Remembrance of Autumn Days

Coated in powder blue, the richly carved door was impossible to jimmy, a formidable adversary to the most persistent hotel dick. It shut with a satisfying snick and we plummeted into our Never Never Land of lust and crazed obsession. Not for the first time, we were together not merely as lovers but as sexual soul mates. This time in Emerald City, my adopted hometown, 22 floors above the ground in a five star mirrored glass and shiny steel monolith. A silver tower bathed in cool, pale northern sunlight and the profound brown and golden colors of a late afternoon of an autumn day in September.

I was Andre; she was Diana during such trysts.

My true name was not Andre and by no means was I French but I loved doing soixante-neuf. Me going down on Diana, she sucking me, the two of us locked together, my head flat against her lower reaches, her noggin flush against my groin. In such mechanics, I discovered a passion for soixante-neuf.

A season in Paris and randy women made their shaved slits, their spongy coiffures freely available. Quite near the Seine, the Left Bank and Montmarte, I became a fierce habitué of a woman's gash. Sometimes I even had a chance to practice tradecraft, to get out on the streets, test skills learned in the piney woods near Williamsburg, Virginia.

In my travels as a vagabond lothario, I found Tel Aviv to my liking. Busty Sabras delighted me. In London corset-clad wenches curtsied to the queen and waved the business ends of canes and paddles at my exposed rump. And I bent them over and flailed them in return.

In Rome nubile Italian women, Messalina's descendents, bowled me over with their dark, sultry eyes, streaming raven hair and earthy natures. Each one more buxom then the next and all extraordinarily gifted in the sorts of sexual hi-jinks I relished. They pleasured, bedeviled with an astonishing adeptness characteristic of such hot- blooded women. Great cooks too. During my stays just off the Via Veneto in a ramshackle villa, I cavorted on my soft, yielding mattress with one spectacular woman and another. Then in the morning a shared breakfast finished off with espresso laced with a pinch of cinnamon. All the while I'd be sitting there at the table in a comfortable chair looking at my most recent bedmate and the tiny silver cross or religious medallion nestled in a remarkably sumptuous and silky bosom swelling out of her bodice. My companion's black hair tussled by all night bed romping flaring down over her shoulders. Fingers, their nails painted a garish red often holding a cup close to full, rapacious lips. This was after she used those talons to scratch across my back in the dark. In the comfortable silence she'd sit across from me and rub her smooth bare feet across my bare shins.

What of me? Then as now I was tall, lean, tended to slump too much. I don't think I was quite handsome but I could look in a mirror without sneaking up on the thing. I kept my blond hair close-cropped; there was a cowl lick back there somewhere. I tried to smile often as possible and had a certain degree of charm I suppose. Women liked the way I cocked my head, my sweet disposition. I sometimes took too many chances, liked living on the edge way too much but that is how it goes. I kept my own counsel and played it close to the vest. This hard and fast rule was never broken.

On my native ground, I found myself a tad more comfortable. My sense of possession was overblown and I liked my solitude, enjoyed sleeping alone in my sprawling bed. I was able to pop out of the covers, light off the computer, sip coffee, wear my ratty bathrobe and look totally disreputable checking out blogs.

Unusual circumstances, improbable events shaped my life, molded my personality. Try to analyze my character and you will be amazed by the dichotomies. I have a chameleon temperament; tend to be moody, sentimental and dashingly courageous on occasion. At other moments I can be irresolute, wanton and weak. Then in a flash I am a graciously charming bon vivant. After Nine One One I came into my own and did some dazzling work, labors quite off the scope though. I was committed and focused to the achievement, the realization of action meaning something.

Diana's uncommonly luscious body not only delighted my senses; it was a veritable sexual playground for a man with my randy temperament. From what I have gathered, she was born and bred in Northampton, Massachusetts and had numerous Portuguese ancestors in her past. She has the olive coloring, the sprawling mane of dark tresses, the ripe prominences from the bust line to the flaring, fluid hip action. Any male was lucky to be her choice, to be in her liquid embrace, to be ensnared by those torrid hazel eyes, the terrifyingly alluring body. Not beautiful in the manifest sense she had perfect teeth, a proud, defiant nose and a firm definitive somewhat ostentatious chin. She could have been Hera, wife, older sister of Zeus, majestic and solemn, crowned with regal golden polos on her head, patiently waiting to be soundly fucked in the lofty dominions by a Grecian godhead.

