Oldtimer Musuem

"Good. Then I'll pick you up at 7...but try not to let your little friends know what's happening, okay? I'd rather not have this get back to Uwe."

"Why not?" Dave asks, even though he can understand her feelings.

"I prefer to keep this out of the company gossip. What I do is my business."

The obvious answer to this is, don't pick up men at business dinners, but he mentally shrugs and thinks something along the lines of, he's getting sex and if the shit hits the fan, he'll be back in New England and she'll still be here. Whatever.

It's nice driving around at night. Most of the cut-throat German drivers are off the road, and what few scenic buildings remained were nicely illuminated. Even the neon signs look foreign, but that's suddenly okay. They look enjoyably foreign.

Once in front of the hotel, he's not sure what to do, but figures since he's already had his fly unzipped by her, he can probably kiss her good-night, so he does. It turns out to be a very nice kiss, warm and soft with a bit of sleepy passion, and when she pulls away from him, she gives him one of those German eye-crinkle smiles, and says, "Till tomorrow, then."

"Till tomorrow. And thanks for the ride."

He watches her drive away, skillfully shifting gears in her little red car, and goes into the hotel shaking his head.

Thursday morning is devoted to a hangover. Thursday afternoon is devoted to 1. wondering what Thursday night will bring and 2. trying to figure out how to dodge the boys, who will probably be congregating for dinner right around 7.

The hangover provides him with a decent excuse not to go to dinner with them, and someone with family in mountain time has to hang around long enough to call home at a certain hour, so they agree to meet at 7:30. So he'll be well gone by the time they're milling in the lobby, and if they decide to call him, he can always say he decided to take a walk to clear his head.

It's the dot of 7 and he's showered and shaved hanging around the same entrance she dropped him off at, scanning all the traffic, trying to spot a red Mini. At 5 after, he's already nervous--what if the family in mountain time isn't home? What if they catch him?

Well, what? Silke has so infected him with the mysteriousness virus that he can't think straight. Also, he can't think straight because of the whole encounter last night. He's still baffled.

At 7:12 a red Mini comes screeching to a halt in front of the hotel, and Silke waves to him. He practically vaults out the door and into the car. Eau de Silke fills the car, something he didn't notice last night, since more than likely he was scenting it with beer. It's nice. It's also nice having her so close, the Mini lending a certain air of intimacy to everything.

He checks her out--she's dressed very simply, in a white shirt and a black skirt, with sheer black stockings on her shapely legs. And she's driving her standard transmission car in a pair of black spike heels, which impresses him deeply. He's not sure he himself could manage a standard in German traffic, and those shoes seem more like an impediment than anything.

"How was your day?" she asks him, as they peel away from the curb.

He slides his eyes onto her, but she's focused on the road. (Good, that's good!) "First I was hung-over and then I was thinking about tonight. So I guess it was okay."

She laughs. "You did enjoy your beer last night," she says.

"I think I was made to enjoy my beer last night."

"Only showing German Gemuetlichkeit," she says cheerfully.

"Is there more of...whatever...in store?" he asks her.

She's silent for a moment, considering. "I've cooked a dinner, and I bought some good wines," she finally says. "All in all, I think you'll have a nice evening."

For a while they're silent, while she weaves in and out of traffic, shifting up, shifting down, muttering things he's happy he can't understand, and he looks out the window at Dortmund go by. It's not a long trip; Dortmund's not a large city, and soon they're pulling up in front of a small house in a quiet neighborhood. "You have a house?" he asks, and then wonders if that was strange to ask.

"I'm renting," she says. "For the time I'm here." She proceeds him up the walk and he takes full advantage to check out her legs in her stilettos. Nice. Black stockings are nice. Black fishnets are better, but he would have found them odd the first night. She looks like she might have come from work. But wait, she cooked dinner? Oh, hell, who cares. Nice legs, nice ass, good times. In they go.

She hangs his coat for him and then clicks across the tile floor and shows him a living room. She tells him to sit down, and in a moment, she comes back with two glasses of wine. The glass itself feels expensive in his hand, and after a "Prosit!" the wine tastes expensive in his mouth.

He's in an armchair, she's settled on the couch and he can tell that even though she's chit-chatting, her mind is on something else. Dinner, probably, and sure enough, she excuses herself for a moment, and then calls him into the dining room.

The table is nicely set, with low flowers and candles on the sideboard. Two bowls of soup are on the table. (Oh, great, he thinks, Jack the Giant Killer spoons). Silke shows him his seat, and then says, "I thought to make the dinner more interesting, we could each take off a piece of clothing at each course."

Dave is dumbstruck. He finally manages to say, "Is this a German custom I never heard about?"

"No," she says calmly. "I made it up last night while I was thinking about you."

"Oh." Long, long pause. Finally, "I think I'll start with my shoes," he says.

