Martha and the Bard

This story is largely a personal fantasy, but it is based on a woman I knew once, who was just as described here. I often wonder what might have been...

...Then will I swear beauty herself is black
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

Shakespeare, Sonnet 132

I'll never forget the first time I met Martha.

I had never seen a woman so… so beautiful, so well-proportioned, so words-failing-me-ly amazing to look at.

I had also never seen anyone with skin that dark.

Martha was the color of fresh-brewed coffee. Not mocha, not tan, not any variation on the theme.

She was black. Totally, completely black.

It’s not a criticism. It’s a fact. I report what my eyes told me.

Now, let me be honest with you. My parents expressed a kind of tacit disapproval of blacks, and discouraged my brothers and me from hanging out with any of "them." Bringing one of "them" home was just not acceptable.

I understood my parents' objections, and abided by them, but I did not absorb them. I could accept their viewpoints without being affected by them.

Thus, while I had never dated any of the black girls in my high school, or in college for that matter, it was for lack of mutual interest, not racism (whatever that is). Similarly, it caused me no consternation when I was smitten by Martha. I put those thoughts aside, though -- it wasn't like I was ever going to date the woman, or anything.

Let me set the stage a little better, here.

I was working for a project management company. We managed large projects for major builders, shipyards, companies like that, some far from our humble office setting. I had originally intended to become a CPA and then get a law degree, maybe work for the FBI or the IRS in Washington (where I could meet lots of professional women, yowzuh!). Long story short, I took a project management seminar class. I showed a knack for Gantt charts, and ten years later, here I was.

We were a little short-handed on a downtown renovation project that promised to put many dollars into the corporate coffers. I was heading up my first really big project, and we were just about to launch when three of my team members announced they were forming their own consultancy.

HR got on it right away and brought in candidates. They screened out the least capable, and in my few spare moments I interviewed the cream of the crop.

Which is where Martha comes into the story.

She was my last interview. I took one look, and had to fight to complete the interview. She was so beautiful, I could have stared at her all day. I hate to say it, but she would have had the job regardless of qualifications.

Ah, but her qualifications…

She had attended the same school I had, and came complete with a letter of recommendation from my old economics professor. Her senior project was one with which I was very familiar.

Needless to say, she got the job.

There was much to be done, and no time for flirting, so we got busy. We worked virtually around the clock for seven months, taking minimal time for baths and meals, everyone pitching in with their best efforts, and no one worked harder than that young woman. She was tough, organized, and professional. I didn't just have the hots for her; I was truly impressed by the entire package.

We got the project finished, on-time and under-budget, the Holy Grail of corporate accomplishment. At the end-of-project celebration, I singled her out especially for her work. Everyone was impressed; she was ecstatic.

Well, life settled down after the rigors of the big project, and I was assigned a somewhat smaller job. I was promoted, and given a small team. I made sure she was part of it, more because I knew her abilities than anything else. I won’t deny the small bit of flirting that went on; we just kept it quiet, that’s all.

So it was about 8 months since she had arrived, mid October, and the weather had still not entirely cooled. She commented on it a couple of times, and we teased her a little, about why had she moved to Florida if she expected actual seasons, that sort of thing.

It was a Friday, and truly unseasonably warm and humid, even for Florida. A cold front (not to say an actual Alberta Clipper) had moved through the rest of the country, resulting in a few very early snows and lots of rough weather.

It raised hell with us. We had endured lines of storms most of the day, mostly nuisances, but they increased in fury as the day wore on. A little after 4pm, we lost power.

What was surprising was that it did not come on again within fifteen minutes or so. I was the senior staff member on site, the big bosses having bugged out early, so I made the command decision to tell everyone to head out for the weekend. We weren't that busy, and everyone likes to leave early on Friday, right?

Well, not Martha. I passed by her cube, and she was sitting still. I could see by the light from the emergency lamps that she was crying.

"Martha? What's wrong?" I asked.

She started, and then wiped her face and managed a smile. "I just don't like storms," she said in a tremulous voice.

I sat in her guest chair. "Well," I said, in as soothing a voice as I could manage, "they're a regular feature of this part of the world. The good news is, they don't tend to last long."

"Okay," she giggled, trying to suppress all-out bawling, "what's the bad news?"

I laughed. "None, really, not on a regular basis. Of course, I did hear on the radio that we may get some more pretty big boomers rolling through this evening."