Smarts signifying a voluminous intellect bubbled up out of her as did her prim deportment and her wholesome persona. She reveled in being wicked. To think this vivacious woman also had her undergraduate degree in English, a passion for Rudyard Kipling poems and was relentlessly ambitious without being sullen or too obvious. Passionate and imaginative she had an uncommon aptitude for lovemaking. To any male with normal levels of testosterone her uninhibited altitude was breathtaking.

Like many 21st century couples we stumbled into one another in cyber land where we both were looking for merriment and entertainment. We shared our passion for eroticism, the nuances of erotic writing, tested the waters to see what naughty things we wished to pursue. Naturally, we met in person. Now, I targeted her with names like AMANDA or MELODY or BARBARA. Sometimes I spelled COUNTESS LUDMILLA OSTROKOVA something equally dense with consonants and vowels across her clit. With the swirl of my tongue and some light pressure against the engorged nub buried inside the fleshy trench between her legs, I sent her reeling. My God, how she pressed those silken legs about my head as I went down on her.

Diana quite stunning in a form fitting black cocktail sheath barely covering her thighs, walked ahead of me into the lavishly appointed suite. I carried her several overnight bags and my single beaten up, world weary satchel. Teetering on four-inch black high heels, she crossed the room's pale blue carpet in several easy strides, clasped her fingers round a tiny silver chain, the night stand's brass lamp to the left of the queen sized bed flicked on, lit the ceiling and made an umbrella of light at the corner of the bed. Her black patent leather clutch purse fell between the pint-sized lamp and the digital clock radio.

The room was no run of the mill Ramada Inn or Motel 6. The comfortable looking furniture might have occupied a stuffy collegial male club where staid old men smoked cigars and rumbled on about the poor state of the human condition. The lamp's patch of illumination took in the black wing back chair covered in shiny, creaky black leather across from the bed, next to a slender brass floor lamp fitted out with a pale yellow waxy shade. I moved to it, stripped out of my shirt and shoes, my pants still in place, settled into the seat cushion. I watched Diana slink about the room on those high heels. To make things even better for my fetish congested mind, I knew that when she removed those shoes, I'd hear her stocking clad feet making a satisfying swoosh across the carpet. I loved such crisp and mellow sounds, loved the way her red painted toenails shined under the mist of stockings.

Fantasy reached by a fetish made real was such a trip. I could hear my counter-culture mother saying such a thing. This from a woman known as Sadie Glitz, one of a select cadre known for her plaster cast impressions of rock idols' dongs. She, with a frizzy purple fro, usually braless and scrawny in her youth somehow managed to stay clear of Charlie Manson and other odd ball cultists. She'd kick off on acid in Haight-Ashbury occasionally, sell daisies on street corners and hunkered down with her share of Harley guys. God bless Mom and her unconventional nature.

Diana moved about the room looking there, checking here. She clucked her tongue inside her mouth when she saw the salmon hot tub with its gold fixtures, the brushed steel bar stocked with small liquor bottles and fine crystal glasses. She opened walk-in closets, rubbed a palm across a polished bureau surface, another palm along the smooth lines of the credenza, examined the antique student desk with its black chair on brass casters. Almost reluctantly, she touched the mattress gauged its firmness, then peered between the curtains, looked out at Puget Sound. She finished her inspection, paused to open one of her valises, a bag crammed full of makeup. Such femininity contained in a simple bag.

Fairly tall, heavy breasts canted her forward faintly. When we were together, she always directed a hazy, satisfied smile my way. Her complexion was creamy, her auburn hair, sparkling with tiny diamonds in the muted light, cascaded down on to her smooth shoulders in soft undulant waves. She moved with grace, no superfluous movements and a dancer's nimble cat like motion. Her high heels corded her legs and made me aware of her slim round ankles. I felt so sensitive to the moment, so in tune with her; I thought I could hear her hosiery rubbing on her slim thighs. The sexy sound enlivened my cock, tipped me into a downward spiral and I was nearly insane to fuck Diana.

