tagInterracial LoveHer Biggest Negotiation

Her Biggest Negotiation

byJulia K©

Waiting out front of the airport for an available limousine, I looked across at the beautiful Caribbean landscape off in the distance. The balmy temperature and tropical scenery were a stark contrast to the overcast skies and cold temperatures I had left behind at home that morning.

I was on the island of St. Maarten, for a week-long session of meetings of legal counsel in advance of the ratification of a pending international treaty. To be sure, there had been no complaints about location for the conference by those tasked with attending. The only caveat being the nagging assumption that there wouldn't be very many opportunities to take advantage of the beaches, French restaurants, or shopping while we were there due to workloads.

I had kissed my husband and children goodbye that morning, and wished that they could be there with me to see the breathtaking scenery.

Eventually, I was able to flag a limousine, which drove me north along an ocean road to the French half of the island (St. Martin -- St. Maarten being Dutch side). We lawyers from all the signatory nations were all to be encamped at the same luxury resort; and when I was shown to my lavish suite, it was all I could do not to drop my jaw. It was exquisite to say the least -- open terrace from the bedroom with panoramic view of the turquoise ocean; granite bathroom fixtures; even a sunken granite hot tub on the private patio. Looking around the room, I sighed when I thought I might not be able to take full advantage of a suite THAT gorgeous. Though I had come prepared with a couple of bikinis, I wondered if I'd ever have cause to wear one.

The conference began that very afternoon with a reception and a key note address; there looked to be more than a hundred people in attendance -- it seems that the beautiful location had discouraged many (if any) 'no shows'. The weather was beautiful but hot, and the air conditioning notwithstanding, we all felt a little silly in our formal business attire. We women could at least wear skirts and heels and summery blouses beneath our jackets.

Waiters brought us all flutes filled with Veuve Cliquot champagne, and a French delegate gave a welcoming speech. Afterwards, we were all milling about when a few members of the delegation from the United Kingdom arrived late. My eyes, indeed the eyes of every woman in the room, were drawn to a tall, strikingly handsome young black man in their group. Indeed, he looked too young for a lawyer involved in international law (at least relative to my forty-eight years), perhaps thirty at the oldest, and, though dressed in a beautiful grey suit, white shirt and black tie, appeared to be blessed with the body of an Olympic track and field athlete. He was absolutely gorgeous, and I think every woman in the room proceeded to undress him with their eyes.

The champagne flowed, and perhaps it was the Caribbean location, but the atmosphere was upbeat and effervescent, despite the serious work ahead of us that week.

At one point, I found myself standing alone out on the deck overlooking the ocean below; glass of champagne in hand. Suddenly, I heard someone approaching and turned -- it was the handsome young lawyer from England.

He smiled and introduced himself -- his name was James -- and relative to my 5' 1" frame appeared to stand in the neighbourhood of 6' 4". His voice -- accented with a soft, English accent -- was deep and incredibly sexy for someone so young (I later learned that he was all of twenty-eight). We began chatting about the conference, and I soon learned that his devastating good looks were complimented by an equally agreeable personality (not to mention gobs of charm). Indeed, he was quite the specimen -- youth, looks, charm, education, style, and a body that -- judging from the form-fitting, well cut suit he had on -- was fit for a Playgirl centrefold. Standing there chatting with him, I guessed that the trophy panties of his sexual conquests might already fill a trunk!

Though our conversation was completely professional, there was something in his penetrating eyes that made me feel like we were the only two people in the room. I felt myself blushing in response to his attentions. Though right-handed, some sub-conscious impulse made me bring my champagne glass to my lips with my left (and wedding-fingered) hand. I laughed to myself, feeling slightly silly -- I was old enough to be his mother (in fact, James was only a year older than my son, and two years older than my daughter)! That said, he was, as my daughter would say, "ridiculously hot".

Despite my better instincts, there was still something unmistakably flirtatious in his tone and demeanour; and as such, bizarre as it seemed that someone so young was paying me that kind of attention, I felt a girlish and playful tingle in my tummy that I hadn't felt in many, many years.

In my defence, I am by most accounts 'extremely well preserved' and look somewhat younger than my driver's licence declares. I am also considered quite attractive -- wavy mane of long, blond hair (albeit from a bottle now, to cover the all too obvious grey); sparkling green eyes; full lips, flat tummy, and a fit (though curvaceous and fleshier) figure. My hips are wider, and my bum far rounder than when I was in my twenties, but I was still very attractive to men. My breasts I was proud to say, though very large, remained firm and buoyant and had managed to stave off the gravity's worst.

Though hardly high maintenance, I am quite concerned with my appearance, and do all that I can to look my best and maintain my looks as I approach, gasp, fifty. As a self-acknowledged shopaholic, I make sure to always dress as stylishly as I can. On that particular day, I had my hair up and wore a black Dior skirt, white blouse, a set of pearls, and black Manolo Blahnik heels. Given the heat, I had opted to leave my matching black jacket in my suite -- one decision for most women in my situation to make; quite another for someone so conspicuously large-busted. Though opened to the appropriate button at the beginning of the reception, over the course of the day, I had undone a few more buttons on my blouse in response to the delicious tropical heat. Though by no means too daring, my blouse did afford a meagre glimpse of the lacy white (blouse-busting size 32DDD) bra beneath. I confess I had a little fun catching James stealing occasional peeks at the top of my tastefully-exposed (though still formidable) décolletage.

