Deep Secret Ch. 02 - EpicureanbyGlobal Carol©
Chapter 02 - Epicurean
We finished eating at a local Spanish restaurant, finishing a bottle of Rioja and then a carafe of Sangria. I try to drink cheap wine infrequently, but it just felt like the right thing to do.
Naturally we both got very drunk. Over some espressos the conversation turned to the general area of sex, but since I don't recall all the details it probably was very general. Suffice it to say we laughed a lot and I kept trying to figure out how to get her to go home with me.
By the end of dinner she had removed both her leather jacket and a light, cotton sweater. She was wearing only a gray, baggy, extra-large t-shirt and slim cut jeans. Simone excused herself to go to the ladies room and I couldn't help but follow her with my eyes.
And though it was relatively dark in the restaurant, almost every pair of eyes noticed her walk, albeit a little unsteadily, to the restrooms. At a table on the other side of the place, the waiter even stopped serving the dishes on his tray.
Her butt looked so cute and taut in those tight jeans. And with her slender shape she looked even taller than the 5'10" she'd told me she was. No one could quite understand how a young woman could be so slim and have breasts that large. Once she turned the corner, conversations recommenced and, after a moment or two, a few snide chuckles emanated, obviously Simone's figure being the butt of their jokes.
Earlier, while we'd still been relatively sober she explained some of the problems of being Simone. This restaurant-wide reaction was a perfect example of one of the things she'd mentioned. People always made comments, bumped into things, snorted, gawked, and were just plain rude, as though she were a cartoon, not a person.
I, of course, had a hard time not staring at her chest too, at least at first, but as we talked and laughed I found a warm, bright, young woman. She became more than just a pair of tits. (Did I really ever think that? Yeah, I guess I did. Shame on me!) Simone wanted to work for a few years, save enough to go to college, and maybe go into the healthcare industry. College -- and saving the money for it -- were her most important goals. She wanted to be out of college before she was 27.
It was impressive how she had such a clear-cut plan. She was now 22 and had just come from the "hick town" (her words, not mine) a few months ago where she'd grown up.
She returned from the restrooms mostly oblivious to the brief, renewed attention. As she sat down, after a quick look at her boobs, I looked at her pretty face with its high cheekbones and her beautiful blue-green eyes. Not every woman can pull off a really short haircut, but with her long, slender neck and graceful shoulders she did it flawlessly.
In fact it was so strange to look at her from her shoulders up or from her waist down and see the body of a ballet dancer or model. Then you looked at her chest and asked yourself, "Where did that come from?"
As we were getting ready to go, even though we'd already finished our meal, I gulped down the last of my wine. There was just an ounce or two in the carafe and I asked her if she wanted it. She quixotically answered me, "No, thanks, I think it's polite to leave a little. I always leave a half of one percent."
Looking at her glass I noticed that a small taste of the red was still sitting there.
Hmm, I thought: I wonder what that's about.
"So," I asked as we were leaving the restaurant arm in arm, swaying a little, laughing a lot, "did you come here often?"
She laughed at that, but I truly wasn't trying to be a wit. I was trying simply to say something pithy. Clearly that wasn't happening, but what she did say was perfect.
"In modern society," she replied firmly in a faux British accent, "a woman can come anywhere she wants to." We both broke up at her choice of words.
"... and, anytime she wants to," she added, with a smile, and after a pause, "too."
Another couple of dates over the next two or three weeks went nicely, but I felt awkward about getting hands-on with her. She was not doing it with me and I didn't want to be just another boob who only wanted a couple of playmates. It was OK for the time being. I was having a great deal of fun with her. She laughed easily at my jokes and, something kind of rare for me, she made me laugh too.
Of course, most nights after our dates I'd have such vivid images in my head (a glimpse of a bra strap, a picture of her perfect little butt, a guess as to whether it was her nipple I was making out through whatever she wore) that I had plenty -- of at least a part of her -- to keep me personally entertained through the elongating fall nights.
Eventually one Saturday we went out to a club to listen to a pianist do a solo gig. He specialized in the old standards and it was great music-making. In the audience were a few of his friends who got up and sang some numbers by Porter, Kern, Berlin, and Gershwin.