Under the black sheath a miniscule garter belt, no panties to speak of and the paltriest of brassieres. These garments black as the sheath. Sitting in my chair, I'd see her slip out of the dress in one sure motion. There in front of me in all her splendor Diana would stand confidently and with unerring aplomb, a female comfortable and proud of her assets. On her feet the four-inch spiked black heels. Black hose on slim, sculpted legs secured with snaps to a miniscule garter belt. Her scooped out black balconet bra showing a wealth of cleavage down to the nipples charged with red fire. Her pussy shaved with no Hitler moustache to mask or shadow her smooth satin slit. I fantasized an encounter on an airport shuttle, me eating her pussy under a cloak.

My cock pressed painfully against my trousers, my eyes absorbing all the details of her body. I was going to fuck this vixen; the sounds of our lovemaking would reverberate throughout these rooms. Intimate noises, the whispered argot of lovers easily contained inside this room's soundproofed walls.

Genius, it is said, is only a greater aptitude for patience. By that definition I was no genius. I was so impatient, so desperate to fuck Diana. Now, not later.

From the chair, I'd spring, have my way with her. She still in the fashionable heels, the racy hosiery, the garter belt, the filmy, less then tangible bra and we'd fuck on top of the blue duvet. Damn, if I'd take time to turn back any sheets or roll back the bedspread. Two sexual animals taking and giving pleasure in equal measure.

Under me her come fuck me pumps scratch against my flanks. I'd then run one of those sharp heel points across her swollen clit. High above Emerald City, she'd push her moist pubes against my thrusting cock. I envisioned doggy fucking her. To her such sport fucking was close combat with no quarter given or taken. Best of all was her wonderfully astute mouth sucking me with such unrestrained ardor. This was cock sucking in the premier league.

Our fucking was not to be forced; it was not to be a sudden frankness of orgasms and nothing more. One sexually uninhibited female plus one sexually uninhibited male joined as a two backed beast to pursue every possibility of titillation and fulfillment.

"Honey, how about a glass of champagne?" I said.

Calvados was my favorite tipple. She dug Perrier but looking into her eyes, I instinctively knew champagne was needed at the moment. This to be followed by some frenzied coupling on the floor, on the bed, in the shower maybe. Then we'd fuck on the desk, her legs wrapped around me, my tongue racing across her moist gash.

"Strip sweetie, leave your garter belt, hose and heels." I said.

I was tuned in, turned on. Everything was planned in my mind, the close in tactics and the strategic overview. Such things as logistics, intelligence, table of equipment. Nothing was left to chance in my campaigns.

"Oh, as much as I like looking at your cleavage darling, take your bra off. I want to suck your nipples."

She made me weak in the knees. Her wicked smile, those fun red lips, the flushed look of a female animal in heat wanting to be soundly fucked drove me around the bend. Diana's sexy body had the capability to make a dead man come.

"Lover, lie down on the foot of the bed with your legs hanging over the edge. Now, play with your pussy, use those long, slim fingers. That's the ticket."

"Will you fuck me then?" She looked doe like, innocent, naïve, a bare foot nymph traipsing through the woods with no pretensions other then sating her urges.

At that moment, looking into those eyes and examining her wondrous body, I felt like a potent demolisher of a woman's virtues.

"You better believe I will, but first I am going to stroke my tube, watch you play with that sweet, adorable pussy."

My bedmate readied for my invasion.

"What about the champagne you fucking cock hound?" Damn, she could roar.

"Oh, we will have some champagne, I promise."

She was everything I pictured. Everything from the come fuck me pumps, the garter belt and the sheer hosiery intended to enslave me to her naked need to be fucked.

One, two three of her fingers slid into her twat. My left hand rolled over my cock and slid back and forth in a fluid motion as I watched her fuck herself.

I could not linger watching her fingers toiling away in her moist interior. I abandoned the rest of my clothing, bent over at the hip and stuck my prick into her. As I pumped into her, she wrapped her legs about me.

My bare feet touching the floor, I leaned down, sucked her nipples and painted her throat with my tongue.

