Holly

"Welcome home Popeye. Finally, we meet. Do I live up to your expectations?" Popeye was Holly's unoriginal appellation for me since I told her of my long ago sailor stint. Liked it better than Pops as the spry youngsters I worked with called me.

"Oh yes, yes indeed." Words not popping from my mouth quickly enough, terse speech not saying how truly astonished I was. Feeling her warm, curvaceous body fitted around me, my cock doing handstands pressing against her.

"Popeye feels like he is nearly pleased right out of his pants. Wait until we get somewhere more private before you drive that puppy into me?"

Holly's voice, a series of nots: not shrill, not pitched too low, not flung to high, not nervous, not overly excited. Her speech resonating warmth, each clearly articulated word heard with greatest acuity at the tip of my foreskin free cock than in my ears. Even if my ears had gone too long in not hearing such provocative words said so sharply and definitely.

We held our embrace, kissed amidst a throbbing mass of smiling, happy folk claiming baggage and each other. Here in the west lots of cowboy hats and boots. Even a coiled lariat and taupe saddle on the trundling baggage belt. Families fell into familiar orbits, lovers kissed, children buzzed about. A friendly and serious feminine voice barked advisories, threats from loudspeakers.

Bogie did it in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I had also struck gold. No grinning, Mexican banditos stealing my loot while I shifted around on my feet looking for safe egress, knowing in my heart of hearts I was dead and my gold was good as gone.

Holly saw me not as treasure but as a means to an end, seemed pleased with me as a tolerable terminus.

Holly was and more. Striking, lean, shapely, she was shy four or five inches of my six foot height. Cloud of brunette hair practically pitch black cut close, feathering her neck, framing her finely chiseled features. The only hesitation in her handsomely engrossing, exuberant countenance was the snub nose. Full lips dressed with bubblegum pink gloss professed acumen giving what I craved for many months. Her green eyes twinkled like distant harbor lights. Our bodies pushed together, she knew what sensations she shot into me via my various senses and how she enthralled me.

Shoulders bared in a panorama of radiant, creamy pink flesh, the pleasing effect of her navy blue trapeze dress. Chic metal hardware at the shoulders and Y-back held up the dress. A couple of tugs and the dress was history. Her spectacular breasts showed a majority of skin perched in the garment's shelf bra. The dress managed to flair in momentary bursts before grasping her figure all the more.

The surest sign of the dress's dramatic sexual tension, her torrid sexuality, a white-haired priest did a double take as did several other men giving Holly the once over with covert glances. Gold bangles, a series of them, hung on her slim arms, sparkled. Gold open-toed shoes with heels four inch high corded her bare, suntanned perfectly turned out legs. So precipitously inclined, the shoes nearly jolted me out of my loafers. Her pudendum was waxed bare; nothing between its depilation and the dress sent another jolt merrily on its way.

Holly, the winsome frock, the sin promising shoes, her forecast of fellatio skills whispered in my ear, I was set to make a spectacle of myself, risk arrest here on the baggage carousel in front of God, country, its shocked, gaping mouthed citizenry.

Outside, noonday, the sun blazed from a seamless blue American sky. I squinted. Holly, tortoise shell sunglasses now featured on her face, didn't. Hand in hand to Holly's car parked a thousand miles from the terminal or so it seemed.

In the emerald blue Saturn SUV detailed to a high gloss, the stout, pervasive citrus scent of lemons slugged me in the nostrils. Holly's parking distantly from the pedestrian stream, the added bonus of tinted windows, afforded us freedom to shout our randy natures before shoving off and steering home. Little talk, lots of busses, guttural moans and bumping. Not fucking but the next best thing.

I rather enjoyed my trousers stretch across my rusty cannon, the firm and lively contours of Holly's body under my arms, her perfumed neck sliding against my lips. The dress of such provocative design had to be enchanted. I imagined this garment stored with magical properties. The dowdiest female cloistered under its charming weave transposed to sexpot, her body sculpted to centerfold specifications soon as she stepped into it.

Unabashedly, drawing down the captivating dress, her bust popped into view. God bless those breasts. Exposed, fantastically big, florid pink, with riveting russet nipples staked in cocoa-colored fields. Breasts of such magnitude never failed to delight me. The scintillating dress, the bared breasts, the gold stilettos delighted me right off the scale.

Stowed in the rear of the vehicle next to a sealed cardboard box, squash racket and one visible Puma sneaker was my Sony laptop gotten in Frankfort. My bag with its many zippered pockets, an irascible towing handle was there too. I was home. An eager, sexy vixen was next to me. I'd soon learn if this woman with such spectacular accoutrements was my salvation or something more sinister. It was exciting, edgy. If she buried me under the geraniums, I'd die happily after getting some licks in.