Simone wore a shiny dark red skirt with a flimsy black top that covered her well, but was cut lower than anything I'd seen her on before. It had a little bit of a V-neck that on most women would probably not show any cleavage. In Simone's case it showed a decorous, but decoratively delicious dab of décolletage. In her pearl necklace and earrings, black semi-transparent stockings and dark red heels she was a knockout. Standing, she was now taller than I; it was harder than ever to keep my eyes away from her torso.
Excusing myself to take a bathroom break I was thankful that the hard-on, which had been coming and going (poor choice of words, right?) all night, was now not at full staff.
From the small speakers in the men's room I heard another voice begin to sing a Gershwin song. It was one I didn't know well, but in typical Gershwin fashion had a little "blue note" at the end of the refrain. Unmistakable Gershwin. I returned to my table and didn't see Simone. I figured she'd probably taken a bathroom break, too, until I looked up at the pianist. I was pleasantly surprised to see he was joined by none other than my Simone singing "How Long Has This Been Going On?"
This young woman had more talent than easily meets the eye. In fact, she sounded like a professional singer. Maybe she wasn't going to be singing at Carnegie Hall any time soon, but she could certainly hold her own with most of the Broadway and cabaret singers I'd heard. It was a great combination of sex and singing, so much so that after she finished, the club broke out into such lengthy applause that she was obliged to sing an encore.
After a quick conference with the pianist, he motioned to one of his buddies in the audience, an older gentleman, probably in his late 70s or early 80s. I wondered what the two of them were up to.
A new huddle, a three-person one, and a moment later the old fellow began to do a tap dance on the little stage with no accompaniment. He was moving easily and calmly with virtually no upper body motion. His feet were setting a fast tempo with a lot of syncopation, though, and I wondered what would come next.
Suddenly the pianist hit one loud note and Simone took off singing with just the tapping for accompaniment, "I got rhy -- thm. I got mu -- sic. I got my man. Who could ask for an -- y -- thing more?"
Boom! Another piano chord and Simone continued.
The dancer and Simone kept the song moving as the pianist, little by little, snuck in to support them with more detail and a richer sound canvas. By the time they finished the bridge, the three of them were cooking up a storm. In fact, a few couples in the audience had gotten up to dance to the hectic but infectious rhythm.
By the second time they got to the bridge, Simone was tapping too, trading fours with the old tap dancer, matching him step for step and continuing to sing the tune.
The three of them were in such synchronicity that they "knew" to slow down on the final chorus and all of them sang it in three-part harmony.
Who was this amazing woman?
"That was fantastic!" I told her after several rounds of applause, bows, and one patron ordering champagne for everyone. "So, what else do you do in your spare time?"
"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," she told me, removing some tissues from her purse and dabbing with a bead of perspiration on her forehead.
I picked up my glass of champagne. "Have you ever sung professionally? Or danced, for that matter?" I asked her. "Where or when did you become so talented?"
"Ed," she said to me. "I really like being with you." Then she leaned in close and gave me a quick kiss.
I'd been hoping for some more information, but clearly she wasn't sharing any more of it at the moment.
Later in the evening the music slowly became very romantic. Simone reached for my hand and pulled my arm around her shoulders.
It was a reasonably clear sign and felt great. Her shoulder was slender, but strong. Under her top I could feel her bra's shoulder strap. For me at that moment it felt like a jolt of electricity, like I was given permission to enter Xanadu.
Suddenly I had a hard-on that just wouldn't stop. Not that many of them just stop, but this one felt like I had gone way beyond the end of my boxers and I was hoping we weren't going to have to stand up soon. It would have felt like I was in ninth grade having to walk to my next class with my hard-on I had gotten from staring at Brenda Taylor's bra through her blouse that occasionally opened between buttons. Not cool.
For a split second I flashed on Brenda, having recently seen her at our tenth high school reunion. She still looked hot that night after all those years.
Boy! Is that just like me? I'm with the most amazing woman I've ever seen in person or even in the media and I'm reminiscing about some ditzy broad from high school. "Stay focused, you idiot," I told myself. (Anyway, Simone's areolas were probably bigger than Brenda's boobs!)