She put her hand over her eyebrow, and started humming softly. "Why don't you wait a bit and go on home?" I said softly.

"I can't drive in this," she said, the tremor back in her voice. "I close my eyes when I see lightning. I can't help it." The tears started again, and she let them come.

I waited a moment while I pondered. "Listen," I said, "I can drive you home. I'm accustomed to this stuff."

She rocked back and forth a little, humming some more. It almost sounded like a moan. A sharp crack of thunder in the background only punctuated her misery. "Can you stay awhile? I hate to ask, but I don't want to be alone."

I pondered for another moment, and said, "Would you like to come home with me? I hate to sound too forward, but…" I let it hang there, unfinished.

She finally looked up and nodded weakly. "Sure, if you don't mind. I hate to be such a baby."

"You're not," I soothed. "Grab your stuff and I'll get the car. I'll pull up and meet you at the front door."

She smiled and nodded again, and I left.

A few moments later, she was in the car. I got out and locked the office door, and we proceeded to my home.

On the way, another line of hard storms began to roll through. She looked terrified. The three accidents we passed -- and especially sitting while the traffic cleared -- did nothing to help her state of mind.

We finally reached my house a half-hour later than even I would have expected. I pulled into the garage, and as the door closed behind us she seemed to relax significantly.

My place was not huge, and I’m no neat freak; but I tend to keep a fairly tidy set of surroundings. I'm also a decent cook, and I whipped up soup, salad and sandwiches in short order. We ate in companionable silence, punctuated by small talk: family, school, like that.

The storms ebbed and flowed. Once when there was a particularly bad crack of thunder, she reached across the table and grabbed my hand. She withdrew it quickly, but the effect on my soul was electric.

"I'm sorry," she said simply, looking embarrassed.

"No reason," I said. I left my hand where it was and said, "Grab on if you need to." As if on cue, another crash sounded, and she grabbed on. This time, she held on for a few moments.

Our eyes locked for a moment, and I thought to myself, oh, how nice.

We eventually enjoyed a brief respite from the violence, as the weatherman had said we would -- we had dared to turn on the TV for a few minutes -- and I suggested showers.

She reflected for a moment. “I don’t have anything to wear,” she said a tad plaintively.

I laughed. “I think I can rustle up some garments.”

We went through my armoire and found a light jogging suit, boxers and an A-shirt (“I don’t keep a stash of bras,” I quipped). She showered rather quickly, and I followed her.

We sat together on the sofa, resuming the small talk. Outside, another more feeble storm storm had begun to thrash, and I tried to keep her mind off of it. She once again took my hand as a security blanket.

And then the lights went out.

Her grip on my hand tightened. I said, "I'm going to need that for a second," as I arose and got the flashlight from its magnetic perch on the side of the fridge. I rejoined her and began to inquire about the insignificant.

The small talk was soothing to her. The couch faced away from the window, and the vertical blinds were closed; but flashes of lightning still caused her to tense, and she moved closer and closer to me.

At one point she asked, "Am I sitting too close?" She seemed genuinely torn between her comfort and mine.

By way of answer, I slipped my right arm over her shoulder, and she leaned in closer. "It's okay," I said softly,

She turned her head and whispered, "Thank you."

I turned my head, with the intention of replying, "You're welcome." Instead, when I turned, our eyes locked again; and then our lips met, and we kissed, passionately, hungrily, unashamed.

When the kissed broke, she panted, "I've wanted to do that for so long."

"And I've wanted you since the first day I met you," I gasped. She stood up, sat on my lap, and started kissing me again.

After a few moments, my free hand migrated north toward her right breast. I touched her gently, and squeezed ever so slightly. She moaned into my mouth, and then broke the kiss and stood again.

"Let's go," she said softly. I understood.

I led her into my bedroom, where we undressed one another quickly but gently. When she was completely nude, I stood and drank in her beauty. Even in the dim light filtering in, she was a vision. She saw me gazing at her and smiled.

We crawled under the sheets and began kissing yet again, letting our hands roam where they wanted. My fingers lingered over her most delicate spots; my middle finger on my right hand massaged her pussy lips, before parting them and finding her sweet button. I know she was doing things to me; I just can't remember what, so turned on was I by just being there, in that place, at that moment.

Suddenly she said, "I need you in me. Now." She pulled me over her and spread her legs to accommodate me. I’m not huge, about average, and the realization that she might compare me to black men flitted through my head unbidden; but she gasped when I entered her, and in our splendid moment of mutual orgasm, when she grabbed my face and cried out, I knew how it was for her.

