Comfort the Widow Ch. 01

So, we talked. The names were, in a phrase, not familiar. Where had we met?

No, it wasn’t high school; grew up in Chicago.

And it wasn’t Fort Leonard Wood, so it could not have been Turkey.

It certainly wasn’t nursing school, and she’d never been to Chicago. Had I ever been to Spoon Beach, Washington?

Never heard of it; first time in the Northwest, as a matter of fact.

Had I ever traveled to Roswell, Nevada?

Roswell, ground zero of alien invaders and Area 51?--not that I could recall.

Had she lived in Madison?

No, too cold.

I had never traveled much along the west coast.

She had not spent any time in the Midwest or Boston or Florida, nor could Anisé remember the last time she rode Amtrak anywhere.

It was, we both agreed, laughing and sipping our drinks, a mystery. What the hell.

My particulars? Well, there was the army where I scrubbed out of Officer Candidate School, got promoted to sergeant as consolation, and had learned the “way of the world” managing an officer’s club, among other things. Then there was college (an English major, then an MA in history), and a list of dead-end dumb jobs as long as your arm. Presently, I was a suitably invisible vice-president in the Chicago office of a German manufacturer of high-end industrial optics. We sold precision “stuff” to guys who arrived with their money in their hands--big-time universities and the CDC in Atlanta, good old NASA and third-party go-betweens acting on behalf of never-you-mind. Our “claim to fame” was working on the Hubble. The work was easy and the money was righteous; the job was, basically, a piece of cake with perks as long as your arm. After years of hard shoveling, I had finally made it to the box seats.

As we talked and ate, sharing the ‘salad,’ I got to look Anisé up and down. As I said, long gone was the business attire. She now wore a darkly luminescent velvet dress embroidered with popcorn orchids and spider mums, which all but glowed in the sharp light of the mirrors. The heavy elastic bodice gathered in low ‘wrinkles’ across her roly-poly cleavage and with buttons clear to the hem as big as Kennedy half-dollars. The velvet straps of her bodice were knotted at the back of her neck, come-fuck-me, summer dress bandana-fashion. It wasn’t exactly the classic “little black dress,” but close enough.

The sharp mirror light back of the bar cast slivers of fuzzy highlights across the ample curves of her breasts (the twin lozenge-shaped dots of her nipples), the large loops of threadbare ribbon hanging between, the double string of large turquoise beads, and the long pleats of the skirt. The popcorn orchids, especially, seemed very well placed. To round out her “look” were dark stockings and those strappy, high-heeled sandals I had noticed right off. But the topper, as we say, was her hair; parted down the middle (zip!) and gathered into pigtails that hung this way and that straight over her shoulders, and gave her a distinctly ‘girlish’ air which matched the twinkle in her eye.

She had warm and expressive hands, a saucy toss to those auburn pigtails, a teasing swish to her legs that invited me to enjoy, and obviously gave her a jolt of happy pleasure. And the heady aroma of rose perfume lilted up from her deep, roundy cleavage, her neck. It was that play of delicious discovery; a flash of grin, the warm aroma of charm, the touch of a hand on an arm, on a shoulder; the silvery shiver of suppressed giggles.

I was smitten all over again, I tell you, and getting another erection that (little did I know) would last the night and well into the morning. I didn’t care if I ever understood our curious flirtation, and it was clear that Anisé didn’t either. All I wanted was for Anisé Taylor Vincent to sit right where she was; here, beside me; the two of us talking about anything that came into our heads; engrossed in the pleasure of each other’s company until the cows came home. It was all too obvious that we were going to sleep together, but let’s not forget all that giggling-good, teasy-squeezy, long-armed foreplay. Anisé and I had been seriously flirting for two days; let the love-making foreplay begin; then the fucking will be so much more tasty.

It is the grandest gaming of all, that warm tickle of lust which lasts for hours, days; that savor of sparkling buzz between the legs, straight up the back to the very ears. Every moment she sat there was a sight for sore eyes. And, as everyone knows, the talk, the banter, the easy jokes and flirty palaver is always much more ‘tasty’ when both of you know that you will be butt naked, rolling around on a bed, and fucking your brains out soon enough.

I don’t know how playing through to the endgame affects you, but it always gives me a tickle right on the tip of my dick; even here and now, as I tell you the story. My whole desire right then and there was to make Anisé Taylor Vincent enjoy the pleasure of her own body (to feel good in her body; everybody has that coming to them, no pun intended). As would be the sight of her next morning, sprawled languorously satiated across the bed--the proverbial freshly fucked fox in a forest fire.

