Diaphragmatic Decorator

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Spreading her legs wide and bending her knees back to reach around the underside of her thigh as she had earlier, she plunged her hand deep inside her generous vagina, explored, and finally announced, "Everything's fine. You can put the diaphragm inside me next time, OK?"

Next time? Next time! So there was going to be a next time!! I supposed I'd passed her entrance exam. She sure aced mine.

In fact, there were many, many "next times," though we never did exactly "date."

You see, fresh out of college, I was living with my parents at the time, and the next morning she drove me back home and pulled up into the drive. With my back turned, I was busy extracting my bicycle from the small back seat of the little Beamer and did not notice that my mother had come out onto the front porch. Instead of staying inside the car behind the wheel, the diaphragmatic decorator got out, walked up the steps, and introduced herself to my mom! There went my excuse of sleeping over at a buddy's because I'd had too much to drink.

Though she was extremely well mannered, well dressed, and all-around super-likable, those attributes did no good because my mother was ultra-conservative and immediately categorized her as a promiscuous older woman who'd seduced her only son. My mom loathed her, and invariably used the expression "that middle-aged woman" instead of her name. If I had only braved the cold and ridden my bike home that fated morning.

So, a "cougar" long before that expression was coined, she and I rarely actually went out, agreed to see other people (though I seldom did), and usually just talked and drank and fucked at her comfortable, cozy little home. Since we were both busy with hectic, unpredictable schedules, our hook-ups were almost always on the spur of the moment. That meant she did not have her diaphragm in, so we'd have to fool around for four hours until finally doing the old in-out. Not really a big problem—I loved all the foreplay that she was so damn good at—but, you know, sometimes you just don't want to wait half a day before screwing!

It occurred to me that she might not really HAVE to wait the full four hours—maybe nowhere near that—and was just finding a way to have massive foreplay and a dozen orgasms. And because she'd never make any definite plans with me for some fixed point in time—and therefore able insert the diaphragm in advance—I suspected that might be a ruse for extended foreplay, as well. But I never did challenge her. After all, I was having a great a time.

This peculiar relationship went on for the better part of a year. Again, I just smack myself for forgetting the name of a woman I knew for that long; one of these days it'll pop into my head. Though we had sex virtually every time we got together and no stated commitment, as far as I was concerned, she was not just a fuck-buddy; I genuinely enjoyed her company immensely and felt we were extremely compatible. She always seemed to be the one in control, though.

Now, about those those complications:

Sometimes when I was over there, her former, abusive boyfriend would rap on the door or window. Her place was of course a veritable fortress, so he was not getting in, and the interior shutters plus lined drapes on every window prevented him from seeing in, as well. Fearing he might slash my tires or worse, I usually biked or walked over, not a problem because her place was not far. His "visits" became less and less frequent, and it had been quite a long time since he'd made any appearance. So that, coupled with its being back to cold weather again, caused me to start driving over there.

Another complication was the issue of my mother. After that first night with the diaphragmatic decorator, I always came home to keep in good graces with my mother and not intensify her hate for her. In fact, I learned never to even bring her name up, but she would of course phone, and sometimes my mom would answer, so she knew the relationship was continuing. I tried to frame it as purely professional—the decorator was kindly furnishing me business referrals—but my mother nevertheless strongly suspected what was really going on.

As long as I lived under my parent's roof, I had to abide by the rules. Dad really didn't care, but mom ruled the roost, and he supported her just to keep the peace. There weren't many rules, but one of them was no sex in the house, and another was I had to come home and not stay out all night.

Sure, that put a major damper on my style and was a big change from the total freedom of college, but I'd recently graduated, and was pouring every dollar I made back into my start-up business, so I had to live at home for a while until I could get comfortably into the black and afford to move out on my own.

Of course, the diaphragmatic decorator knew all of this. She also knew she was not welcome at my house, and that I was keeping the sexual aspect of our thing a secret from my mother. So it became a power struggle between the two, though they met only that one time. You see, one night when I was over there at the decorator's expecting to have marathon sex as usual, after we got naked and I put her diaphragm in, she threw down the gauntlet:

"Starting now, if you want to keep on fooling around with me, you'll have to spend the night—the whole night. That's the way it's going to have to be from now on—it's me or your mother."