With the opening day's schedule concluded, we all retired to our respective suites for the evening. I had to admit, my encounter with James left me feeling a little buzzed and I found myself watching for him the next morning. In my twenty eight years of marriage, I had never strayed or been unfaithful to my husband; and though I didn't intend to change, my nascent fixation was something I hadn't felt before. I kept telling myself that I was being stupid; that beyond an innocent and harmless thrill, it was truly much ado about nothing.

Observing James from afar throughout the day's meetings and discussions, I couldn't help but notice that he garnered a great deal of attention from the female lawyers at the conference. There didn't seem to be a single issue that groups of women didn't feel compelled to 'discuss' with him. More than one of the other men must have felt slightly chagrined by all the attention he was getting.

That evening, I had just changed out of my business attire and into more weather-appropriate flip-flops, sleeveless tee, and short sarong, when the phone in my suite rang. To my surprise, it was James! I was completely taken aback, and found myself stammering a little when he invited me to dinner. With a smile on my face, I graciously accepted. I quickly changed into something a bit more formal, and the two us taxied our way to a lovely French restaurant in the nearby town.

It was impossible not to appreciate the incredibly romantic setting of the restaurant -- ambient lighting, flowers, the European flavour, and the fragrance of the Caribbean ocean wafting in from the water's edge.

The food was superb, the wine just as good, and the two of us happily sat across the intimate table from each other, talking about everything for hours. He genuinely fascinated me, and I seemed to intrigue him equally, judging by his attentiveness. Despite the difference in our ages, he seemed mature beyond his years, bright, and wildly engaging. We seemed to share so many interests. I couldn't understand how he could possibly be single.

At one point, perhaps carried away by the effects of the wine or the flirtatious conversation or both, my mood got the better of me:

"I hope you're not repulsed by this, but if I were about twenty years younger and not incredibly married, I would be summoning all my powers of feminine persuasion to seduce you, young man -- oops, did I say that??"

James flashed his perfect white teeth in a broad smile.

"Please," he countered. "First, you're hardly old; second, I'm wildly flattered not repulsed; and third, I would be very, very okay with you trying to seduce me, Sara -- you're an incredibly attractive woman."

My young companion proved to be extremely good for my ego -- his attentions, flattering compliments, and his ability to make me feel like the absolute centre of the room, was practically making me swoon. I found myself unconsciously fingering my wedding ring as the evening wore on.

We left around midnight, and the buzz of the evening and my young 'date's' quiet charm left me feeling a little light-headed. James, ever the gentleman, saw me to my door. There was an awkward pause -- the kind of pause where under different circumstances we would have kissed -- before I bid him goodnight. Leaning with my back against the inside of my closed door, I let out a soft sigh.

The next day, I found myself watching for him yet again, and felt a pang of disappointment when he failed to show (he finally appeared after lunch, looking incredibly 'dishy' as usual). Again, I felt like a silly school girl, but when I did see him I felt a conspicuous flutter in my tummy. I was absolutely loath to admit it, but in our short time together it seemed that I had developed an unmistakable crush on this twenty-eight year old young man! I shook my head at the realization and experienced the first genuine pangs of marital and parental guilt. It was all so crazy, not to mention implausible.

I had managed to talk myself down from the high of my naive little fantasy world when I became conscious of some very nice men's cologne in my orbit. I turned to find James smiling his million-dollar, panty-dampening smile. I demurred and blushed a little before smiling back. I think it was then that I first fully appreciated the intensity of the attraction I felt for him (and what he felt for me, unless I was completely deluding myself), despite the untenable situation: my marriage, children, and James' age.

Our meetings finished for the day by early afternoon. I told myself that under no circumstances would I initiate anything further, so was both excited and anxious when James invited me to do a little shopping and perhaps have an early dinner together.

The weather was glorious. We changed into casual clothes and walked along the ocean into the capital city of the French part of the island. The streets were quaint and charming, and dotted with the designer label stores you'd expect to see in Paris. In his fashionable shorts, polo top, and designer sneakers, James looked incredibly handsome. What was more, his casual outfit afforded me a better opportunity to fully appreciate his beautiful body -- broad-shoulders, narrow waist; all incredibly buff. It was hard for me not to drool. At one point, as we were crossing the street, a car flew by us travelling incredibly fast. James grabbed my wrist protectively, and I couldn't help but notice that he had incredibly large hands.

After window-shopping for awhile, we came across a store for my absolute favourite line of French lingerie. I had never been able to purchase any of their selections other than via online shopping, so my excitement at the chance of visiting one of their stores in person was considerable. I was prepared to do some serious browsing even with James there with me, but he decided to leave me to it by myself and try to find a wine store. We would meet me back at the lingerie store a bit later.

