Merenda

Usually when we attempt to put the kid to bed, Sachi falls asleep first, me second, and the kid last. Which doesn't do wonders for our sex life. Tonight, though, I wasn't at all tired, and I sneakily kept Sachi awake by massaging her while the kid was between us. Once the kid was asleep, I beckoned Sachi into the other room, and made love to her with a bit more intensity than usual.

I love making love with Sachi. She's gorgeous. Passionate, in her own quiet way. And she loves me. She shares none of my DS fetishes. I wish she did. I probably hooked up with a Japanese woman in the first place thinking, naively, that her cultural background might make it more likely that she's got her own DS fantasies going on, but this turned out not to be the case at all. But lucky for me -- and hopefully for her, too -- someone being into all of my fetishes is not required to sufficiently stimulate my libido, and we have a very satisfactory sex life.

Among our various differences, though, is that while she is perfectly willing to have sex with me every evening that we both manage to stay awake past the kid's bedtime, she is completely uninterested in sex in the morning, or any other time of day. Even when she doesn't have to get up for work, like on the weekends. So, when I'm not distracted with other more productive activities, I spend a chunk of most days fantasizing about a world where I was with someone who liked sex more like twice a day.

In any case, the next morning after Sachi went off to work was not a day for those aforementioned productive activities. There were songs to write and tours to book, and all that could wait. I was off to the swamp to see the woman who wasn't a tree nymph.

I got to the swamp and started down the stairs, where I had a view of the picnic table. There was no one there, and my heart sank. I was nearly at the table, when I heard a voice. "You're here!" Merenda's smiling face emerged from behind the tree. She had something in one of her hands, I noticed, but I was transfixed by her face. In contrast to her black clothing, her skin seemed even more pale, almost translucent, and her blue eyes the very definition of the notion that eyes can have a window-like quality.

We hugged, and kissed. That kiss hadn't been a dream, I thought. We're doing it again, that's proof. Then I noticed what she had in her hand, since she brought it up to her lips.

"You want some?" she asked.

It was a European-style joint, by all appearances. (That is, tobacco and hash or pot mixed together, rolled into a somewhat conical shape, with a rolled-up cardboard "filter" at the small end, and all of it a bit less than twice the length of a typical cigarette.)

"That's one of the many things I miss when I'm not in Europe," I said, truthfully. "But it's something I almost only do when I'm in Europe, despite the availability of both pot and tobacco here, too. Here I just smoke the pot straight. Same with that wonderful dark brown Danish bread. You can't find it anywhere here, so I only eat it there. But yes, I'd love some."

Merenda quoted more of my own lyrics at me, this time lines from a silly song about my affection for European-style joints.

Something I've discovered, from being on both ends of the equation, is when you know someone's music, or writing, or art or whatever, if you're into it, you naturally feel like you know the artist. Because you do, at least to some extent. But the artist doesn't know you. So you might naturally want to introduce yourself to the artist, so the knowledge of each other is mutual. Feels better that way. I imagined at the time that phenomenon might be happening now. And wow, I sure did want to know her, too, in every way possible, so I hoped powerfully that that might be going on...

Merenda lit the joint, and we started walking around the swamp together again. At the smell of the joint, the occasional other person we'd run into walking around the swamp would be more likely to smile. Or maybe it just seemed that way because I was concerned about bothering them with the tobacco smoke. Been on the west coast too long, I thought. It was refreshing that Merenda seemed to have no such concerns.

"What does an IT major do?" I asked, trying to ask a semi-intelligent question, not at all sure I had succeeded in doing so.

More or less skirting the question entirely, Merenda only said, "my favorite thing to do lately is to program little gadgets."

"When you were talking yesterday about avoiding Facebook and being more mysterious, are you concerned about government surveillance and stuff?" I asked.

"Among other things," she said, mysteriously.

We had arrived back at the picnic table, one loop around the swamp later. "Do you want to see my room?" she asked.

"I'd love to," I responded, trying to sound like I wasn't overstating the obvious.