Her thighs would spread open with so little a thing as a glance, or the tip of my tongue through the fluff of her bush hair (her juicing-up pussy just there); her breasts shivering like shaken custard (smeared with Godiva chocolate and whipped cream, warm and sloppy soft in my hands, slobbering in my face, slapping at my cock), her nipples wrinkly stiff between my teeth; the musky-sweet slippery aroma of moist pussy in my face (like dipping your tongue into honey); the gee-whiz twist and roll of our bodies as we fucked for the sheer fun of it; the deep-throated, the stuttered alto exclamations when yet another orgasm overcame her (fun to watch: the stiff, pointed toes; the thrashing hair; the yips and cries; the wiggles and giggles and large humping; the obscene, pet names for everything under the sun).

In short, the incomprehensible human language of all-out, pedal-to-the-metal, bump and grind fucking. All that good body English, and yahoo gibberish screaming at the tops of our lungs; Anisé calling me her “Sweet fucker!”; me exclaiming, “Piece of ass. Piece of ass! Piece of ass!” in time with those long, strong strokes.

But all that was later.

Meanwhile, it was Anisé’s turn to tell her story. She had started out in Tulsa as a nurse, but the Mormons just about did her in. Then she was a Para-legal for a couple years, a translator on a Japanese trawler (of all things), married to and quickly divorced from a real prick (“Bud, what an asshole”) who slapped her around, then she “bumped around” from Phoenix to Bakersfield to Seattle, and now owned a string of cafés and a modest car-wash franchise. Finally, she told me that she’d been married for 11 years.

Uh, oh. This was not good news; though sleeping with married women who ain’t getting it at home, well, there is something sublime about their “enthusiasm.”

James, she was quick to add, a wonderful man who had recently died.

(Gulp!) Oh, great! And the thought immediately occurred, Well, kiss this adventure good bye.

Now, the only challenge was to be properly, deeply sympathetic without betraying my utter glee. Husband of 11 years; died just lately; hurrah! I told her how very sorry I was, but thought to myself that I did not want to pry and ask how was it James passed away.

Anisé went on to say (as if getting a secret off her chest) that the week after Valentine’s Day of the year just past he began feeling poorly; a sour stomach and heartburn that would not go away, and tired all the time. The very next Sunday morning they had their usual Sunday morning tat a tat, and while James dosed off again, she got up, deeply refreshed as usual, to tend her bit of garden and fetch breakfast. Their habit was to lay around bed, munch on raisin toast, fruit, and good strong coffee while reading the NYTimes and watching “Sunday Morning” on CBS. But when she came back to the bedroom with the tray of coffee and etc.--why, he was dead!

“I couldn’t believe it at first,” she said. “Who would? Here I was with the breakfast tray. Coffee, raisin toast and jam, fruit. Like always. He was just asleep! I touched his leg with my arm to rouse him, but he was cold; died in his sleep. Oh, James!” And she took me by the arm, squeezing, and looked down along the mirror behind the bar. “Oh, D.H., what...?”

“My sincere condolences,” I said, looking Anisé in the eye, taking in the sheen of grief, but also the shared pleasure of each other’s company. A guilt pleasure? Of course! It was clear, then and since, that she loved her husband, and grief was grief after all. But she also made it clear with that look in her eye, and a gesture of the hand that she did not dwell. If there was one thing she’d learned (she told me more than once) it was to live your life, and leave regret and grief for old age.

So what about this matter of sleeping with a woman recently widowed?

Well, let’s just say that Anisé wasn’t exactly dressed in widows weeds, and I was ready, willing and able to comfort her in any way, whatsoever; yessiree, Bob, I was the true friend she could trust with her very heart. Perhaps we had met in a previous life.

Anisé went on to say that since James’s death, to help occupy herself (aside from taking over the family business), she had gone back to what she called her “homebody” skills, had made her own dress (store-bought but hand embroidered), and painted scarves to her own designs, which now sold at several local dress shops. The dress, did I like it? Did I like it? The candy-apple red scarf, did I like it? I stood up, laughing, taking her warm and elegant hands, holding myself at arm’s length, and looked her girlish pigtails, the dress, the stockings, and the sandals (and bare heels) up and down--once, twice, three times--delightfully voluptuous; horny. What used to be called randy. (And what was this thing with feet all of a sudden?)

“Anisé, this is beautiful! The dress, your hair and wonderful smile. Beautiful,” I said. The heartfelt compliments to her tits, her ass, her hot-to-trot fucking would come later.

“Well, thank you, D.H.,” she said. “You look pretty terrific yourself.”

