My First Crush

Author's Note: Gretel Fox lures Casper Waverly into firing Kurt Merchant from BizMart, a Baltimore firm that brokers business mergers and acquisitions. To receive his severance pay, Kurt must undergo psychological counseling with the company's psychiatrist, Lila Krafft, who has lost her license for unscrupulous practices. Dr. Krafft hypnotizes Kurt to pump him for information about his sexual addictions. Kurt confesses his first crush was an older woman named Greta—honing his affinity for similar names, such as Gretel. Cleared of Kurt's pauses and repetitions and Dr. Krafft's occasional prompting, the following is a transcript of Kurt's narrative.

*

My first crush called nasty secrets "dirty laundry," a well-worn phrase, but I considered the words hers, because her lips sanctified everything she said. So, I'll bow to her, again, by using her expression to name our bizarre affair, which I've never discussed before.

I met this femme fatale in Mrs. Johnson's bedroom. Mrs. Johnson lived on the corner of our block and threw parties all the time, mostly for other women: bridal showers, baby showers, and girls' nights out... whatever. Mom hosted a few parties, too. So, when Mrs. Johnson invited Mom, she always let me tag along.

As a kid, I'd sneak into the guest bedroom, where all the women put their pocketbooks on the floor and coats on the bed, and burrow under the coats, especially on chilly nights, and cuddle up against the furs, which preserved my body heat.

Sometimes I saw a beautiful blonde woman with green eyes in the bedroom. She always wore a shiny black dress and long leather gloves, which made me feel queasy. My intense emotions engraved her image in my memory forever.

Her perfume smelled like marshmallows mixed with lavender. I can't describe the exact smell, but I'll never forget it.

She became my model of femininity, the ultimate temptress. She told me not to tell anyone I saw her in the bedroom. She'd give me a firm hug to make sure I observed her code of silence. I felt warm and snug in her arms.

As I got older, I felt tingly when I rubbed against coats that had rubbed against women, a carom shot at contact with female flesh. Sometimes I'd imagine rubbing against the green-eyed blonde, a pre-pubertal desire to feel her warmth and softness without any sexual overtones, and I'd get hyperactive.

Mom sensed how my changing body altered my purpose in visiting the bedroom. She told me to stop frolicking in that cozy nest.

I kept going to the parties but stayed out of the bedroom until I was thirteen. Mrs. Johnson invited Mom and me to another social, and I couldn't resist creeping into my den for old times' sake. Not to crawl under the coats, but just to revisit the scene of my happy memories.

OK, I'm in the room now. It's dark. My eyes adjust slowly. My green-eyed blonde idol, wrapped tightly in her shiny black dress, stands with something in her hand. She's wearing gloves. She winks at me! She puts her fingers to her lips to tell me to be quiet and comes up to me.

I inhale the familiar marshmallow and lavender perfume in deep gulps of air. She hugs me. The slick feel of her dress and softness of her skin give me chill bumps. She makes me feel dizzy. I yearn to nestle against her. A puzzling sensation overcomes me, almost like I'm getting sick.

Before I head for the door, I whisper, Thank you. She whispers, Not a word. I walk into the normal lighting of the living room, which now seems extremely bright.

I eavesdrop on conversations to learn more about her. Name: Greta Hipps—Mrs. Hipps, to me. As I get older, I realize she gave me weird feelings because she sexually aroused me. Mrs. Hipps transforms into the most desirable woman on earth when the hormones of my budding puberty bombard me.

Getting her alone in that bedroom becomes my passionate goal. I pursue my quest for years. Each failure makes me desire her more.

Now I'm eighteen. No more high school. I've quit my summer job to prepare for college. I go to Mrs. Johnson's last party before fall classes start, and resume my desperate search for Mrs. Hipps. This time I find her, standing by the dresser in the guest bedroom.

Mrs. Hipps wears her blonde hair short, in bangs, with a hairline of inverted curls circling her head in beautiful symmetry—a welcome relief from the big hair of the '80s. Her surname describes her most beautiful asset, besides her ass. She's holding an object that glistens against her black gloves, just like before.

She gestures to stay quiet and come to her. When she takes me in her arms, I get an instant erection, and the marshmallow-lavender smell of her perfume piques my desire to sink deeper into her arms. She hugs me tighter. I try to avert my groin because I don't want to embarrass her, or myself.

