He Couldn't Say No Ch. 03

The sun on my back deck was warm as I sat sipping my morning coffee. I needed to head into my home office and get on my computer to deal with e-mail that had piled up over the last couple of days while I was wrapping up my latest divorce. God knows, I was going to need the money. Divorces are expensive.

But I wasn't quite ready to go back to the grind yet. I poured myself a second cup of coffee from the carafe I had brought out from the kitchen, lit a cigar, and let my mind wander. As my mind is want to do, it wandered to my favorite subject—women. "Yeah—well if it wasn't quite such a favorite subject for you, you might not be facing the expense of your third divorce," I told myself. "My problem is, and always has been, that women like me, and I just can't say no. Gets me into all kinds of trouble." I chuckled, "But they sure are fun."

Like Lisa, I thought. Lisa was a friend of Mrs. E's who, it turned out, Mrs. E had told everything to. Everything? Yes everything about how she had seduced me when I was still a virgin and we had spent the summer screwing our brains out whenever my parents and her husband weren't around. It turned out badly for Mrs. E, but that was because she couldn't keep her mouth shut—got drunk and told her husband about us in graphic detail. When I came home from college for my first Christmas break I was sorely disappointed to discover that the house next door was empty and for sale. It's not that I had been doing without while I was away at school. College girls are horny as hell, but they lacked the experience and generally nasty outlook on life that Mrs. E had.

But then I met Lisa:

I had barely returned home when my folks threw their big, annual Christmas party. They did this every year. There were forty or fifty people there. I had never been invited before—farmed out to relatives for the night. But this year I guess my parents had decided I was grown-up enough to attend and meet their friends. I would have killed to be included in the past, just because it was clear I wasn't going to be, but now that I was I was invited, I was convinced it would be a boring evening. I even discretely asked Dad if Mr. and Mrs. E were going to be present.

He frowned and said, "No. They have divorced and left town." He didn't provided any more details, and I decided not to press for any more.

I was right. It was a pretty boring party. My parents dragged me around introducing me to their friends who all asked the same dumb questions about how I liked college and what I was majoring in. I was beginning to feel like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate except there was no Mrs. Robinson (or in my case Mrs. E).

It was boring except for one five minute period. Well, actually that was boring too, but it turned out to be important. That was when I met Lisa. Lisa was a tall, slim blonde. Sure she was probably 15 or 20 years older than me I thought, but what a stunner. Her long hair was piled atop her head exposing a long graceful neck that would have made Audrey Hepburn jealous. She wore a black cocktail dress that would have exposed a lot of cleavage but for the fact that she was quite flat chested—a flaw quickly forgiven when I noticed that her short, tight dress outlined a truly stunning derrière which was perched atop an absolutely gorgeous pair of legs and was just below a narrow, almost wasp like, waist. And her face. She was absolutely gorgeous: sparkling blue eyes, flawless skin, high cheekbones, and a light-up-the room smile. I was stunned by her beauty.

Mom had barely introduced us when my father called to her from across the room, leaving me standing, more or less tongue tied, in a corner of our living room with Lisa.

"So you're Andrew," she said.

"Yup, all day today," I responded. "Thinking about trying out Slim for tomorrow." I had consumed enough wine and had enough boring conversations so that I was beginning to be a bit of a smart ass, at least when my parents were not hovering over me to monitor my conversations. Why I chose to do that with the most beautiful woman in the room was a mystery.

She smiled, started to say something, and then thought better of it and reverted to the standard "how's college, what's your major," conversation. I noticed my mother had finished a brief whispered conversation with my father and was about to rejoin us, so I gave polite answers and worked hard not to stare at her. Within minutes the conversation was over, as Mom moved me along to the next couple I was supposed to make nice with. It seemed like she rushed the conversation with Lisa a bit, but I thought nothing of it.

As the boring evening continued my mind kept wandering back to Lisa's beauty, but I was limited to observing it discretely from the other side of the room while I tried to make polite conversation with far less interesting people. I am relatively sure that Lisa's was the only name I remembered from that evening's introductions. It turned out that my brief introduction to Lisa was the most important five minutes of the party.

