Susan: A Story

"Oscar & Hammerstein? They were song writers, weren't they? MALE song writers." She was confused. "I'm not going to name my tits after two long-dead male song writers!"

I had her, I finally had her. I didn't even try to conceal my joy. It had taken me awhile but finally, finally, I was winning one. "You don't have to," I pressed my advantage. "They're MY names for them and I like them."

"Fine," she said, and when she brushed by me I resisted the temptation to punctuate my victory with a slap to her ass.

And I'm glad I did because she seemed to be taking her loss really well. She climbed onto the bed, kneeling, opening her arms to me and I quickly joined her and we were in each others arms kissing, really kissing for the first time since we met, rolling around the bed, squeezing and hugging and slurping, tongues probing as far as they could, our faces coated with saliva.

I was positively panting when she pulled away and thrilled when she trailed her kisses down my body to my impossibly erect penis, now oozing pre-cum. And then she was licking it, lightly sucking it, my balls gently rolling in her fingers. "God, I love being down here," she said, looking up at me. "God, I love being down here," she hesitated for effect, "... with Gladys and the Pips."

There would be no more talk of Oscar and Hammerstein, we both knew that when she got up from the bed. "I'm going to take a bath," she said over her shoulder, "then we're going to get back into that bed and we're not going to get out until noon tomorrow." She turned to go, but quickly turned back, "For what I want to do you're going need some courage, so get your beer now, ... and a potty."

When you've waited half a lifetime for love, and finally find it, time accelerates. The next 24 hours were a blur. We both did everything we could to convince the other that our love was absolute; it had no boundaries; no margins to our passion; no parametres to its meaning. It was 24 hours of naps snatched between skin grinding against skin, juices mingling with juices, words mixing with words. But it ended. Abruptly — at precisely 10:34 the next morning. It ended with a yelp so loud and gleeful that it took my breath away. When I suggested we shop for a ring, she literally sprung from the bed, propelled by her cry, and she ran to the bathroom so fast I barely caught sight of her ass.

This wasn't a consultative mission. Had it been we could have easily found a worthy compromise in the first store and been on our way, mission accomplished. But no. She couldn't possibly describe what she was looking for, but she'd know it when she saw it.

She saw it after a four hour search, in the fifth store and she was so weakened by the gleaming gem on the black velvet cloth that, so help me, I thought of Superman gazing at kryptonite: she seemed to melt in its very present. Melt, but not for long. No. Not for long.

"Let me get this straight," she said calmly to the attentive store owner, a calm I now recognized as a brief lull before a furious storm. "I have waited 33 years to find this man," she threw her thumb in my direction as if she was hitch-hiking, "I have waited 33 years to have that," she pointed to the ring, "placed on this," she held up her ring finger like an obscene gesture, "and you're telling me it's going to take three days for you to get it to fit?" The laugh she uttered seemed almost nuclear in its contempt. She had been leaning over the counter, now she straightened as if finding her dignity. "We will be back in an hour. We will be back at ...," she lifted my arm to read the time, "at 4:48," then she stripped the watch from my wrist, my favourite watch, the one my father had given me to celebrate my first big sale, and she placed it on the counter. "Here's your security." She turned to leave, but she stopped and turned back, looking at the man fiercely. "Do you expect any complications, because if you do, I will go across the street and buy a fucking chip that fits this finger rather than wait a single second more for you to get it to fit," and she glared at the man with a savagery that scared us both.

"No, madam, it will be ready by 4:48, as you wish," he said, ashen, bowing slightly.

"God, the nerve of that guy," she muttered in contempt as we walked along the street. Then she snickered, "I was about to say to him, 'Did the Prince wait for Cinderella to get the slipper to fit?' But I'm glad I didn't." She laughed, "It doesn't make any sense." But then she got more indignant, "But jeez, for what you paid for it, you'd think you'd get a little service."

I was looking out of the corner of my eye at her when I said, "Good point."

We had taken a few steps before her head shot over at me and then she laughed, that deep luxuriant, lustful laugh and I laughed, too. And then she grabbed my arm, pulling me to her, "God, I love you," she said, as her step quickened.

To kill the hour I suggested some coffee so we searched for a cafe and found one, just on the other side of a sex shop. "Let's go in," she squeezed my arm, looking up at me with that mischievous grin. Then she turned and tugged me to her so hard I had little choice.

"I've never been in one of these," I said, marveling at the sheer size of the place and how brightly lit and organized it was — a far cry from the sleazy back room I expected.

"Me neither," she said, and she left me, heading for one of the isles.

I stood there, stupidly, with dildos to the right of me, costumes to the left of me and straight ahead, a wall filled with whips and whatever. I didn't know what to do. I looked for her but she was an isle away concentrating on something. I thought of leaving, but I didn't. Instead, I boldly walked up to the whip wall and I stood in front of it caressing my jaw with my thumb and forefinger, pretending to be deep in concentration. It worked! She saw me, I could feel her at my side but instead of laughing as I expected her to do, she walked closer to the wall, turned towards me and said, in a voice loud enough to attract way too much attention, "God, Sam, OK but I hate pain, you know I hate pain and what about the baby!"