She takes my butt in her hands, even though she's holding a necklace, and pulls my body against hers. My crotch slides smoothly along her dress, another slick, black number. She's a splendid paradox, an exhibitionist who flaunts her incredible body while she's fully clothed. My erection doesn't offend her. Her laugh ripples with reassurance, but her eyes smolder.

Despite her encouragement, I'm too nervous to breathe. My hands cup her ass. My fingertips follow the curves of her posterior, down to its juncture with her thighs, fanning out and tracing her hips back to her waistline.

The touch of her cool, slick dress and the soft flesh underneath make me delirious. The glimmer of her dress outlines her body and highlights her breasts and hips. I wish to sink into her softness and submerge myself completely into her.

My face descends into her bosom: compact, perfectly shaped breasts suggesting condensed, efficient power—contrasting with the open, inviting voluptuous of her hips and ass.

She says, Kurt, do you want to kiss me? And I say, Yes, Mrs. Hipps. And she says, You may call me Greta. Her name fascinates me. The "g-r" sounds aggressive, like "grip" or "grab." And "eta" floats like a whisper. I love her softness. Her smell. Her sleek dress, like the frosting on a cake. She personifies sophistication.

I'm taller than she is, but her face overwhelms my senses when she leans up and tilts my head down. She presses her small mouth against mine. The fullness and plumpness of her lips surprise me in such a tight mouth.

Her lips overpower mine, dance lightly, tease, soften for me to kiss back, and then caress me again. Her tongue darts into my mouth. My mind is spinning with no equilibrium, unable to focus on anyone or anything but Greta.

When I open my eyes, Greta holds my face in her leather-clad hands. So sensual! So exciting to surrender to her grip. Gentle but controlling. She says we have to leave now. She tells me to bide my time elsewhere, away from my house. And to come to her house in thirty minutes.

I notice an object in my pocket. She says to ignore it but bring it to her house. She inspects my face and rubs away stray lipstick with her gloved finger. Then she leaves.

A few minutes later I excuse myself to take a walk. Mom knows I'm up to no good. She watches from the front window when I leave.

Greta's gone. No, I can't call her Greta. She's Mrs. Hipps. An authority figure. She's the beautiful lady, and I'm the mischievous kid nosing around where he doesn't belong. Even if she teases me, I must do what she says. She's so gorgeous I ache to obey her.

Never mind that I'll soon be a college freshman, not a thirteen-year-old, wrestling with puberty, and certainly not a bedazzled preschooler, totally awe-struck by this blonde bombshell. Forget that she steals jewelry from her friends.

That first encounter makes her eternally superior to me, while I remain inferior to her. I walk toward the park, away from her house. It's hard to kill time when I'm waiting to see Mrs. Hipps again! I stroll aimlessly among the benches by the pathways.

When I get to her house, she's wearing a filmy, black nightgown. She says her husband is out of town on a business trip and leads me to her bedroom, where the lights are turned down low. She tosses her nightgown aside.

She's wearing a shiny garterbelt made of black latex with matching bra. Her thong panties and stockings are also black. She says she's glad I like her gloves, and she puts them on. I crave Mrs. Hipps more than anyone else in the world.

Standing there in her garterbelt, bra, and stockings—my ideal in alluring outfits—Mrs. Hipps glorifies her feet with high heels. Her shimmering, long leather gloves solidify her seductive, authoritative, and vaguely sinister style.

She props pillows against the headboard, climbs on the bed, and leans back against the pillows, sitting upright. Lighting a cigarette, she looks decadent, ready to corrupt me. I crave the fusion of our bodies and the submersion of my will into hers. She tells me to take the diamond necklace out of my pocket and put it around her neck.

Leaning close, with my arms around her neck, clasping the necklace she stole so brazenly, I desire to mount her. She gives me a condom and tells me to put it on. She slips off her panties while I sheathe my cock.

After I put the condom on, she spreads her legs and puts a pillow under her rump but leaves her garterbelt on and continues smoking. She says her cigarette lets her enjoy herself while she's treating me to the biggest thrill of my life. Besides, she likes to smoke while she's watching TV or otherwise amusing herself, such as observing me go berserk.

Her superior attitude grips me tighter than one of her hugs and intensifies my lust for her.

I slide into Mrs. Hipps. I surrender to her wisdom, her sultry looks, and her warm flesh. When I penetrate her, she tightens herself, making me struggle and prodding me to strain to fuck her harder. She's watching me, smoking, amused by my frustration, smirking because she's completely in charge.