It was only at that moment that I realized what she really wanted was complete control over me.

The decision I made was actually one of the easiest I ever made, and the either/or nature of it made it a snap, though I WAS pissed. I never uttered a word as I re-dressed, gave her a kiss on the lips, a smack on the ass, and let myself out the front door. I punched the button in, and it locked shut behind me. Suddenly, her abusive ex-boyfriend, who, unbeknownst to me had been lurking outside, tackled me like a Dallas Cowboys linebacker.

I don't know whether he was trying to rush the door before it closed and I got in the way, or he was intentionally going for me, but the big bearded beef train knocked me down to the concrete porch hard. Then, he tried to kick me in the head—a decidedly impolite way of saying long time, no see—but before he made contact, I caught his foot, used his own inertia to twist him down, and popped up. He reached for something in his coat pocket, but I whipped out Brother Browning first.

"You move, you die," I ordered, and he froze.

Keeping the pistol pointed at him as I backed toward my car, I then shot out the front tire of his Monte Carlo parked in street so he'd have no expedient way to chase after me or escape the scene. Surely someone would hear the report and call the cops. The central police station is only three blocks away, and by the time I got to the first intersection, I saw two squad cars with sirens screaming converging at her house behind me. The men in blue would take care of her safety and probably bust her ex.

Suffice it to say, that was the end of the decorator and me. Working hard, within three years, I'd made enough money to buy my own house, where I made the rules.

With no overlapping social circles, I figured I'd never see her again, but a few years after that, I ran into her at a big Chamber of Commerce semi-formal party where I was receiving an award along with some other successful businessmen. By then in her early 40s, she was wearing a plunging v-neck top and very short miniskirt that left no doubt she still looked great as ever, with the same engaging, effervescent personality. I was polite, barely, yet she kept following me around until we were alone. It's interesting how time brings into clear focus those things we are emotionally unable to understand when in the midst of them. I'd matured a lot in those intervening years, but I was still pissed at her.

Quite tipsy and using her upper arms to squeeze her bra-less boobs together for maximum cleavage and sexual persuasion, she said, "I never got a chance to thank you for what you did that last night at my house."

"You mean inserting your diaphragm, quietly walking out on you, or taking care of the abusive ex hiding in your bushes? And what do you mean you 'never got a chance to thank me?'—you could have phoned, mailed a note, or dropped by in person. Oh, but forgive me, for any of those things might have involved my mother, so never mind. She was here tonight but already left; too bad you didn't get a chance to say 'Hi,'" I sniped.

"What I meant was that I wanted to thank you for calling the police on him," she clarified.

"Oh, darling, I didn't call the police. I saw two black-and-whites en route on the way home, so I figured you or perhaps a neighbor who heard the brouhaha did. I merely disciplined the chap and employed a fast but noisy way to puncture his car tire so he couldn't drive it to pursue me or quickly get away. But you're welcome, anyway."

"I miss you," she sniveled, switching from the seductive to the boohoo angle.

"Oh, come now, that's just the alcohol talking. You may miss the sex, but you don't miss me. You miss what you hoped I'd be or you could transform me into, someone you could control with your sexual prowess and your many other fine talents," I said, employing the backhanded-compliment technique.

"Well, you have it all figured out, don't you?" she bristled, jutting her tits and ass out, the old angry-is-sexy routine.

"Oh, heavens no, but I do have YOU figured out, and I mean that in the most favorable way. If there is gratitude to be expressed here, it is actually my thanks to you, for had you not made that me-or-your-mommy ultimatum, I would not be where I am now. Did you really think I would choose sex with you over the only way I could build my own company and secure my financial future? Of course not, it was just an ingenious way for you to appear to make the decision mine to break up when you already knew we were history. My "decision" propelled me forward into the successful business man that I am today, and for that I am eternally grateful to you," I babbled, apparently saying something yet really nothing at all.