The closeness of Simone, her perfume, her hair, her head on my shoulder was wonderfully exotic. The longer she stayed there the more and more I craved her and the more I wanted to reach for the hooks on her bra. Even though I've never been much of a numbers guy, I was getting awfully curious about her bra size, how many eye-hooks her bra would have, would she have matching panties, even what brand of bra it was.
OK. So I was getting focused, but it wasn't the kind of focus that was terribly helpful.
Soon, the set was over. My arm was still around Simone's shoulder and now her hand was holding mine in my lap. She had been holding her hand on top of mine there, but then she switched it over and the back of her hand was resting on my erect cock running down my pants, aiming at the inner side of my knee cap.
It didn't take her much time at all (a second, perhaps less) to realize that her knuckles were not resting on my thigh, but on my thing.
"Aha," she said as she turned to smile at me, "what have we here?" And with that she let go of my hand, turned hers over, and slowly felt my hard-on from its mid-shaft, up to its base, and then slowly and expertly down over the ridge of my head to its very end. She actually seemed to put one finger directly in front of the opening as if wanting to feel for pre-cum.
I was just thankful I'd worn black slacks so that if I had an unexpected orgasm (always a delightful surprise, but...), which her ministrations appeared to be starting, it wouldn't be noticeable. Uncomfortable afterwards? Yes. Worth it? Yes. Noticeable? At this point, ask me if I care.
"Ooh, this big dick feels like it's ready to burst," she said in my ear. "We should do something about that. I would hate it if you had an orgasm right here and I couldn't join you."
"I, I think I can make it OK back to my place," I kiddingly replied, "but only if you stop now and keep your hand off my cock."
After a second I added, "I can't believe I actually uttered those words."
"Yeah," she said, "I've had other men tell me similar things. It comes with the territory. And in my case there's a lot of territory!"
"You mean other men have come in their pants from just your fondling?"
"Ed, honey, I've seen men come just from watching me in a big old fashioned one-piece swimsuit get out of the river and dry off."
"Hmm," I grunted, thinking about that statement. It was at once extremely exciting and simultaneously made me jealous or envious or -- I didn't know what.
Bottom line for the moment, though: This was good, really good. The message was that Ed was getting something tonight. Wasn't there a Tim Allen joke about this? He says, "My wife can predict the future, you know. She can tell whether or not I'm going to get laid tonight!"
As we were getting up to leave I noticed that Simone had left a little bit of champagne in her glass. That must be her half-of-one percent, I thought to myself, I've got to find out about that.
We managed to make it back to my car without a stealth orgasm and, though she rested her hand on my thigh, she was careful not to overdo it.
My mind began to consider her sexual experience. Though we'd danced around the subject in very general and impersonal ways, we had not talked about techniques, birth control, numbers of partners, etc.
We both threw our coats on living room furniture and quickly made it to the bedroom. We stood next to my bed and kissed.
Now, I think I'm like most guys: kissing is cool. It's fun. But just making out is not nearly as much fun if you're pretty sure that's all that's going to happen. In other words, "OK, let's give kissing a shot for, say, twenty, maybe thirty seconds. Done? Good. Let me see your tits. Now let's fuck."
This kiss, though, was beyond all that. Simone's tongue caressed my lips, my tongue, and some other parts of my mouth I hadn't even known had been there. It almost made me forget anything else, even breathing. All I could do was succumb to her tongue, her lips, her mouth making love to mine. It was an absolutely new experience for me. Wow!
While she was doing that with her mouth, her hands, unbeknownst to me, were busy. In fact, by the time we'd both decided to take a break from the very sexual kiss, I was naked from my head to my ankles where my pants, underpants, socks, and shoes were sitting in a pile around and on my feet.
Her skirt was also on the floor and my hard-on was tightly clamped between her thighs and the crotch of her black panties through her black, transparent pantyhose.
How she did all of that while we'd been enjoying that kiss was very impressive. I suddenly felt that maybe she'd had more sexual experience than I had assumed -- or that I had much less experience than I should have!
Apparently she wanted me naked. I liked that idea and, as she bent down to complete the process she rubbed my groin with the top of her head. An accident? No way.