Merenda took me by the hand. Such soft hands. I realized it was the first time I had touched them. She led me up the stairs and towards her room. She lived in one of the dorm buildings, several floors up.

"I have a single," she said, as we ascended multiple staircases.

She opened her door, took off her jacket, and hung it on a hook. It was a small, neat room. Sparsely furnished, not room for much else – a small bed with a window overlooking a green area with students walking back and forth along a sidewalk sort of thing. A desk with a chair in front of it and a laptop on it. There were a few posters on the walls, from events related to the squatters movement in Denmark, including a poster for one event that I sang at.

I sat down on the chair, thinking Merenda might sit down across from me on the bed. But as soon as I sat on the chair, she sat on my lap.

It was the first time I had really seen or felt her upper body without her jacket covering it up. She was warm, having just taken off the jacket. Seeing and feeling her actual body was much more intense than I imagined it would be, and it was pretty intense in my imaginings. The softness, the curves, the warmth, the perfect muscles.

I held her to me, nuzzled my face in her generous breasts. I put my hand under her shirt, and felt her stomach directly. After a minute, she gently pushed my hand up her body, and I reached her one of her breasts. Almost too big to contain in one of my hands, but not quite. I wrapped my hand around it and squeezed hard, and then the other. I lifted up her shirt and kissed, licked and sucked.

Her little red nipples started getting harder, and darker. Her heart rate got faster, and louder. I bit one of her nipples. Because I wanted to, and because I was curious how she'd react. It was perfect. The kind of nonverbal communication that is just exquisite. After biting one nipple, she turned a bit and offered me the other one. After biting that one, she offered me the first one again. When I bit it harder, she once again offered me the other one.

"Do I get to have something in my mouth, too?" she asked. "My shirt, your pants." With that, she knelt on the floor in front of me, unbuckled my belt, unzipped my jeans, pulled my underwear down a few inches, and put my penis in her mouth.

Now at this point in a sexual encounter, things can go in many different directions, obviously. One popular scenario would involve the two of us removing more clothing and ultimately fucking on that little bed beside us. But the way Merenda was eating me, it reminded me of a cat who had been given some catnip. She relaxed into eating me in a way that seemed to indicate real contentment. Like there was something she wanted, and she was now getting it.

I made some motions, touching her in ways that might have told her I was very ready to move on to the bed and engage in other sex acts that might be even more satisfying to her than eating me, but she just wrapped her arms around my waist and pushed my dick deeper into her mouth. I gave up on anything else, and just thought I'd let her do this until she got tired of it. But ten minutes turned to forty minutes and she showed no signs of letting up. Forty minutes turned to an hour.

"I'm going to come in your mouth if you don't stop." It had come down to that, and it seemed like a good idea to inform her.

For the first time in a very long time, she removed her mouth from my cock, drooled a little, and said, "this is my lunch."

A few minutes more and I came. She drank each spurt in rhythm – spurt, swallow, spurt, swallow, like she were consuming something that she really liked. And then she kept me in her mouth for several more minutes, until I was getting soft.

"Wow," I said, somewhat inarticulately. Merenda could tell I was about to say other nice things about her extremely impressive fellatio skills, and she cut me off.

"It's almost time for you to go." She put her shirt back on. Her nipples were still hard. I zipped up my pants.

She was right. I had to go. I still wanted to say nice things about her and what had just transpired, but I knew somehow that that wasn't the thing to do. She's hot and talented and she knows it. And it's time for me to go. And if we're going to talk, there are less mundane things to talk about.

The other thing I wanted to say was "see you tomorrow." But it seemed altogether too awkward a phrase. Far too over-confident a thing to say as a statement, and far too expectant a phrase to pose as a question.

For once I kept my mouth shut rather than saying something unnecessary. But the smile on Merenda's face told me that we weren't going to start being strangers all of a sudden now. Which was an overwhelmingly reassuring thought.

4

That afternoon in my inbox there was an email from Merenda. At least the email address included her name, so presumably it was the one Merenda I had ever met, the Dane at Reed. But the content of the email was short – just her signature line.

