To my consternation, the silk boxers felt deliciously caressing, like the tongue of a nymph, against my erection. Between them and the cock ring, I was sure to have an erection all night. Anxiety mounted as I pulled on the slacks, then the only good dress shirt I owned. Serendipitously enough, it was dark purple as well, as if made to match my genital decoration.

The socks and shoes were a little difficult to don, considering the obstacle of reaching past my swollen erection. But I managed, and finally slipped on the blazer. Though a bit more snug across the shoulders than I remembered, it nevertheless fit. Looking at myself in the mirror, I decided against wearing one of my three ties. None of them matched, anyway.

I stared at my reflection, then checked the time. 7:49 pm. I smiled at myself.

Go get her, tiger.

* * * *

Mrs. Fontana arrived right on time, just as the sun was setting. Her punctuality was no surprise. I was fairly certain she would always be wherever she wanted to be, when she wanted to be there, regardless of obstacles.

She did not call me, or honk her horn. She did not need to, since I was watching the street through the lacy curtains of the front family room window. The moment her headlights blared as she turned into the driveway, I was taking out my keys and reaching for the door. I had left a note for my mother explaining that I was staying over at a friend's house, without naming the friend. As the good son I always wanted to be, I had fixed Mom a plate for breakfast, shrouded in plastic wrap, in the fridge. All she had to do was pop it in the microwave for two minutes.

I headed out toward the Mercedes after locking the door. Beyond the headlights, I could just make out Mrs. Fontana's catty face. I was unsure as to whether she was impressed or not. For my part, I was self-conscious about the very obvious bulge my groin made against the slacks.

The passenger door popped open as I approached, and I slid into the leather-clad seat after tossing my duffel in the back. My eyes wandered over Mrs. Fontana with appraisal; she wore a shimmering, charcoal-grey silk gown that revealed just enough of her well-toned legs.

"My, you do clean up nicely," she commented, reaching across the seat divider to grope my swollen erection. She smiled. "And you followed my instructions."

"Wasn't easy, putting that thing on," I told her.

Her eyes flashed as she cast me a smile. "It'll be worth it, baby. I promise."

I looked her over. I don't doubt it.

"Tonight is my treat, Andy," she said as she navigated the streets of the city. "But I want you to be in charge of things." She handed me a glossy black credit card.

I gingerly accepted the thing, turning it over in my hands. "Why?"

"Because a man needs to be financially responsible, at least as far as appearances are concerned. Whatever we do, wherever we go, you're paying."

I frowned. "With your money?"

She smiled at me again. "Not tonight, it's not."

"Um . . . is there a limit?"

Mrs. Fontana snorted with laughter. "Not with a black card," she said. She shot me a meaningful look. "You could buy a nice-sized Pacific island with that thing."

I slipped the card inside my jacket. "I hope we don't meet any real estate agents, then."

Her response was a breathy laugh as she drove toward downtown.

* * * *

The place was definitely out of my league. I had heard of Buchanan's Steakhouse, and knew enough to understand I couldn't afford anything on the menu. The ritzy establishment occupied most of the ground floor of the St. Peter hotel and was known as the place to be for politicians, local celebrities, and anyone else looking to bask in the glow of the radiance of the elite.

I knew I was woefully underdressed for the restaurant even before the car stopped in the valet's circle. Even the red-vested employees of the hotel looked better dressed than I. Mrs. Fontana stepped out, compelling me to do the same, and handed off the keys before stepping around to take my arm.

"Shall we?" she asked.

I shuddered nervously beside her. "I've never been in a place like this," I said.

"Then you had better pay attention."

Right. I took the lead, as I figured Mrs. Fontana wanted me to, and approached the broad glass doors of the restaurant. Just looking through to the lobby beyond stirred the butterflies in my gut. A suited man opened the door for us as we approached, and I thankfully had the presence of mind to allow my lover to step through first. She gave me a little knowing smile that told me I was off on the right foot.

"Good evening sir, madame," intoned the well-fed man standing beside a podium. There was an attractive girl about my age in a slinky black dress who gave me an appraising once-over as she stood behind the podium, but she said nothing.

"Good evening," I responded after a pregnant pause.

"Table for two, I presume?"

You see anyone else? "Uh, yeah."

Mrs. Fontana squeezed my arm briefly, as if signaling that I had done something wrong. But her expression wasn't telling. I felt a little perturbed on the way to the table. The man in the suit escorted us past several secluded booths while the comely young hostess followed with menus. The tables, I noticed, were set with crisp white linens and cloth napkins folded in the shape of swans. There were candles everywhere, casting some spicy-sweet fragrance in the air and making everything seem moody and dramatic.

Arriving at an unoccupied table bordered on three sides with real wood paneling, the man in the tuxedo took away two of the four wine glasses and place settings, standing back while the hostess set the menus on the table. He then passed off the plates and glasses to the silent girl and indicated for Mrs. Fontana and I to sit.

"Chef Michael highly recommends the poached salmon almondine," he said once we had taken our seats. "It pairs exceptionally well with the Siegrist Sonnenberg Riesling."