Fingered her, I dipped, licked her deforested gash brushed with lilac, stretched long underutilized muscles and nearly threw my back out. Did she swoon? Damn right. Her head lolling back against the bucket seat's headrest, legs spread, beseeching me for more. Her tremulous voice reminiscent of Oliver Twist holding forth an empty bowl, pleading for porridge. Poor little Oliver got the heave ho, I too desisted, drew back my tongue. Leave her wanting more.

"You are mean."

No matter how often she said it, I loved hearing these words. Just as hearing "Give me that hot stuff", did, her legs wrapped round me as she neared orgasm.

Not holding a grudge, Holly dipped too.

Unzipped, I popped free.

Limber as a rubber bodied Romanian gymnast, swopping down, sweeping me into the haven of her mouth. Captured, a brief spell of sucking, a snack to placate my appetite. She left me wanting more too.

Ten or fifteen minutes such fondling, reluctantly separating, we regrouped. Raiding her clutch purse, Holly removed a brass Mickey Mouse key ring, tracked down the right key, and pushed it into the ignition. Starting the car, she tenderly kissed me on the cheek, looked intently at the vanity mirror attached to her visor, made minute make-up adjustments, tuned the air conditioning and fastened her seat beat. Actions watched with the greatest interest.

Anxious to lay into her, a sentiment she had from a distance most vociferously seconded time and again, I resisted goosing the accelerator, peeling rubber, plowing into pedestrians, rowing over them out like columns of corn.

South paw gripping the wheel, north paw's several fingers busy betwixt Holly's long legs. Pubes, shaved the day before, smooth as an infant's rump, index finger doing all it could to animate her clit. Her left leg bumping the center console where a tiny soccer ball, a stress ball actually, rolled around in a tray next to the gear shift. Right leg slapped the door. Amidst moderate traffic, we cruised, making small talk. I talked. Holly mumbled all the while I fingered her.

Years earlier, the first Bush president, in D.C., working out of a cubicle, a soft, tense free job as salve for surviving a fete in Monrovia where a reed thin, acne scared, grinning warlord got his kicks playing a sword across the back of my neck, I fucked Erica Johansson more than a few times. No brainless bimbo. She was a brilliant linguistic analyst, a busty blond with heart-shaped pubic patch and a quarter-sized yellow smiley face tattooed on her right breast. In the course of one fuckfest, I did something kinky. Erica said, "Axel, you are one imaginative cocksucker." At this particular moment, my fingers heartily rousing Holly, my praiseworthy mind's eye engaged; saw her naked pink body in a placid place, me registering something equally kinky. Get her to say "Axel, you are one imaginative cocksucker."

So went our transit from airport to apartment.

Thirty-three minutes later, we arrived at Holly's apartment complex; a garrison of one and two story dun colored adobe boxes loaded with exposed wood beams, black iron lattices, recessed windows and ebony doors looking like the tops of brass trimmed treasure chests.

Parking, my cock never more keyed for action, we raced to Holly's second floor apartment.

Behind Holly, my eyes feasting on Holly's rump, the perfection of her flying legs. As firemen run into harm's way we ran too. Our flight was not the least altruistic however. Her stiletto heels not slowing her. Her shoes serenaded my ears. Drumming against the hardwood floor, each heel click louder, sounding sexier as we closed on the bedroom.

Dread, a soupcon of it, clouded my sunny disposition at the closed bedroom door. Skinning knives, ritual murder and mad women using the former to carry out the later fleetingly crossed my mind. I sallied forth anyway when Holly opened the bedroom door. Dictates of my dick overruled demands of self-preservation.

Holly, showering me with an off the chart smile, kicked in the lights, showing off the large bedroom where sable curtains blacked out the windows, walls bled red. The crudest passions were savored here. Across the room in line with the door, snug between a pair of ebony colored nightstands, the king-sized bed, a cube covered in a red counterpane. Left of the bed, pushed against the wall, a pitch black chair plumed with a scarlet cushion, its back and flat arms fashioned with lewdly shaped curlicues. It was a throne later put to good use when the bed needed to cool some. More ebony, a dresser and a bureau, situated in accordance with mistress' wishes. Two doors dressed with the same recessed square panels, brass knobs and black glaze as the entry door. Access points to the bathroom and walk-in closet I assumed.

Holly to the bed in an eye blink, on knees and elbows another blink, sunglasses tossed aside, dress gathered around her waist just as snippily.