"We sure had some terrific sex, though. For me it's both enjoyable AND a means to an end, but for you, it's just pure pleasure," she admitted in perhaps the only honest words I ever heard her utter.

"Speaking of that, there's someone I want you to meet tonight, my dear. He makes me look ordinary in the sack, has movie-star good looks, and is young—same age as me. Further, he's an executive with Hilton Hotels who frequently travels to exotic locales, and he's not gay! That's him over there wearing the tux and red cummerbund, see? Hey, Chris, over here! Come on over here!" I said, proud of myself for thinking so fast on my feet to hatch this plan.

The vast majority of women at this function were either the wives or steady girlfriends of their businessmen dates, so there were few unattached females. I knew because I was working the crowd to flush out pussy, as was Chris. At any rate, of all the women there, attached or not, the decorator was one of the best looking, and definitely the sexiest, so I knew Chris would want to meet—and fuck—her. Pausing for pleasantries with others, Chris slowly knifed his way through the crowd to us with the decorator's eyes glued to him the whole way.

When he arrived, I introduced her. "You remember the woman I was telling you about, the 'diaphragmatic decorator?' Well, here she is."

(This was the first time I ever used that moniker "diaphragmatic decorator," because, at the last moment, I decided it would be too rude, even with my sour feelings for her, to introduce her as "the woman with the diaphragm.")

"He said you were beautiful, but that's a gross understatement," the suave operator said as he gently took her hand extended for a handshake and gave it a soft, lingering kiss, instead.

(Chris and I were old friends who had always swapped information about the chicks we were seeing, and I'd told him in graphic about her, as well as the whole story about why I walked out, soon after it happened. Though that had been some years back, with an encyclopedic memory for all things sexual, he remembered what a dynamo she was in bed and so was wasting no time in going in for the kill.)

"Oh my, you are so, um, nice, yes, nice. I'm very pleased to meet you, Chris," she stammered, already melting from the heat of his charm. It was so rewarding to see someone casting a spell on her instead of the other way around.

It may seem like the story is sidewinding here, but let me share with you a little vignette about Chris which illustrates just what an extraordinary guy he was and the main reason I wanted him to meet her:

I'd known Chris since the 8th grade when he was already regularly having his willful way with almost any girl he desired. Moreover, he could get almost anyone to do almost anything. For example, when we were high school freshmen, he was put in charge of raising money for some school project. We went to different schools, but he told me to stop by his school one Saturday afternoon, saying he thought I'd enjoy the fundraiser because there'd be some real cute girls there I'd recognize and "see in a whole new way."

I bicycled all the way out there and encountered a traffic jam so bad that a cop was having to direct traffic into the school parking lot. When I threaded my way through to see what all the fuss was about: There was Chris in sunglasses and shorts sitting in a folding chair sipping on a Dr. Pepper "supervising" varsity cheerleaders in bikinis washing cars! Wow, hot-bodied dream girls in skimpy wet swim suits slathering suds!!! Chris had talked my high school's cheerleaders and his own into having a contest to see which team could wash the most cars. The deal was for the winning team to split the profits 50-50 with him, and both squads went for it.

Now, everyone agreed that the cheer girls for my school and his school were the two best-looking squads in the entire city. His school was public and mine was private, but they were nearby, situated in the most upscale suburb, and our highly competitive sports teams were intense rivals. Accordingly, our respective cheerleading squads jumped at the chance to compete directly and show up the other. Chris was charging a then-jaw-dropping $20 a car, but obviously the almost exclusively male customers were more than willing to pay top dollar to watch the scantily clad young babes boob- and booty-buff their vehicles, even though many were immaculately clean to begin with!

Chris exceeded his challenging fund-raising goal by a factor of ten on that one afternoon, and the weather wasn't even all that great. Of course, it was so ironic that he did it with a car wash, as he was too young to even drive! By the way, his school's cheerleaders won, and they used their considerable earnings to buy several sets of sexy new uniforms I got to see them in the following fall during football season. When my school played his, it was the only time I ever sat on the opponents' side for a better view—of the cheerleaders.