In making this vital connection several hundred feet above Emerald City, my memory fixated on another woman, another time. I remembered a southern European woman, her glossy ebony tresses and open toed pumps draped off the dusty walnut desk in the midst of a war zone. In the vestibule on the other side of the sandbags Captain Zed, a stammering bull necked fellow talked in a monotone on a field telephone to an associate of mine named Mr. Puddy about ethnic cleansing rolling through a nearby village. The odor of spent cordite and burning kerosene hung in the air. It tickled my nostrils while I rolled about inside this woman's yawning womb. Noises from outside, the racket of trucks changing gears, men cursing in a multitude of dialects infiltrated into our hovel as did the blow flies. As trucks roared by I could hear women begging for food. In this place where life was cheap, contemptibly disregarded, Helena, yes her name was Helena, wore a yellow silk shift riding well above her waist and my combat boots were unlaced and a Christopher medal dangled from my chest. She drew me in, allowed me free access. In this insane place, we drew down a curtain over the madness of this hellish place seemingly lost from God's purview.

Thank God, that was then and this was now. Peace or what passed for amity was restored. Now, in much more comfortable surroundings, I dallied with dear Diana.

The room's chilly air conditioning pocked my ass with goose flesh as I merrily pumped my cock inside Diana. Her tightness, the constriction she placed on my member was amazing.

To not put too fine a point on it, Diana impaled on my cock was amazing. Few times had I fucked a woman with such joy, such abandon. God bless the Internet, God love Literotica for introducing us. Bless those souls who lived on the edge, who enjoyed walking on the wide side. I loved associating with people who knew what was truly important in this cock eyed world.

I remembered a crucial moment on my road to manhood. It took place in one of those sump holes I have found myself on occasion. I was a bit mad when it happened, grief-stricken by all the futility inherent in these places. Hopeless places where tears saturated the land. For me it was liturgical and in no way Christ-like other then in its innocent devotion to man's decency, his compelling desire to find goodness in the basest environment. I could not help but think grace was found ultimately in the expression of one's primitive sexual nature, that nobility of the spirit was to be found merely by men and women, men and men or women and women rutting about as frequently as possible. Why worry in other words? What was the point? Settle down, enjoy life, let the good times roll and fuck like bunny rabbits. The gods and goddesses of free-style humping, those valiant men and women on the sexual fringe, the satyrs and incubi living and lusting in the kingdom of whores had the right answer, the solution all the time. Just fuck and everything will be okay. Everything else was so much drivel.

The sum total of Diana's sexuality, her imagination, her fantasies, her utter disregard for convention, her need to be a slut weighed down on my cock and nicely melded with my beliefs. Diana, her expertise and enthusiasm to be well and truly fucked was all I needed to support my new religion.

During one of her contractions against my cock, I came. She seemed to experience a little death too.

"Sweet Jesus," I roared as sperm continued to flow out of the head of my dick.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," Diana responded.

Under the golden glow of the lamp, the two of us covered in a patina of perspiration, I poured champagne in two flutes, handed one to Diana, clasped the other one in my left hand. We hoisted them and in the German way looked each other in the eye, drank, raised the glasses once more, then looked intently at each other, dwelled reverently in the moment before returning the flutes to the bedside table. My fingers dripped champagne on each one of her erect nipples. I suckled each one in turn. Finally, I poured a tiny amount of the bubbly in her twat, commenced to eat her passionately.

In less then three hours since our arrival, Jay Leno not showing his clown face yet and we had done some serious fucking.

We still had a weekend to contemplate, a weekend of rocking and rolling sex.

Intensely, furiously, with the flames of lust consuming us, our lovemaking unified us in the most durable of compacts. In our love nest high above Emerald City's steel canyons we inhabited a sphere apart and unique. I did not know much about her. She knew little of me. To ask personal questions risked banishment. Occasionally an unbidden question happened to lash out; slipped through our self imposed No Man's Land where ignorance was bliss and the day to day woes of the world were barred. Such an imposition of reality was given a quick and painless death with a sudden burst of even more outlandish behavior.

I knew my submissive bedmate was impatient to be swept away, to be a cum slut, whore, whatever she chose to be and damn it to hell society's condemnation or ridicule for her actions.

The icing on the cake was her cordial compliance. If I instructed her to suck a legion of cocks, she'd gladly do so and do it with gusto. Having her fuck in the back seat of a limo, going down on a beer bellied cab driver no problem. "Do the driver, you slut." Diana liked it all. All the while her debauchery was cloaked in class, discernment and gaiety. She was of the manor born even in the prone position of submission.