I sat down again, and dinner all but finished, ordered coffees with Amaretto. Anisé changed that to coffee and Amaretto with a shot of Baileys thrown in for good measure--a serious after-dinner drink! “I miss him--James--that’s sure. God, I loved him,” she said of her husband, “but he left me two businesses to take care of, so there have been plenty of distractions, and after sitting down to learn how to run the things, we’re making decent money again; I’m not the only person who depended on him. I came by the conference here to take a break, and see what’s the latest, but this was a silly waste of money. That is, until tonight.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” I said. “If I took that ‘stuff’ back to the office, within 6 months I’d be training a whole new staff. Not worth it. But, too true, meeting you was more than worth the trip.”

The coffee spiked with Amaretto and Bailey’s arrived. We toasted ourselves, agreeing with our whole hearts that the “ambience” was not the best, and the seafood left a good deal to be desired. Anisé asked me if I’d like a proper seafood dinner. I said that indeed I would. Well, she just happened to know of a nice little place; by the water, light of the moon 5 days past full--we might even get the patio.

“Not close, D.H., but definitely worth the trip. Take my word.”

So I signed for the tab, Anisé tossed her purse over her shoulder, grabbed my sleeve, and out the bar, through the lobby and right to the curb we did go. She called for her car.

We were going in her car?

“Why, yes,” she said with some surprise. “Oh, did you think I was staying in the hotel.”

“Well, yes,” I said. “You mean you aren’t? What about the change of clothes, the hair,” I said. It turned out that she lived in these parts, had left that famous last conference session to fetch a soft-luggage suitcase, then disappeared into the women’s locker room, top floor to shower and change her clothes; stockings and dress, shoes and pigtail ribbons, oils and perfume.

Ah, me.

Outside, under the marquee there was a clean nip to the air (a kind of strawberry scent); we waited for the side man car-valet to bring the car. And Anisé and I stood side by side, sharing the intimate understanding that, indeed, we were going to sleep together and enjoy ourselves royally; though I suppose “sleep” was the last thing on our minds.

#

The car came; a vintage 1956 hardtop coup Cadillac, Brunswick green with custom naugahide top--whoa! Well, blow me down, and Heavens to Betsy! The interior was trimmed out with walnut, upholstery of burgundy leather with that aroma of buffed-up patina common to all great old cars. I must have looked about two-thirds slobbering envious, because Anisé immediately asked me if I’d like to drive (would I!), and slid across to the middle of the seat just above the good old transmission hump. I paid the valet and took the wheel.

What, I ask you, could be more decadent? The Caddy had everything but a crystal and chrome necker’s knob. The evening was certainly going our way; so far, so good.

The next moment was a kind of ballet. I closed the door, dropped the thing into Drive, and pulled into traffic while Anisé whipped out her cell phone. I put my arm across the back of the seat behind her shoulders while she punched up some numbers, simultaneously flipping off her shoes (stretching her toes and those long legs of hers)--be still my heart!--and spoke briefly with a guy named Mr. Jonathan. One hand holding the phone to her ear, and the other taking hold of my hand and pulling it warmly round her. Well, well; I turned my head to suck in the whole aroma of clean hair; ah, me. Was there a patio table available at 8:45, said she; well, in that case, reserve a table for two on the rail, if you please; meanwhile gesturing for me to hang a right. She popped the phone back in her purse, and said that it would take us anywhere from half an hour to 45 minutes to get there, so 8:45 seemed about right.

Fine with me.

Then she wiggled her butt closer, all but snuggling, adjusted my hand around her shoulders for comfort’s sake, and, nonchalantly taking hold of my knee, took charge of my lap. Then, just as nonchalantly Anisé leaned her face into my neck, kissed me with her warm lips, and said, “I like this. It’s been forever since I fooled around in a car.”

Okey-dokey!

“Next light, hang a right and look for the freeway,” she said, patting the inside of my leg with assumed affection. No hesitation here; been some time since I had felt a woman’s hand on my body--face, leg, knee, cock--anywhere.

As I concentrated on the downtown Seattle Friday-night-at-dusk traffic and the intersection, the turn signal and not crashing the car, she reached through her auburn pigtails, loosened the knotted straps of her dress back of her neck, then put her warm hand back to my thigh--caressing and massaging with lavish insouciance, raking up and down the pant leg with her nails (that sharp sound!). Coming out of the turn, I slipped my hand across the front of her dress, brushing my fingertips across the buds of her nipples.

Anisé turned her head and warmly kissed my neck again, tipping her tongue back of my ear, whispering, “Let’s play. Do you want to play, because I want to play. Let’s play ‘Cop a Feel?’ You know how to play ‘Cop a Feel?’” I assured her with a turn of the head, rubbing my neck against her moistened lips, that I certainly did.