"I prefer to keep mine on," she says, calmly. "I think I'll start with my blouse," and so saying, proceeds to unbutton it and take it off.

Her bra is black and trimmed with peach lace and cut quite low. She fills it quite nicely and Dave thinks he might see a hint of a nipple struggling to escape, but he can't be sure.

They sit down and Silke leads the conversation with a number of very intelligent questions on American politics.

The soup is good, the wine is good, and Dave's head is spinning. He's doing his best to look her in the eye, but it's hard work. It's hard work to talk sensibly, too, but he feels as though if he acquits himself well, he might get a nice reward. Or maybe she really does have a trunk full of handcuffs somewhere.

When the soup bowls are empty, she stands up and takes them to the kitchen. She's not a skin and bones girl, but rather compact and muscular. He's hugely excited (in the most literal sense) and fascinated, and not a little nervous.

She comes back with two plates. "The main course," she says. "What are you taking off?"

"My shirt," he says, and so finds himself sitting before his dinner bare-chested.

"Skirt for me," she says cheerfully, and so saying, unzips it and steps out of it.

A garter belt that matches the bra is holding up the stockings, and matching lacy panties complete the look. And the sheer black stockings and the stilettos, of course. His plate holds a piece of salmon, some chi-chi looking vegetables and red potatoes. It could be rubber food for all that he notices it, but he does somehow take in the fact that the salmon sort of accents the lace.

He mentions this and asks if she planned it that way. Nothing seems impossible.

Silke laughs with genuine amusement and says, "You over-estimate me, but that's very flattering. And then I should have served black truffles to go with the black. But I wasn't thinking ahead that far."

"How far ahead were you thinking?" Dave wants to know.

And then, chiming in with her, he says, "To dessert, of course," and they both laugh.

He manages to get the food down, and even to taste it. It's good. "Did you really cook this?" he asks her.

Silke manages to somehow look prim, even sitting there in her lingerie, with her barely restrained breasts all but shouting. She even bats her eyes a little. "But of course I did," she says, and he's no further along than he was, but also doesn't care.

More conversation, this time more flirtatious, and he's not even trying to keep his eyes off her breasts, or his mind off what's under the table. In fact, he has all he can do not to bolt his food so they can move on. Dave forces himself to eat at a civilized pace. It's not easy.

When the last bite has been eaten, and they've drained their wine glasses, Silke stands up again. The black against her fair skin...the stockings delineating her legs...Dave has a fleeting thought that if he died right now, it would be fine, it couldn't get better than this.

"Stay here for a second," she says, and sways off to the kitchen with the plates. This beats the hell out of the French maid's costume a past girlfriend wore one year for Halloween, and honestly, that had been pretty damned hot. Hotter. Definitely hotter.

She returns with a tray of strawberries and whipped cream. Of course, thinks Dave, how stupid was I to think it was going to be chocolate layer cake.

"Come with me," she says, and leads the way to, of course....the bedroom.

Once there, she puts the tray down on the bed, and says, "This is a new course."

Dave takes off his pants, and, for good measure, his socks. His stalwart American boxer briefs seem pretty mundane. He's way more interested in what she's going to take off.

Silke stands up straight, looks him dead in the eye, smiles a little Mona Lisa smile, makes a noise like a purring little sigh, and acrobatically removes her lacy panties. This involves some slight bending, making her breasts strain even more at their peach and black prisons, and then some extremely enjoyable shifting from foot to foot as she disengages from her undergarment. Once they're off, she repeats the beginning of her performance, but with the panties dangling from her index finger. Then she drops them on the floor.

Okay, enough with all this teasing, all these mannered scenes, Dave takes the two paces it needs to get to her and--well, he'd like it to be, takes her in his arms, but really, he grabs her. Hard. One hand pulls her head to his and he begins kissing her rather forcefully, and the other is kneading her bare ass. She doesn't exactly go limp in his arms, but he can feel the flip where she's not in charge any more.

"Did you get me here to play charades, or what?" he mutters into her ear when he pauses for breath.

"No--not charades--" He kisses her some more, and as she's sucking rhythmically on his tongue, he manages to undo the black and peach confection that's containing her breasts and drops that on the floor, too. He moves both hands to those generous breasts and indulges himself in simply massaging them for a bit. Then he kisses her again, his hand on her head again, making sure she can't pull away, and enjoying the unaccustomed feeling of her short hair against his hand.

He maneuvers her to the bed, noting that all of a sudden she's stumbling in her spike heels. Good. They manage to get onto the bed without capsizing the dessert, thanks to the German custom of twin mattresses.

"I'm thinking you had something in mind with this stuff?" he says to her.

She nods.