The subject line just said "yum." Which seemed like a heartwarmingly good sign. And it felt comforting to have her email address, somehow. Like increasing bits of evidence that she wasn't a figment of my imagination.

It was all seeming very much like a wild fantasy come true. The next day made that seem much more the case. Not only did Merenda seem to be able to read my mind, but she seemed to have certain sexual fetishes in common with me as well.

In the evening after I got the email, my family and I had a bath, as people do every evening in a Japanese household, normally. After the kid was asleep, Sachi and I scurried off and had a downright luxurious night of love-making.

Over the years, Sachi has come up with some nice ideas to keep our love life exciting. Mainly different role plays. Some more exciting to me than others, depending on how close they come in terms of orienting toward my particular fetishes. If we're not doing that, though, then sex tends to follow a predictable, and pleasant, pattern, as it did that night.

It began with her eating me, then me eating her, then me fucking her, her coming several times in the process, culminating with me coming, followed very quickly by sleep. Actually, Sachi fell asleep and woke up several times after the third orgasm, before I was done with her, and ready to let her sleep for real. I like fucking her when she's sleeping, though, so I don't mind if she becomes somewhat inattentive. (As people tend to be when they're asleep.)

Denial of pleasure is a definite fetish of mine (when it comes to denying pleasure to the other person), so my favorite role-plays with Sachi are the ones that involve her being some kind of professional who's not supposed to be enjoying the situation with me. I was wondering whether Merenda was just not wanting to fuck me on a first date, or whether she was more on the kinky side of things in that regard. The next day made me wonder about that more.

It started with a jolt. I approached the swamp, wondering as always whether she'd actually be there. Though now that I knew where she lived, and had her email address, I was a bit less worried about such an eventuality. But the regularity of the thing was very attractive. Knowing that your tree nymph will be by her tree when you arrive. But I got to the picnic table, and she wasn't there.

I tried not to panic, and just started walking around the swamp as I normally would. Several minutes into my walk, I heard a jogger approaching. It was Merenda. She smiled.

"You're back!" she said. And then, in what seemed to be a bit of an apology for her absence at the picnic table when I arrived, she said, "I was working on something."

"What were you working on?" I asked.

"A gadget," she explained, without elaborating.

We walked around the swamp once again. Merenda seemed even happier than usual, more engaged, more talkative. She shared an anecdote from one of her classes earlier that morning, and another about a band that had done a show the night before

"For most punk bands, playing music seems to be an afterthought, more just an opportunity to travel and see their friends. But this band was really good."

When a Dane says something is "really good," in American that means "fantastic," "amazing," or something along those lines. Understatement is a specialty for them and most of their neighbors in the region.

I was waiting for her to make some reference to the evening with the band, about how she wishes I could have joined her there. Not that I thought she should want to spend more time with me in a given day than we had been already spending together. But when looking for any signs that she might be interested in anything more than very regular, very convenient mid-day encounters, I could find none.

And I felt no particular desire to talk about having a date some evening, because I already knew my evenings at home were generally taken up by family time – since half of my evenings in a given year were already occupied by being away from home, touring. But I wondered what was coming. And wasn't expecting what did.

When we had done one loop around the swamp, Merenda looked at me, looked at the stairs, and with no further prompting, I followed her up them.

When we got to her room, she asked me if I wanted something to drink, and walked down the hall to the kitchen she shared with other students on that floor. I waited in her room, and noticed a handwritten piece of mail on her desk. The return address was from Denmark, and the addressee was a student at Reed, but the name was Stine Rasmussen. A very Danish name. Unlike Merenda, I thought.

She walked back in the room with a jug of water with lemon slices in it, and two glasses. I asked her if she had named herself Merenda.

"Yes," she replied. Then, as if she weren't sure how much of that story she wanted to share with me, she added, "recently. I like the name."

"Me, too," I said, not needing to know more, and sensing that that was all she wanted to say about that subject for now.

"What's the new gadget you were working on before you came to the swamp?" I asked.

Merenda smiled. "I might show it to you."