So, without another word, I slipped my hand into her fragrant cleavage, her breasts soft to the touch and roundy, the aureole puckered up dramatically, and her nipples between my finger and thumb tight and “tasty.” Anisé nuzzled her head into my neck and licked her lips (that smack!), humming her delight at my touch, and stroked the inside of my leg and the bulge of my cock with the whole of her hot little hand. Ah, me.

And just that quick my pants were way too tight.

Now, here is a serious guy-thing; our first moment of truth. Not the erection; erections are always the least of it; no, at such times it is always the zipper. Standing up to take a whiz, for instance, well, I don’t know anybody who can’t do it with his dick in one hand and a drink in the other. But sitting down in the close quarters of a car--even a vintage old road hog like a 1956 Coup de Ville--a zipper is plenty of work for two hands; then add the fact that the guy is probably driving, and a situation, as the cops would say, is at hand.

But Anisé, who had apparently popped open her share of trousers, knew exactly what to do, and how to do it. Quicker than you can say power disk brakes; quicker than you can whip the double-steal sign to first and third; quicker than you can sing the chorus of Popeye’s spinach song; quick as a wink and nod, Anisé had the zipper down (that sound!) and had reached in, slipped her fingers clean through the fly of my boxers, taken my cock in hand, and liberated the source of my troubling fullness.

Great balls of fire, but that felt good!

Anisé looked down at my cock in her hand, stiffing up nicely (the crown smoothly shinning and those little lips all but smiling as she stroked me). “Well, hello, sailor!” she said, chuckling. “Henry is it?! Am I ever pleased to meet you! Oh, D.H., I do believe he’s glad to make my acquaintance,” giving my cock a shake. “And about time!”

“Absolutely!” I said, twiddling her titties, smoothing my hand through her cleavage to cup a breast and lift it, marveling at the silken smoothness, the utter luxurious heft. “As a matter of fact, I’d bet the ranch on that!” This was almost too good to be true. A woman who talked to my cock? And she wouldn’t be the first to give my cock a pet name, but Henry?

Well, we’d have to work on that.

“And what a great stout little fellow he is,” she said, and blew him a loud schmoochy kiss; that sweet puckery sound.

For those of you keeping score at home, my cock is seven inches, but girthful--the pride of the Bridgeport, Back of the Yards.

So. On we drove, lumbering along with the Friday night traffic toward the Interstate, all but oblivious to the people around us; me with my hot little hand down the front of her dress, caressing, teasing, playing with her breasts--tickling, pinching and twisting--fine tuning, we might say (and a fine little tune it was); squeezing my hand this way and that, light and smooth, tight and rough. Anisé casually stroked my cock with her nails and fingertips and the curve of her palm (me sucking breath through my teeth, yeow!, but, oh, that felt good!) as if it were the most neighborly thing in the world--like a back rub. Meanwhile, Anisé exhaled long, quiet sighs into my ear; kissing and licking me there; whispering, “Your cock is gorgeous! I just love the hot and rumply, smooth feel--I mean, Hen-eree! It gives me the tickles you-know-where.”

Tickles?

Jacking my cock gives her the tickles? Balls of fire, it has been a long time since I got myself a treat instead of a treatment while rolling through Oz. Have I hit the jackpot?

She started to laugh when my cock began to twitch. There is a difference, you know, between the involuntary doink! (nothing you can do about those, sping!) and the purposeful flexing of muscle (schwing!, salute!). And the thought immediately arises that I am about to get my very first coupe de Ville blowjob, and, by George!, we aren’t even to the freeway yet.

We stop for a traffic light and kiss. As if reading my mind (and it wasn’t that difficult), she kissed me, and sweetly said, “Now, now, D.H., let’s not get ahead of ourselves. As much as I’m itching for as you, there isn’t going to be anything on lips but lips till we get ‘home.’ We’re already way passed first base. Waste not want not, at least for now; let’s enjoy the hand jive, and the conversation. Oh, this is making me so horny! And did I tell you,” stroke-a-stroke-a-stroke went her fingers; squeeze-squeeze went mine, caress-caress, tweak-twist-pinch, “that I very much enjoy orgasms from titty-play. Let’s keep this game going, and the rest will be so much more delicious,” and she hunched her shoulder, squeezing my hand squeezing her breasts, “Oh-ho-ho,” she sighed, kissing the nape of my neck and slowly stroking my cock with all of her hand (yeow!), rolling her shoulders and twisting her butt as the pleasure melted from her nipples and breasts to her loins (more than moist, now, with anticipation); Anisé switching her thighs together--that whispery sweep-sweep of her stockings--her pussy sparkling with pleasure.