She feels so damned tight and wonderful I don't care how ridiculous I look. I squeeze in far enough to initiate a smooth ride. Decent, medium strokes. A rhythm. I tell her I love her and want to stay joined to her forever.

Suddenly her pussy grips and massages my cock, and just a few of these incredibly intense strokes finish me off. She coaxes my load into the condom in less than a minute of her tight thrusts. She taunts me for finishing so fast, and then she leaves to shower.

After I finish my shower, she smokes and we watch TV—"Dallas" or "Knott's Landing"—some typically '80s fare. After awhile, she tells me I've been such a good boy she'll let me have some more.

She strips completely. For the first time, I drink in the vision of her unadorned body in eager swallows—her hips curving out from her waistline gracefully back into her thighs, her pert breasts presenting themselves for eager lips to suck, her gently sloping, almost flat belly, and the muff around her haven, darker than the blonde hair on her head.

How can a forty-year-old woman look so sexy?

Forty-three, she winks, but don't tell anyone!

She slides another condom on my cock. The feel of her hand makes that simple act mystically sensual.

Her initiating me into sex burns her vision in my mind: bold, shiny clothes, stockings, and those glimmering leather gloves, adding power and elusiveness. Her nudity charms me with innocence. But I prefer the savage wickedness of her clothes.

She feels loose and relaxed, and I'm softer without the visual kick of her naughty outfit. She takes me without responding. Indifference dulls her beauty. Haughty cigarette puffs or her arching eyebrow would fire my passion, and her beauty would inspire me to delight her.

I know I could please her, and I could celebrate her response—if only she'd respond! Pleasing her becomes a chore.

I ask her if she'll put on her garterbelt and stockings again, and I'm petrified that I've offended her. What if I lose her? I could admire her blonde hair, green eyes, and seductive lips all night without asking for more.

Mrs. Hipps, the highlight of my life because she's the first woman I've made love to, has so much more excitement to offer—just being with her vitalizes me.

Her face becomes stern, but she tells me to wait in the living room while she dresses. When she calls me back, she's wearing a shiny black latex garterbelt and bra again, with her black, seamed stockings. Her elbow-length gloves seem to say she's in charge. She has applied her mascara and eye shadow thicker than usual, giving her a domineering look.

My cock jumps to attention. She sports a peculiar smile—cynical, in retrospect. She knows she owns me. If I love her, she says, I have to give her a genuine pearl necklace the following Friday. With a wink, she says it doesn't have to be new. I agree to satisfy her whim. Lighting another cigarette, she spreads her legs.

My strokes start short and slow. Increasing the length of my strokes, I also push the tempo. I'm sliding in deep, hard, and fast. She tightens her pussy. I keep pumping into her. She puts her cigarette out and concentrates on making me come. I make it last as long as I can. She thrusts hard. We're riding together. Our physical union sizzles in harmony. She thrashes out of control, screams, and grunts.

I come while she subsides.

Her flushed face glistens with a few beads of sweat. Better, she says, lighting another cigarette. She'll make sure to wear her lingerie when she wants me again. And she'll keep other women from competing with her for my attention, because few strip completely and most of them hide under the covers when they make love.

Exhaling a huge billow of smoke, she devastates me when she tells me to go home.

My voice trembles while I ask if I can see her again.

She issues a strange prophesy: "When you're older, Kurt, consider yourself blessed if you meet a woman like me. She'll take control of you. Resist her a little, just to amuse her. But ultimately, give in to her. You'll both be so happy!"

She instructs me to call her the following Friday night at eleven o'clock to present her gift. If I don't give her a pearl necklace, as promised, she's through with me. Even if I bring her tribute, we may be unable to make love that night because her husband will be working at home all week.

So, she tells me to call her number, hang up after one ring, and meet her at the park. I can use the pay phone outside the main activities building to call her. We'll plan our next move from there. Then she ushers me out.

***

What a bind! Where will I get the money to buy a pearl necklace? My bank account will barely take me through my freshman year. If I dip into those funds, I'll have to work part time during school to finance the second semester—and my grades are likely to suffer.

Sure, I'm supposed to sacrifice for my true love. But when can I shop for a pearl necklace? I'll have to learn my way around campus and stumble through my initial assignments. I can return home on Friday, but—assuming I had enough money—my shopping time would be short.

So, am I supposed to give up Mrs. Hipps? Horrible idea! I feel like I belong to her. I need to be hers. Even if we never had sex again, being with her would complete and fulfill me.