Holly furiously wriggled her ass.

"Come on. Hurry. Fuck me."

Shoes flung aside, one heel cupped in the throat of the other, blue-checked briefs inside my trousers, a pennant hanging from the side of the bed. If I had a nickel for every time my pants landed on a lampshade, haphazardly draped a bureau or knocked a cute teddy bear from a shelf.

Thirsting for Holly, thrusting into her cunt's moist mayhem, my testicles slapped home, huddled at her welcoming doorway. In, out, I went.

I marveled. My mandate was total. I conquered, possessed her wide open city and thrived in its accommodating welcome. In her container of candy, what the French call a bonbonniere, I was squeezed, pummeled and grasped. Was I on offense or defense? Under such unrelenting pressure, my cock stood its ground and sang out with the sweetest feelings.

From friction sensation boiled over.

"Baby, fuck me good and hard with that big, thick cock."

Neither big nor thick. Average but bless her for saying it with such zeal and aplomb. Secured halyard fast, we pushed at each other, met in the middle, me swollen with semen, she simmering, spilling over with juice.

"Hump the fuck out me," she said. Bold lyrics my marching orders.

Affably connected, Holly twined between aggression and acquiescence, sound and fury versus silence and stillness. I hung on; handling whatever motion or mood she came up with.

The dress, so formidable a short time ago now huddled around her waist, managing some coverage of her belly button. My hands migrated to her shapely flanks, I spanked away, watched red blossoms bloom as I jabbed my cock in. She cried out. Twisting her head, tongue between teeth, eyes aflame, she shifted back on me. Smack me harder, she commanded. I complied.

She did this one incredible thing as I fucked her. Rotating her hips, shaking her booty, softly squeezing, seriously pumping my shaft. Her cunt trembled; this whispered fluttering clobbered my cock. It had to be some kind of far eastern sexual ritual taught to a select few.

"You wicked, wicked wench. Where did you learn that trick?" I said.

She added torque, agitating me all the more.

Sweet release, the little death spoken of by Frenchies deeded us gamboling in the red silk sheets. It was a coming to write home about. Immediately, no less eagerly, surer of my ground, I took her again. I on top, the dress still was banded around her hips. Kissing, touching, her legs around my waist, the splendid come fuck me pumps nailing my back, breasts mashing my chest.

I punched in. She pinched me. After sometime, too short a sometime, I erupted. The pleasure of this second coming was no less shy setting me down in the tall cotton of sexual bliss. Holly's post coital vibes, her oath uttered in a whisper, said she shared the sentiment.

We separated. Before flopping down on the bed like a swimmer collapsing in the sand after crossing the channel in record time, Holly leaned down, licked my cock several times.

She conferred in me my former youthful self. Two fucks full of commotion Holly disabusing my middle-aged body any notion of hoary ineptitude in the sack. By sunup, I'd be non-grayed, ungainly, a dumb looking, stupidly smiling boy. If not physically so my spirit stated in such adolescent fashion.

In the messed up bed, scrambling about each other, not once did she rise up, screech an incantation, plunge a bayonet into me. No geranium planting this day.

No mercurial moods noted. No talking in tongues. No weird fussing signaling mental meltdown. No marshalling of temper or crying jags, sure signs of emotional frailty.

No worries, no drama, nothing of the outside world intruding, interfering. Our attraction no less incessant, we played and partied. An endless cycle of thrills tapped from each other's geography.

Day segued into night. We continued. Not keeping count, just doing it. Her cunt surely sore, my cock certainly so, did not matter. Not yet. Her muscled thighs reined me in. My snake, its own muscle inside her no less rigorously. We were punch drunk with lust. The bell rang, we kept banging away. Again, again, again, she managed to stiffen me into action. Stone cold dead, she'd coax me into another go; get another spot of fun from me.

Fortunately in the doing, I did not die. Finally, pausing, opening champagne Holly retrieved from the kitchen, sipping it. Eating cheese and crackers also brought in from the kitchen.

I had not yet gone the distance or seen Holly's various come fuck me pumps in action.

Eventually I'd purchase a Stetson, hand tooled boots and wear them back to wherever the outfit sent me. A colleague seeing me so dressed, deeming himself a wit, revealing its dimness calling me Cowboy or Tex.

Just before dawn, finally spent, we slept in each other's arms.

So it went for me, a man of average distinction and a matchless female named Holly. Supinely. Standing. Straddling. First to last, Holly delivered herself heart, soul, opened cunt and cock sucking mouth.

Mr. Sandburg, my forgettery is just fine. Thank you very much. At this moment it is particularly important.