The next day I was hiding out in a coffee house over in Berkeley (Starbucks hadn't been invented yet). I was trying to get a head start on some reading I had to do for an English Lit class, and there was no way I could get it done at home, what with Mom popping in every few minutes to offer me cookies, or with some other reason to chat. I was sitting there plowing through some very dull Dickens when I heard a voice behind me that I didn't recognize.

"Hello Andrew. Or is it Slim today?"

I turned and looked. It was Lisa, dressed in a black sweater dress that stopped just short of her knees and was molded to her long, shapely body. Beneath it she had a pair of black nylons and flat shoes. Her long, blonde hair was down today, draped over her shoulders. It was a "Beat" look that I thought had gone out with the sixties. She was carrying a cup of coffee and a notebook, a black cloth bag hanging from her shoulder, apparently looking for a place to sit.

I looked up at her. "Oh hi. . . . Lisa, isn't it?"

She smiled confirming that I had her name right. "Do you mind if I join you? The place is full today."

"Please do," I said, and I meant it. The book was boring and her tits, clearly unconstrained by a bra, were the opposite. They were small, but oh so erotic. They sat low on her chest, barely lifting the cloth of the thin knit dress, except where her nipples stood high on her breasts like miniature twin peaks. I admit that prior to Lisa I had assumed that bigger tits were always better (What the hell. I was still only 18), but here was this tall, slim, beautiful woman standing before me with her small boobs covered, but still so exquisitely exposed. She was stunning. I closed the book and pushed it to one side making room for her coffee and notebook on the small table.

As she pulled up a chair and sat her feet brushed against my ankles. I carefully pulled them back making sure my parent's friend had room for her feet.

"Ugh Dickens," she said looking at my book.

"You know Dickens?" I asked.

"Unfortunately. I have a degree in English from Cal. Dickens is grim stuff."

"So far I agree."

"I'm sorry we didn't get time to talk at the party," she said, changing the subject. "My close friend used to live next door to you."

"You mean Mrs. E?"

She chuckled. "Yes. She told me you called her that. She thought it was cute."

She thought my dick was cute too, I thought. I blushed a little and said, "Well her name was hard to pronounce when I was little so that was just what I grew up calling her."

"I know. She told me. She never told me about Slim, though." She pushed an errant lock out of her face dipping her head just enough to give me a conspiratorial look as she spoke.

"Oh . . . I made that up last night. I guess I was getting a little bored with the party."

She smiled. "I see. Well Christmas cocktail parties can be that way, but I have known your parents for a long time so I always attend."

"How do you know my parents?"

"Mrs. E introduced me to your mother, quite a few years ago." Later she would tell me that she, Mrs. E, and my mother were a lesbian threesome in their youth, and Dad, well I'll get around to Dad later. It turned out my parents had a history I had never imagined, but Lisa waited on confiding those details until a bit later in our relationship.

"She did tell me about another name she had for you—Horse."

Oh oh. How much had Mrs. E told her, I wondered? I felt her foot brush against my ankle again.

"Really? I guess I don't recall that," I lied. It was the name she called me when she fucked me cowgirl style.

"Oh yes. She had other names for you, but I really shouldn't say them here."

I remembered. There were a bunch—Big Dick; Stud; Hung; Fuck Master; Man with the Golden Tongue; Pussy Licker. It was a long list. Mrs. E liked to talk dirty, and Lisa was right. Those were names that shouldn't be discussed here in this public coffee house.

"Hmm." I smiled. "Yes she did. And you're right. We probably shouldn't discuss them here."

Lisa smiled at me and I felt her foot caressing my ankle again.

"Just how much did Mrs. E, tell you?" I asked.

"A lot, but the interesting parts probably shouldn't be discussed here either."

"But, if they're interesting we should discuss them . . . shouldn't we?" Okay, I admit that comment was a come-on, but she was the one who was playing footsie.

Lisa had leaned back and slumped in her chair. Now I could feel her toes on the inside of my thigh. There was little question in my mind what she wanted.