Through the years, he had been very helpful in steering me to the girls who didn't just tease but put out, and I'd return the favor. It was my turn, and the diaphragmatic decorator was truly an outstanding piece of ass. Sure, he'd enjoy her and appreciate the "referral," but Chris was the last person who needed any assistance in the get-the-girl department, so that was a secondary reason I wanted him to meet the decorator.

You see, like her, Chris was a manipulator, only better at it, much better, a master Machiavellian. That's the primary reason I wanted them to meet. They would soon know how incredible each other was in bed, but he would have her under complete control, jumping through hoops of fire.

She was all about controlling people, and that's exactly what she'd done to me. I didn't even realize it until she made me choose between sex with her or having a good relationship with my mother. The gall! Recall: We rarely went out or made plans. When I was there in her house, I was armed and could protect her from Bruiser. I was the wine steward. We'd have sex whenever and however she pleased (the diaphragm bit). I regarded her as my girlfriend, but for her, I was just a home entertainment fuck-buddy bodyguard for times when she didn't have anything else to do. Yes, I got out from under her control, but I was not the one who could control her then or now.

But I knew the man who could and certainly would, Chris. The party was still going strong, and in no time, he had her fetching him drinks and hors de oeuvres, massaging his feet, and tying his shoes when she put them back on. He probably had her do all sorts of other things, but I mingled mostly elsewhere.

I made sure to circle back to them before I left to check on developments, and he had certainly pulled off the piece de resistance: convincing her to hand over her panties, which he draped from his breast pocket! When people inevitably asked what that was all about, he'd turn and prompt HER to tell them!

"They're panties, my silk panties that I just took off," she'd dutifully explain.

How apropos that they were red, which matched his cummerbund—and her blushing-from-embarrassment face!

On my way out, she was bending over to pick up the napkin he'd "accidentally" dropped. Remember, she was wearing a very short mini-skirt, and the last I saw of her was that giant glorious gash glinting like glass. Plenty of other people saw, too. She liked to show some skin, but she was definitely no exhibitionist and was obviously embarrassed, yet she was doing anything he wanted.

I thought ahead to the sexual encounter they would soon be having. After she inserted her diaphragm, I'm quite sure it would be more like four minutes than four hours before Chris proceeded to pound that cavernous cunt—never mind the echo!

He'd fed the control freak a stronger dose of her own medicine, and in only a few hours made the diaphragmatic decorator his veritable slave.

With such sweet revenge, I was no longer pissed at her whatsoever.

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AnonymousAnonymousabout 15 years ago
Small World

Hello, Xxxxxxx, old friend. Chris Jxxxx. here. Great to know you're alive and well. Thanks for the flattering portrayal in your story and bringing back fond memories. You always could tell a great story. You're the one with the encyclopedic memory, but I'm up one on you this time: The decorator with the diaphragm's name was Pat Vxxxxxx.

I have but one criticism of the story, and that's that you don't do her sexual prowess justice, or maybe it just defies the written word. Pat was one of THE BEST pieces of ass I ever did. Considering that I've screwed over a thousand, that's saying something, buddy.

The last time you and I saw one another was at the Bull Shotte, same bar where you met Pat. You were anxious to get the details of my conquest of her, but it was the last night before Hilton flew me to London for a stint as GM there, so I was busy charming my way into the pants of one more American girl and couldn't talk freely.

I'd love to share those details with you and, even more, listen to some of your stories. Hard to believe it's been over 20 years now. I'm still with Hilton and am based in Hong Kong. Call me on my Satellite Phone at XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX, and, please, take into consideration the time difference. I sent you a private message (without the Xs), but cut and pasted it here because, if your inbox is as crammed as mine, you very well may miss it, in which case call my mom at the same old number and get my contact info from her. Besides, readers may enjoy the small-world phenomenon.

By the way, although I'll probably never get around to reading all 90 of your stories here, once I knew who you were from Diaphragmatic Decorator, I scanned the story titles and immediatly opened Tinkle With Melony, hoping she was the same Melony you and I knew. Sure enough, that was Melony Bxxxxx. Did you know she was the first girl I ever fucked and is my first cousin?

Look forward to hearing from you.

Chris

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