I had not noticed, but while we made love the storm had broken and passed us by. I noted as much as we lay there, her head on my left shoulder, her left arm draped over my chest.

"Mmm-hmmm, baby, my fireworks still goin’ off," she murmured.

I briefly toyed with the idea of getting a towel and cleaning us both; but her breathing became steady and regular, and I allowed myself to fall into that sweet sleep with her.

The next morning I awoke with a start. Had it been a dream? I was alone in bed… but there was that wet spot. Had I had a wet dream?

Then I heard the toilet flush, and knew she was really there with me. I arose and went into the bathroom. I met her coming out, and we shared a brief peck on the lips. (Morning breath! Ugh!) I tended to my needs, and emerged to the aroma of bacon and eggs, coffee, and toast.

Over breakfast, we reverted to small talk and longing looks. Finally, I could take it no longer.

"I need to know," I said, "and I don't want to put you on the spot… but are we lovers, or was last night just…" I trailed off, unable to finish

She smiled slyly. "Ask me tomorrow morning," she said, and winked. "Oh, and by the way," she added, "let's put some towels down. I hate the wet spot." She was grinning ear-to-ear now.

My heart almost burst.

The rest of the day -- gloriously calm and blue and cool, unlike the previous day -- was spent retrieving her car, buying some grocery items, catching a movie, and whatever else it took to fill the hours before we were naked and intimate again.

Finally, around 10:00 pm, she said, "I want a bath. A soaker, not a shower."

Who could argue? I shed fabric all the way to the bathroom, where she drew a nice hot bath and put in some lovely scented oil. It wasn't mine…

"I bought this while you were at the checkout," she said, as if reading my mind. She winked, and I fell in love even harder.

Our bath together was mostly kissing and squeezing and fondling, but I had an idea. The bath oil smelled so good, I just had to try it out, on her.

We eventually finished the bath, climbed out and toweled one another off. She slipped into the bed, where she had two older towels waiting to pick up our secretions.

I put them aside. "Not yet," I said, and ran my hands over her body. I kissed her pert, smallish breasts, sucking each nipple gently; then I kissed down the length of her abdomen, ending just above her pubic thatch.

"Nobody ever ate my pussy," she said softly.

Thus encouraged, I indulged myself in her sweetness. I found her clit and flicked it with my tongue. She squirmed and writhed and gasped, squeezed my head between her thighs, and almost wrenched my head off.

When neither of us could take it any more, I broke off and slid under the covers beside her. She put her arms around my neck. "Make love to me, baby," she whispered.

I did as commanded. I rolled her over and swatted her butt a couple of times. She raised her hips, and I entered her from behind. We lasted barely three minutes before we joined one another in orgasmic bliss.

As we lay there, unentangled, the towels performing their tasks, I thought I’d never be happier.

I sat up in bed, propped against the headboard, and she put her face in the middle of my chest, her free arm roaming over me.

“I guess the Bard was right,” I said more to myself than to her.

She lifted her head. “The Bard? You mean Shakespeare?”

“Mm-hmm,” I replied. “Sonnet 132. One of my favorites, though I never really knew why.”

She scooted up beside me, sitting there bare-breasted and gorgeous, unashamed. “Tell me more,” she entreated.

So I quoted the sonnet, which I had long ago committed to memory, ending with the couplet, ‘Then will I swear beauty herself is black/
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.’

She looked into my eyes and said, “Are you being serious?”

“Never more in my life,” I replied, nervous as to her reaction.

What a nincompoop. She crawled on top of me, nose-to-nose, and sank down on my re-energized member. She kissed me fully, tenderly; then stared at me and said, “Quote me some more poetry, lover.”

I glanced at the clock. It was just past midnight.

It was tomorrow.

We locked eyes and she grinned. “Yep,” was all she said.

I think my mileage was four poems per orgasm, and that was not sustainable. (Not that night, certainly.)

We, however, turned out to be quite so. We made love and read one another poetry for the next seven months, keeping our relationship completely private, until the Memorial Day company picnic, when we announced our engagement and impending nuptials.

It’s been like that for us ever since. Oh, like every couple we argue once in awhile; but we clear it off with a new, fresh poem. We’ve gotten good at writing them, too, and we’re the best-read lovers you ever saw.

And you know what? I think even my parents are coming around.