"Can you think of somewhere else we should go?" I wasn't propositioning her, mind you, but she clearly wanted something more intimate than we could do here in a coffee house on Telegraph Avenue.

She smiled again, her blue eyes gleaming. " I have a house over on the North Side. It's on Euclid, just up past the rose gardens."

"Oh you live here in Berkeley?"

"Yes. It's the house I grew up in. I inherited it a few years ago when my father passed."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I miss him, but he lived a good life."

"And what do you do here in Berkeley?"

"Well, I'm going to school, but not here at Cal. I'm in graduate school at Stanford."

"Oh." I continued to be impressed by this woman.

"Yes. Part of the terms of my last divorce were that my ex would pay my tuition to go back and get my MFA in Stanford's writing program. I turned down the opportunity to do that when I married him. Just one of the mistakes involved in that decision."

"And they were still holding a place for you now?"

"Well sometimes it's not what you know but who you know. My late father was very close to the professor who runs the writing program at Stanford. There is no way he would turn me down. Plus he likes my poetry.

"Wait," I said. "You're going to Stanford, but you live over here?" She was still massaging my thigh with her toes. My dick was getting harder by the minute as I thought about how much fun it would be to play with her tasty looking little tits. I was beginning to have trouble processing everything I was hearing from her.

"Well, Palo Alto's nice, but I didn't want to sell the house here in Berkeley. I've always lived in Berkeley. It's so much more interesting than Palo Alto, don't you think?"

That was when she reached my crotch with her toes and, even though I had liked Palo Alto the few times I had been there, I couldn't conceive of anyplace in the world that could be more interesting right now than Berkeley. I was just fascinated by Berkeley right now. I reached down with my hand and begin to fondle her toes through the black nylon stockings she was wearing.

"Yes," I said. "I think we should move this conversation to your house on the North Side, before we get thrown out of here."

She retracted her foot and giggled, pushing aside a lock of her long blonde hair that had fallen in her face. "They won't throw me out of here. I own half the joint. Another benefit of my divorce."

"Oh." I was having trouble following all of this.

"Andrew, I'm not being fair to you." She leaned forward, holding her coffee cup with both hands. After a long sip, she said. " Let me fill you in a bit more so you know what you are getting into."

"Why don't we do that someplace less public." I suggested again. "I was really enjoying what you were doing."

"Oh you were, were you, you dirty boy. She told me you were a dirty boy."

"She?"

Lisa smiled. "Sheila."

I gave her a blank look.

"Mrs. E."

"Oh." I smiled and looked down slightly embarrassed, I hadn't remembered Mrs. E's first name. "Yes, well, what can I say. I guess she brought out the worst in me."

"That not the way she described it, but let's go to the North Side. We can be more comfortable there."

It was a little awkward walking out of the coffee house with a big boner showing plainly through my jeans, but . . . when you are 18 you gotta do what you gotta do, if you want to get laid. Ten minutes later I was sitting in the corner of a couch in the living room of a big house in the hills of Berkeley's North Side. Lisa was sitting opposite me with one of her stocking clad feet in my lap. The other leg was splayed out to the side and resting on the back of the couch, her knit dress pushed well up on her hips. I resumed the foot massage I had started at the coffee house. Her stockings were thigh highs, leaving me a clear view of her panty clad pussy.

"Umm," she said. "That feels nice."

Then to my surprise she returned to her explanation of who she was. I massaged her foot and listened as my dick grew ever harder with the movement of her heel on my growing erection.

"Like I said," she continued. "I grew up in Berkeley. My father was an English professor here at Cal. When we went out for pizza we went to a Beat place down in lower Berkeley where I could have my pizza and my Dad could listen to Beat poets reading their poems. He wrote a lot of reviews of what was considered modern literature then, and as a result there were always writers and other literary types hanging around the house—people like Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Kesey, Burroughs, Gary Snyder, and on and on. As you might expect I grew up as kind of a hippy chick of the sixties. By the time I was 18, I was writing my own poetry and getting help with it from all these big names that hung around the house."

"And your mother?" I asked.