I had no clue as to what he just said, so I merely nodded and thanked him.

"You will be served by Giorgio, Rudi, and Paul this evening. Enjoy your meal."

The moment he left, I leaned across the table. "What did I do wrong?"

Mrs. Fontana looked amused. "Enunciation, Andy," she said. "You need to learn to speak more succinctly."

I frowned. "Like, how?"

"Try saying 'yes' instead of 'yeah.' Pretend you're James Bond or something."

My frown remained. "I don't have to do the accent, do I?"

She chuckled softly under her breath. "No, you don't have to do the accent."

A man about halfway between mine and my lover's age approached the table, clad in a white jacket over white shirt, shimmering black tie, and a long apron that nearly brushed the floor. He looked very professional. "Welcome to Buchanan's," he said in introduction. "I am your server, Giorgio.

"Good evening," I said carefully, making an effort to sit up straight.

"The Maitre'D mentioned our features this evening, I'm sure," he continued. "I must say the poached salmon almondine is perfection. It is a generous portion of fresh-caught poached wild salmon, stuffed with our unique mixture of almond foie gras. For an appetizer, I would suggest the jumbo shrimp ceviche, made with Tres Generacions silver tequila and the freshest ingredients."

I blinked. I was in way over my head. I'd be happy with just a cheeseburger and fries, the bigger and greasier the better--

"I think we would like a minute, Giorgio," Mrs. Fontana said, saving me from certain embarrassment.

He nodded and took a single step back, joining two younger men clad in dark red coats. "Signal when you are ready. I will be available," he said, then departed with the other two in tow.

"Feeling overwhelmed?"

"Maybe just a freakin' little," I huffed. "Why did you bring me here? Everyone's looking at me like I'm wearing a Wal-Mart suit."

She half smiled. "Well, it's obviously not Armani. As for why I brought you here . . . I need to see what I'm working with. There are only two months left until the end of summer."

"What does that have to do with anything? What, am I like a pet project or something?"

"Andy," she said in a soft but firm tone. "I can teach you a lot of things, if you're willing to learn. But not all of it is about how to fuck."

Confusion would be too weak a word to describe what I felt. ". . . why?"

Mrs. Fontana shrugged. "Why not? You're getting a degree in history, right? What's more historical than learning the rules of etiquette?"

I had to nod in agreement with her logic. "Okay. Makes sense. I guess I'm just . . . well, you said it. Overwhelmed."

She settled her elbows on the table and made a table out of her fingers for her chin to rest upon. The candle flame was reflected in her pale blue eyes. "By the end of the summer, you won't be."

* * * *

My lover patiently and efficiently explained the menu to me, educating me on just what terms like Riesling, ceviche, and foie gras meant. I grimaced at the explanation of the latter. Why would anyone want to stuff salmon with goose liver?

After some brief coaching, I raised a single finger in the air, which Mrs. Fontana assured me would summon the waiter. After about twenty seconds, he appeared as if he had been beamed down from the Enterprise. I ordered a bottle of the Riesling and, following my lover's suggestion, an appetizer of bacon-wrapped zuccini medallions. Mrs. Fontana told me I was to do all the ordering.

She explained everything about fine dining as we went along, preparing me for every stage of the meal. From the French onion soup to our entrees -- I ordered a New York strip, which I was strongly urged to have cooked medium rare -- I was educated in the steps and nuances of upper echelon etiquette. Though I faltered a little, Mrs. Fontana was quick to save me, jumping in when necessary.

I have to admit, everything was damn good. The wine took a little getting used to, since the only wine I'd enjoyed previously had been cheap sparkling wine at my uncle's wedding. My steak was so tender I didn't even need a knife to cut into it. The blood oozing from within made me hesitant, but not wanting to risk my lover's disapproval, I dug in.

"I trust everything was near perfection, sir?" Giorgio asked once his assistants had cleared everything away.

"Complete perfection," I said, remembering Mrs. Fontana's instructions.

"Coffee, honey?" my lover asked, punctuating her query with a meaningful stare.

"Uh, sure," I agreed.

"Our cappuccino is unsurpassed through the city, sir," Giorgio bragged.

"Sounds good to me."

As Giorgio left the table, Mrs. Fontana gave me a funny look as she reclined in her seat. I felt her right foot questing up the inside of my thigh. "You catch on quickly, Andy," she praised.

I smiled and shrugged. "I want to do good."

Her eyes smoldered. "Oh, you're doing very good," she assured me.

* * * *

I was a little surprised when the check came. Delivered in a polished black binder a little larger than a standard paperback, my eyes bulged upon seeing the price for our meal.

"Holy shit!"

"Andy!"

I bit my lip at Mrs. Fontana's chiding bite, but nevertheless pointed at the check. "You see how much this is? It's, like, more than half my paycheck!"

"Andy," she said sternly, eyes glaring. "It doesn't matter, remember?"

I swallowed back any further words and just nodded, taking the black credit card from my jacket. I set it in the binder, which Mrs. Fontana said I should set at the outer corner of my side of the table. Giorgio was quick to swoop out of nowhere and snatch up the binder.