I can't describe how I'd feel without her. Lonely, sure, but I've been through that. Being picked last for sandlot baseball games, listening to ritzy kids at school rib me about my cheap clothes—ragging on my rags, so to speak, but that brings up the hostile rejections of my attempts at humor.

Exclusion cuts deep. But I keep going. If Mrs. Hipps spurns me, I'll sing Roy Orbison's song, "It's Over." (God, you can hear the bitter sorrow in his voice. After I discover his early music, many of Roy Orbison's songs become my hymns to Mrs. Hipps.) She holds my fragile happiness in her iron grip. I hunger for her acceptance and approval—or even her smug, cocky tolerance.

Reluctantly, I focus on my mother's pearl necklace, a family heirloom. It's been in the back of my mind all this time, but I hoped for another solution. If I take her necklace, I can appease Mrs. Hipps, and her dynamic charisma will motivate me to excel in college and make tons of money after graduation—enough to buy dozens of necklaces.

Friday night, I have Mom's necklace. I call Mrs. Hipps from the park. Minutes later, she drives up in her Mercedes and pulls into the darkest corner of the parking lot. I go to join her. She's standing beside her car, smoking a cigarette, when I walk up. She tells me to put the necklace around her neck. She turns her back to me.

I loop the necklace around the front of her neck. While I'm fastening the clasp, she wiggles her ass into my crotch. I press my stiff cock against her bottom, feeling her soft, warm ass under her dress, and I love the feel of her pliant flesh directly under the slick fabric.

Mrs. Hipps willfully shapes my desires while I humbly, and greedily, gobble up her crumbs of affection. Instead of hugging her waist, I reach under her arms and cup her breasts. She looks back over her left shoulder and smiles at me. She approves!

Some still, quiet voice in my mind whispers that Mrs. Hipps is devious and wicked. But when she enfolds me in her conspiracy—even when she manipulates me into stealing for her—she provides me sanctuary from my fear of loneliness, and no force can drive me outside her cozy sphere.

My raging testosterone and adrenaline, as powerful as they are, recede into subordination to her psychological domination over me. She wields my sexual drive as her instrument to bind me into unquestioning, undying loyalty to her. Oh, what a lovely instrument!

In a blur of motion, she pivots around, hikes her dress up, and leans back against the car. She demands that I take her, here and now. I grab a condom package from my pocket—this time I'm prepared—rip it open, and slide it on my cock. She says if we see anyone coming, she'll push her dress back down and deny any wrongdoing.

The exhilaration of coupling in public, the risk of getting caught, and the glorious power of Mrs. Hipps's personality elevate my cock to hair-trigger sensitivity, enough to threaten premature ejaculation. Hell, I feel as if I could come just looking at Mrs. Hipps, pressing her wonderful rump against her car, smoking her cigarette, and blowing smoke in my face. She gives me the greatest sexual thrills of my life.

So, the least I can do is last longer than instant pudding. I recall reading that men can keep humping longer if they relax their sphincter muscle, instead of tightening it and shooting their load from the pressure. I follow that strategy.

But it's hard to relax when I soak in the magnificence of Mrs. Hipps in her slinky garterbelt and stockings, her form-fitting, shiny dress, and her high-society gloves. Sensory overload.

I must close my eyes while I pump my cock into her, firmly but smoothly, joining her with respectful awe and admiration, adjusting each stroke to her reactions to my body. Without looking at her provocative beauty and sexiness, I concentrate on the bliss of our bodies connecting and our souls perhaps timidly reaching out to each other. While I savor the pleasure of our carnal union, my mind wanders from the performance itself, and I feel as if I can keep going forever.

She compliments my stamina but wonders if I'm getting there yet. And it dawns on me she's doing this for me. She can't possibly be comfortable pinned against her car, swaddled in a tight dress and cumbersome garterbelt. It will be a miracle if she's able to come in this position, in these surroundings.

But squeezing into her feels sublime, and I feel a deep urge to stay in her!

I open my eyes. If Mrs. Hipps is staging this show for me, she's lavishing me with ecstasy. Whenever anyone asks me about the best sex I've ever had, this is it. Mrs. Hipps absolutely defines sexuality. Say "intercourse" and I will always visualize her the way she looks now, her precisely coiffed hair now disheveled from the thrashing movement of her ethereal body, drops of perspiration despite the cool September night air, and an animation I've never seen in her green eyes before, a cauldron of lust, benevolence, and triumph.