I pushed open the coffee shop door, "Once, just once for God's sake, would you let me win one?"

"Win one?"

Oh, God, here it comes ...

"Yesterday, you were so far back in the dog house I'd have to feed you with a sling shot. Today, you've got yourself a wife AND a child." She sat down on the first empty chair and looked up at me, "I'd say you're winning. I'd say you're winning big time," but she couldn't let it go at that, she had to add, with a victorious smile, knowing she had slaughtered me again, "And I'm a little bit shocked you don't see it that way, too."

I stomped off for the coffees vowing to learn my lesson.

The sex store brought back a memory, and I told her about it over our coffees. "I was in Germany a few years ago. I was walking down a street, I can't remember what city it was, and I saw a couple, a middle age man and woman, standing across the street, looking into a window. There was a baby carriage beside them and they just stood there, looking, and I guess discussing — for five minutes, maybe more. It was a lingerie shop. There were a few scantily dressed manikins in the window. It fascinated me. Flabbergasted me, really. What on earth were they thinking, what were they talking about — 'You'd look great in that, Gretchin, it would bring out the rounded contours of your fabulous breasts ...' I mean, what could they be talking about, I just didn't get it. Don't get it." I don't know why I asked her, but I did. "Do you?"

"Of course I do," and she looked away, bored, as if she was sitting with an idiot.

How long had I known this woman? Three days? However long it seemed that every minute of it she showed me something new. She seemed to have more facets to her than the large gem on the ring finger of left hand. Now she was quiet, leaning against me as we walked home. She seemed in another world; the look on her face was absolutely Buddha-like: a look of utter peace and joy.

I hadn't planned it. It just happened, I guess her the look on her face on the way home made me recall something she had said. When we stepped into the condo I asked her if she had a scarf. She did and she handed it over without questioning me. I went behind her and placed it over her eyes and tied it. She didn't struggle, she just laughed, that deep throaty laugh of hers, "What's going on?"

"You have a fantasy that's about to come true."

She turned to me and I guessed her eyes were narrowed in confusion, "I do?"

I took her by the arm and led her to the couch and as I helped her sit down, I sat down close beside her. "It was something you said when we were first getting to know each other. You told me that your husband like to have ... ah, athletic sex, I believed you called it. You said that throughout those years all you wanted was to lie still and have someone love you ..."

"My lousy lay days."

"You're going to be perfectly still, you're not going to say a single word and I'm going to love you, I'm going to try my best to make that fantasy come true. OK? Now just sit here for a moment and think about that while I get ready ... and remember, not a single word."

"Sam?"

"OK? Not a single word."

When she nodded I got up, opened her purse, retrieved one of the massage oil containers she had bought at the sex store, walked to the kitchen, took off the cap, heated the oil in the microwave, then went back and helped her to her feet and guided her to the bedroom.

As I said, I hadn't planned this, really had no idea what I was going to do, but I wanted to try to make her fantasy to come true, I thought she deserved it.

I sat her down on the side of the unmade bed and quickly took off all my clothes then I stood in front of her, took her hand and placed it on my iron-stiff pecker. "I love you Susan. I want to spend my life making you happy."

She seemed to slump with that, "Oh, Sam ..." but I put my finger to her lips and kissed her on the forehead.

"I'm going to take off your clothes now. I want you to relax, totally relax — I want you to start living your fantasy."

She had on a pink oxford cloth shirt with buttons that were difficult to undo, but I took my time, I was in no hurry, and when there were all undone I took it off revealing a silky yellow bra with tiny red roses. I helped her back now, helped her to lie down then I took off her brown loafers before I started on her blue cotton pants. She helped, she rose up when she needed to, and when I pulled her pants down I saw her panties and bra were a set. She turned easily at my command and lay still in the middle of the sheet, her arms by her side, her legs only slightly opened.

I sat down beside her and put my fingers on the blindfold and slowly moved them down as I said, very slowly, taking my time, letting my fingers emphasize my words, "I love you, Susan. I love everything about you. I love your face, I love your shoulders, I love your breasts, especially your breasts," her nipples were stiff and hard to my touch, "I love your narrow, xylophone-ic rib cage, your exquisite belly, your shallow navel. I love your hips, your pussy, your thighs. I love your calves. I love your feet. I love your toes." I straightened up. "And I love your mind. I love that you love me. I love your temper, your wit, your anger. I love your laugh, I love your smiles, I love your playfulness, I love your smell and I love your taste. I love everything about you Susan and I want your to know that."

Half way through she started to curl towards me but I forced her to be still and she complied.

I put a generous glob of the oil in my palm and rubbed my hands together, then got up on the bed and straddled her, sitting gently on her hips and when I wrapped my hands lightly around her neck she could feel the oil and she moaned in joy. "I'm going to massage you now, I'm going to message every fibre of your body and when I do, I'm going to be looking at you, touching you, loving you, my wife, my lover, the mother of my children, the only woman I'm ever going to love, a woman I'm devoted to." God, I meant every word of it, every fucking sentimental word.