"Oh she disappeared into some commune up in Sonoma when I was 8 or 10. That was when Dad divorced her. Before that she was drunk or stoned most of the time. I was basically raised by my father."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Growing up with my father and all his literary friends was great. I was a bit of a wild child, but I had a great time."

"So you didn't miss having a mother to fuss over you and what not?" I asked. I kept massaging her foot with one hand, and I let the other hand begin to caress her calf.

"Oh yes. That feels so nice." She curled her toes down as I let my fingers lightly scrape the underside of her foot.

"And your Mother?" I asked, returning to the subject of mothers. Somehow, I felt it important to let her go through the story of her childhood.

"Nope. Never missed a fussing mother because I never tried it. Some of the women poets who hung around used to fuss over me, but they weren't around on a regular basis and most of them had their own drug problems."

"There were women poets too?"

"Of course. They just didn't get to be famous like the men because publishers wouldn't print their stuff—bastards."

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Bastards." I didn't know much about the publishing business in the late 60's, but sometimes it is a good idea to agree with people.

I pulled her foot up to my mouth and began sucking on her toes. She gasped a little.

"There was one thing I learned from my mother. That was to stay away from the drugs."

"So you managed to grow up in Berkeley in the sixties and not do drugs?" I had a hand gently caressing the inside of her thigh now. Her foot was lying on my shoulder.

"Oh I tried them all, but watching my mother make a mess of herself with drugs and booze convinced me to let them go on by. Nothing beyond a little dope now and then. I only had one real vice growing up."

I had slid toward her and my hand had reached her panty clad sex by this time. It was damp.

"And what was your childhood vice? Did you smoke?" I was softly massaging her pussy lips through her panties. She lifted her hips and pulled her dress above her hips to give me better access. Now she was lying with her hips on my legs and her legs splayed widely, one over my shoulder and the foot I had been fondling dangling just off the floor. One of her hands was massaging my cock through my jeans and the other was playing with her tits through her dress.

I pushed the gusset of her panties to the side and slid a finger into her. She was dripping wet and deliciously warm. She gasped, "Oh fuck! That feels good."

"And your vice?" I asked again. Now I had two fingers in her cunt. I was pushing them in and out and she was lifting her hips on each stroke to meet them.

She laughed at me. "You know what my vice was you dirty boy. It was the same as yours and everyone else's—sex."

I twisted my fingers in her cunt and she gasped.

"So you started early? Were you sleeping with those beat poets that were hanging around the house?"

She laughed again. "Are you kidding. My father watched me like a hawk until I was 18. He wouldn't let those randy bastards near me. The only thing I had to make love to was my trusty right hand, which , based on Mrs. E's stories of you, was pretty much what you did too."

I laughed, "Yeah, pretty much." Actually totally, I admitted to myself.

"When I was 18, Dad took me to a gynecologist got me on the pill and then told me to go to it. 'Just don't do anything I wouldn't do.' Given the number of grad students and coeds he brought home and fucked in the 'Crow's Nest,' that wasn't much of a limitation."

"The Crow's Nest?" I asked, still finger fucking her with a rhythm matching her pumping hips. She had released my pants and liberated my cock from its imprisonment. She was stroking it with a delicious twisting motion.

I rotated my fingers and she gasped. "Wow! As she threw her head back."

Returning to the conversation when I paused my assault on her pussy, she said, "Ahh . . . Yes. It's a part of the house where he took all his women for sex. . . . Oh god that's nice. . . . I'll show you later." She reached behind herself and tugged at her dress pulling it over her head. Her tiny breasts were as beautiful as I had imagined.

I decided her panties were getting in the way so I grabbed them and yanked them down. She held her long legs in the air, feet together, as I slid her panties up and over her feet, and then tossed them across the room, leaving her naked, but for her stockings. Then I grabbed her hips and twisted her around as I dropped to my knees on the floor. She was lying naked on the couch, her long hair draped over the back, and I was kneeling between her splayed legs examining her luscious looking pussy. It was guarded by a thin bush of silky blonde hair that hid nothing. Her lips were thin and pink, engorged enough to reveal the wet flesh behind them. Her clit, surprisingly large for the rest of her relatively delicate features, was protruding, just begging to be licked.