She poured two glasses of water. I sat down in the chair, took a sip, and put the glass down on her desk. She knelt in front of me and reached for my belt. "Do you mind?" she asked. The question seemed sincere, like I might really object. Which I didn't, at all.

She began to eat me again, with just as much enthusiasm and expertise as she had the day before. I relaxed into a sort of hypnotized reverie, so glad to be alive. Who needs Ecstacy, I've got this.

I did want to fuck her. But I was happy to wait until that happened in some organic way or another. I didn't feel a need to rush her if she just wanted to eat me.

But I also had those little pangs of guilt that I would tend to get in similar situations. Like perhaps I should initiate something that might end up with me eating her or fucking her or doing something to her pussy that might cause her to have an orgasm or three, as most women are wont to do on a regular basis. Additionally, I loved her lean body, her angelic face, her voluptuous breasts, and wanted to do more with all of that.

So with those three notions in mind, I posed a question. "Do you mind if I ravish your body a bit?"

She stopped moving, and then slowly withdrew my dick from her mouth. "I don't mind. But I'm not done."

She stood up. I started pulling her shirt up, and she continued removing her clothing without my help. Thankfully, I thought, since it was all pretty tight-fitting clothing that I'd have trouble removing even if I weren't all hot and bothered.

She removed two shirts, beneath which her upper body was bare. Her breasts, though fairly large, were too pert to need a bra. They bounced gloriously after she removed her undershirt. The sight was too much for just watching. I pulled her to me, buried my face between her breasts, and proceeded to kiss, lick, suck and bite just about every inch of her upper body. Paying special attention to her breasts, her stomach, and her face, especially her lips. Which seemed especially red this afternoon.

I guided her onto the bed, and began to unbutton her stovepipe jeans. This time, she didn't intervene, but allowed me to struggle with them. I unpeeled them, so they were inside-out by the time they were off of her legs. I kissed and nibbled at her bicycle-riding, Copenhagen legs, admiring them for the first time up close and unclothed.

She was breathing hard and enjoying my attention. Her nipples were hard, her stomach seemed tense, though it was hard to tell whether it was tense or just muscular. Her legs were definitely tense, though, held stiff, and covered with goose bumps. I made my way up toward the tops of her rippling thighs. It was not until then that I realized that what I had initially thought were panties was actually a chastity belt.

I like chastity belts. A lot. I've introduced them to sexual relationships before. I've never met a woman who was wearing one when I first got her undressed.

"A chastity belt!" I exclaimed, stating the obvious once again.

Merenda smiled down at me. For the first time, her smile seemed slightly pained, but I wasn't sure. Maybe it was just from holding her head up in that position, looking down at my face between her legs.

"It's the gadget I was working on."

I examined it. It was a fancy, very solid device made of a combination of metal and a leather-ish substance. It was designed in such a way that there appeared to be easy access for doing things you might need to do in the bathroom, but the vaginal entrance and clit were completely inaccessible otherwise.

I looked for how it opened, and found the buckle that needed to come undone first. It was locked. Not a padlock, but a small, three-digit combination lock.

I wondered to myself if she was planning to open it, or tell me the combination. I thought maybe she needed to be more thoroughly aroused, so she could think about that a little more clearly. Having noticed that she had very sensitive nipples, I focused on those, slowly working on them until they were rock-solid, and she was whimpering a little.

"Do you want to take off this lovely device, perhaps?" I asked.

"That's a little complicated," she said, with a slight tone of frustration in her voice.

"How so?"

"Well," she explained, "It only comes off if you know the combination."

"And what's the combination?" I asked.

"I don't know." Seeing that I was skeptical about the notion that this thing never came off, she elaborated. "I don't have it, but, well, I have a nice little group of friends here, who are kink-friendly, if you know what I mean...?" I indicated that indeed I did, and she went on. "So my girlfriend on the second floor unlocks me when I want to take a shower or something, and helps me lock it back up afterward."

"You need help locking it back up..." I wasn't clear on that part. It seemed straightforward enough to do without any assistance.