And I started, slowly rubbing the oil into her skin, feeling her body surrender to me, to fall absolutely limp under my fingers. I went from her neck, to her shoulders, to both arms, slowly, really kneading in the oil, to her hands but when I started to lift her up so I could get at her bra strap, she said, "Leave them on for awhile, OK?"

I kissed her on the lips, then on the bra-covered nipples, loving her even more. She wanted my fetish, wanted to feed it, wanted me to succumb to it and it was absolutely liberating — sexually liberating and I could feel it in my groin.

I spent lots of time on her torso, then skipped by her panties, and pressed the oil deep into her thighs, allowing my thumbs to poke at her, to feel the wetness at her crotch before traveling lower to massage her calves. I have never sucked on a toe before, but I did now. After I finished with her legs, I sat at the foot of the bed and while I held her foot in my hands I sucked at her toes while I massaged her feet, her big toe first and then the others, the left foot first, then the right. And then I turned her over.

Her back, like the rest of her, was toned and sexy and I forced my fingers deep into her muscles, enjoying her moans. And then the ass. I didn't get it. I honestly didn't get it. Her ass just got to me, particular when it was covered in a light panty, like now. The mere sight of it made me want to masturbate, to stop everything, take my prick in my hand and slowly stroke away while I studied it. It's stupid but that's the way I felt, that's the way I felt every time I saw the damn thing and it was really troubling. And it was troubling now, too, because with my eyes locked on the flimsy covering of her crevasse, I cheated her legs of their proper due and the very second my fingers found the waist band she lifted on her knees, as if she was waiting for me, and I stripped her panties from her in a single motion.

And there it was, white and round and perfect. I poured oil on it, on one cheek, then the other, then a drizzle between them and I had them in my hands and I was working them, allowing my thumbs to slip into her crack, shallow at first but then deeper until I felt her flinch and I backed off. That's when I began to wonder: was this her fantasy, this surrendering to sex, or was it mine. Was this about her or was it about me?

"Please, Sammy, love it." I wasn't sure if I had dreamed the words, or if she had said them. But it didn't matter. Deliberately, I poured some oil on my fingers, made myself comfortable beside her and them slid my fingers between her cheeks, slowly, gently, running the tips through the tight crevasse down to her pussy, then slowly up again, once, twice, each time with a tiny bit more pressure until finally I stopped on her bud and gently traced my fingers over its rough surface.

I was shifting on the bed, shifting so I could bend down, so I could separate her cheeks and place my lips on her, my tongue in her — but somehow I checked myself, somehow at my weakest point I realized that it actually was about her and I fought against my impulse. I quickly undid her bra strap and turned her over.

I didn't massage her breasts, I gently kneaded them while all the time sucking on a nipple. I was going to spend time on them, I wanted to prove to her how much I loved them — but I could sense she was growing impatient and I was beginning to hurt, my penis was stretched so hard it hurt. So I got off her, crawling to the end of the bed and I took her by the hips and dragged her down until her legs fell over the end. Then I kneel on the floor, gently pushed at her thighs and looked at her. It seemed impossible. From here my children were going to enter the world.

When I pressed my mouth into her wet, hairy opening, I felt her hands on my hair, I felt her spread herself wide then I felt her body ripple with wave after wave of passion as the fluid pumped into my face as I sucked on her, taking in as much as I could. And then she was still, absolutely still and I kissed deep within her, then moved my face from her and lay my head on her belly, feeling her hair against my lips and I took my penis in my hand and in two short strokes came so hard I thought I'd pass out.

I was utterly relaxed, stroking the pubic hair wet from her pussy when I felt her tug gently on my hair and I rose up, in absolute fatigue and when I lay beside her I reached over and pulled the sheet to cover us and when it fell on us a great wave of her smell flooded into me and I fell blissfully asleep.

I don't know how long I slept but I awoke almost in pain: if I didn't make it to the can that moment I thought I'd burst. I moved to get up, but she pushed me down. "Don't you dare move," she said. "I'm going to take a quick bath and then you're going to go to places you've never dreamed of before." And she sprang out of bed and was gone.

But I wasn't far behind her. It felt better to be standing but I still had to go. But as I headed to the bathroom by the kitchen I had a thought, a fleeting thought — an impulse, and that troubled me because I never stop to think them through. I just act on them.

I was giddy when I turned around, already laughing, shaking with laughter at the sheer audacity of it.

The water was running when I entered the bathroom and I was shaking so hard I had to pinch my prick to keep it from leaking.

She was humming when I stealthily approached the bath, and playing with a handful of bubbles, like she does. I guess she barely heard my "pssst" above the noise of the water but she turned her face to the sound and when she did I said, "I guess I haven't told you about this one!" and I hit her squarely between the eyes with a pressure-packed golden stream that I let flow for a few seconds before I pinched it off and ran.

But I stopped outside the bathroom door; I stopped to listen.

God I love that woman's laughter.