After getting me completely out of my clothes, she came up slowly kissing her way up, stopping briefly to lick the tip of my cock. Then she popped the head into her mouth, licked the underside for a brief moment, then popped me back out. Continuing the trip up my torso, she finished the little kisses at my neck, now standing up straight, still in her heels, and a couple of inches taller than I.
As her kisses continued to my ears and upper parts of my neck, my head naturally bent forward. I realized that she was also slowly rubbing my back and the backs of my arms, occasionally drifting down to my butt, grabbing a hold of it firmly, rubbing it, and then moving back up to my delts.
Another thing that occurred to me was that I was just standing there. I hadn't moved a thing. I think she had put a hex on me. I was virtually incapable of moving anything as she caressed my body.
Then I realized two more things: (1) my cock was back between her legs and her thigh muscles were somehow massaging it and (2) she hadn't even taken off anything but her skirt.
What was happening to me? I was normally the more assertive one in most relationships, at least at the beginning of the first night. At this moment, I was at her mercy.
Between the alcohol we'd had at the club, the tingling feeling it had on every inch of my body, and the aroma of her perfume mixed with some uniquely female bouquet, I just stood there as she broke from me. My eyes were still closed with my body still reeling, awash in her sensuality. After a moment or two I opened my eyes and discovered that she had shut off the lights, lit a candle on the dresser, and was lying under the sheets, apparently naked.
"Well, silly, carpe diem or perhaps it's carpe nocte. (I'm a little rusty on my Latin.) I'm so hot for you I can't stand it anymore. Look at that beautiful hard-on just sticking out there. Wouldn't you be more comfortable with that inside me? We wouldn't want that guy to catch a cold -- and it is a little cool in this room with that window open."
"How did you do that?" I asked her. "One second we were standing here, we were kissing, you were rubbing my shoulders and my butt. I loved that. Now, you're naked in my bed and I'm standing here like an idiot pointing to the nightstand."
"Oh, you're very observant," she kidded. "You should get into an accelerated MBA program!"
"Now just hold on, missy," I teased her as I got under the covers. "You've done this before, haven't you? And here I thought you were a virgin."
"Oh, I'm sorry, if you'd prefer a virgin I can call up a woman I know. She can be a virgin for a grand a night!" she said, beginning to get out of bed.
Consider my conflict: I wanted to see those boobs more than anything else in the world. I also wanted to fuck her more than anything else in the world. How can I want two conflicting things concurrently?
Ah, yes, a mind is a terrible thing to waste. In my case, with all the blood having left my brain and ensconced it all in my loins, I decided to stay just where I was and put my arms around her.
She had a condom, from where I had no idea, and while she carefully put it on me without even looking she said, "You know, I think it was W.C. Fields who said a virgin was 'young, female, and ugly.' Well, I'm neither the first nor the last of those items."
"Didn't he also say, 'It was a woman who drove me to drink, but I never got a chance to thank her'?"
She laughed. And with that chuckle, I was about to kiss her and make my move, but I was pre-empted. She got up over me, straddling my cock, and plopped herself down on me with a small wet sound, impossible to define.
God, did she feel good. Entering her pussy was truly the promised land. She took most of me in and then forced the rest, pushing my cock all the way in so that her clit must have hit my pubic bone. Between the feeling of my cock and the pressure on her clit she came with a loud moan. I was so horny I was afraid I would too and it would be over.
I tried to think about anything else in the world. I thought about the Woody Allen joke in one movie where he was in bed with a woman telling her his trick for lasting so long: he thinks about baseball and it works to take his mind off sex for the nonce. She says to him, "Yeah, I couldn't understand why you kept yelling, 'Slide, slide.'"
Once she calmed down I realized that she was moving again. She was a very good mover. She was in great shape and quite strong so she could repeatedly move up and down, just using her legs. It was wonderfully erotic just lying there letting her do all the work. I knew my orgasm was not too far off, but I still wanted to delay it.
A good idea came to me: look around the room at things. It was hard with her steady pussy movements, her kissing me and my neck and rubbing my chest.
I looked at the clock and noticed it was almost 3:00 AM. This was a late night. OK, back to the room. I panned around as best I could, realizing that I too was moaning now, even with my best efforts at preoccupation. I looked at the upholstered armchair I kept on the other side of the bedroom. I saw her blouse and skirt. But...