"Okay....okay...." Well, he knows the obvious, and that seems like fun, so what the hell. "So you lay back this time," he tells her, looking at her sprawled in her lace and stockings and nothing else.

She does, but with her knees primly together. He gets the bowl of whipped cream and moves back to her, putting it down next to her.

Dave runs his hand up one of her legs, starting at the ankle, slowly. Up over the knee and her legs spread ever so slightly for him. Above the stocking, to the soft flesh of her inner thigh, her legs spreading a bit more as he goes. Higher and higher, until he reaches his goal. He moves his hand around her smooth little mound (apparently waxing has caught on here, too) and then slides a finger into her slick wetness.

She's not moving and barely breathing, waiting for whatever will come next. Dave feels a bit as though he's fallen into the strangest bit of improv theater he's ever heard of, but he decides to go with his one prop. He arranges himself a bit more comfortably between her legs, then takes the bowl again and starts spreading the cream where the wax has done its job.

"Very cute," he says suddenly. "Got that cell phone now? I'd like a picture."

Silke actually blushes and says it's in her purse--

"I was joking," he says gently, and then sets to work.

The always surprising softness of those lips. He works at it slowly, managing to notice as he does that there's even booze in the whipped cream. If he didn't know better, he'd think this woman was going to get him drunk and sell him into white slavery. He dismisses that thought and goes on. With the cream gone from her labia, he moves to the mound itself, plump and pretty, waiting for him. She's starting to move a little bit, a circular motion that throws him, but hey, women are all as different as snowflakes, after all....

That's gone and he can tell she'd like him to get to the main event, but it's not going to be that easy for her. He puts his tongue inside of her, still tasting the cream and now tasting her own sweet saltiness. He lingers there for a moment, then moves up to where he knows she wants him to be. Dave actually likes doing this a lot and has gotten, um, good reviews in the past, and tonight seems to be no exception. Silke's movements are getting stronger and when he chances a glimpse, he sees that she's playing with her nipples. This spurs him on, and he starts his own swirling around her engorged clit. With almost no warning, she makes a noise that sounds almost as though she's lifting a heavy weight at the gym, and then sits straight up. She stays there a second, then lies back down, her thighs clamped firmly around his head. He gets a few fingers inside of her, so he can feel her waves there, but keeps on with what he's doing.

And then he can't wait any more, and pulls away. As fast as he can get his briefs off, he does, and then he's inside of her. She's hot and tight and wet and still pulsing and panting in his ear now, clinging to him. That first stroke almost finished him, but he makes himself slow down somehow and then starts a slow, measured thrusting.

Silke isn't waiting for anyone, she makes another one of those rather odd noises of hers, this one sounding like she's almost exasperated, and she cums again. And then he does, most thoroughly. And then, finally, they're done.

Silke looks different now, her features seem a bit blurred to him, softer, less in charge. Even her crisp no-nonsense haircut is tousled and he feels great tenderness. Dave doesn't understand this woman even in the slightest, but honestly, he doesn't care. For whatever reason she did what she did, it was amazing, and he's glad.

"You gonna live?" he whispers to her.

"I think so," she whispers back, and they both smile. Then he kisses her, first gently, then not so.

The rest of the evening passes in the bed. She takes off her shoes and stockings and garter belt, and they feed each other the strawberries and the rest of the cream, and after a while, Dave begins another round of rather more vanilla love-making. The denouement is less explosive than the first time, but still satisfactory. And then it's nearly 11 and tomorrow is one more day of meetings and presumably Silke has a hard day of arbitrage ahead of her. Silke dresses in the same white shirt, but with more utilitarian underpinnings and a pair of jeans and flats. Without the heels, she's less imposing. "You're kind of a little thing," he says to her, grinning.

"I wear heels to intimidate people," she admits.

"It works."

In the car, he finally says, "You wanna tell me why?"

Silke doesn't need to ask why what. She doesn't speak for a few moments, then says, "I'm not even sure myself. I thought you were nice-looking. And then when I started coming on, you didn't back off. And then I kept thinking up more and more stuff, and you kept up with me--?"

"No strings at all, but safe?" he asks.

"Yeah. Something like that. Are you sorry?"

"Not at all. It was the most fun I've even had with my clothes on--and off."

She gets the joke, thank God, and laughs along with him.

They share a tender kiss again at the hotel, and as he gets out of the car, Dave says, "See you around."

"Okay. Bye."

She waves as she pulls away and that's that.

On the plane on Saturday, Dave leans back in his business class seat and reflects on the week.

He's learned that everything can be the same, but different (spoons, beds). He's learned that someone out there is collecting vintage cars about as hard as he can and has deep damned pockets to do it. And he's learned that--well, he doesn't know what he learned from Silke, really, unless it's that you should never write off anything in advance because you really never know what might happen and with whom.

But he's always going to have some really happy memories of Germany.