In the best French I could manage, after browsing all the beautiful bras and panties, I asked if I could try some on. Typically French, the store's change room facilities afforded one a lot less than total privacy. I slipped out of my clothes and tried on a beautiful matching bra and panty set in an incredibly delicate, semi-sheer turquoise lace. I must have been browsing longer than I thought, because just as I emerged from the change room to show the female sales clerk how it fit, James approached, wine store bag in hand.

I was slightly horrified, standing there in front of him in incredibly brief underwear. My nipples and pubic hair were distinctly visible through the semi-sheer fabric.

"Oh my god, don't look!" I cried with a bashful grin. "This is so embarrassing! Don't you dare make a face!"

I hurried back into the change room and closed the door, but not quick enough to deny James a good look.

With the most adorably sweet and reassuring tone of voice, James spoke to me through the slatted change room door.

"Sara, please believe me when I say that you are absolutely stunning. Your husband is a very lucky man. You have the sexiest, most beautiful body I think I've ever seen."

I could hardly manage a cursory 'thank you'; I was so touched by his kind words.

I objected vigorously when James then insisted on buying the bra and panty set for me as a present. I tried and tried to say no, but he would not back down. The clerk wrapped my purchases and we left. By that time it was already dusk, and as we made our way to a district that had been recommended for good restaurants, we came upon a little outdoor bar with live music. Couples were slow dancing to the sensual music. It was crowded and some were almost dancing in the sidewalk. Before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed James, drew him into the throng of couples, and started a slow dance with him. We both giggled playfully but soon let the music take over. I pressed myself against him and he held me close with his strong arms. His cologne filled my nostrils. I could feel his taut torso as we embraced. Finally, 'our song' ended and we stood apart, somewhat awkwardly, sharing a silent moment together, only smiling.

James quickly bought a long-stemmed rose from a street vendor and presented me to it. I was so touched. I smelled the flower's fragrance and kissed him softly on the cheek.

The initial rush of sentiment was followed by a wave of guilt, but I managed a sincere, heartfelt thank you just the same.

"Oh James, you are so incredibly sweet."

Still struggling with my feelings, he picked another ridiculously romantic location for dinner. This time our table directly overlooked the ocean, which was a mere ten feet or so below the ledge at our table. Again, the food and wine were beyond reproach; and again we settled into a long, enjoyable, immensely flirtatious conversation about everything from art to philosophy.

Eventually our conversation came around to sex. Once again the wine loosened my inhibitions and self-censorship. With as much understanding as I could offer my absent husband, I lamented the fact that paradoxically, as his sex drive had waned, mine seemed to increase exponentially. Indeed, I confessed, my desire for sex was sometimes unquenchable.

We talked about all the wonderful nuances and variations of great sex and passionate love-making, including the important distinctions between the two; and seemed to be in complete agreement about absolutely every aspect when it came to sex. I was left with the very strong impression that he was doubtless an incredibly capable and attentive lover; and that he knew well the finer points of making love to a woman. I silently envied the women who would benefit from his skill and passion in the bedroom. I had never been with a black man before, but my mind wandered to lusty thoughts, and the fabled sex mythology in respect of male penis size got the better of me for a moment.

I expressed my bafflement that he was still single, and suggested that there had to be a legion of young women banging down his door on a nightly basis. He smiled softly but averted his eyes, almost shyly, and looked down.

"Great sex, even just good sex, can be very elusive," he said quietly.

I said it was that way for us all, but he continued and I sensed that there was something that troubled him.

"It can be frustrating -- finding that someone you're physically compatible with," he continued.

I could see that there was something he wanted to talk about yet didn't want to talk about. Since I didn't understand what he meant, I asked him to explain. "What do you mean by 'physically compatible'" I asked.

"Never mind," he answered. "It's not important."

My female curiosity was piqued, and I could see that it WAS important to him. I tried to get him to tell me what it was with gentle teasing.

"Young man, you know I'm not going to let you leave this restaurant without telling me, right? I'm an incredibly stubborn woman," I said with a smile.

James smiled back, and then paused, choosing his words carefully.

"Let's just say that a lot of women turn me down."

"Turn you down???" I shot back. "Why on earth would they do that??? You're the sexiest man I've ever met! Are they crazy???"

"They just ... shy away from me" he replied, somewhat sadly.

His slightly sad tone touched me and I had to know more, so I pressed him. He asked that we talk about something else and I could see that he was wishing he hadn't brought it up. But my curiosity now had the better of me. As gently and diplomatically as I could, I pressed him one last time to explain to me why women could possibly be reluctant to make love to him. He paused again, searching for the right words.

"Women tend to shy away at the moment of truth."

"But why???" I asked, still incredulous.

"Let's just say that most women find sex with me to be quite uncomfortable and/or painful, at least initially."

When it finally occurred to me what he was referring to, I felt my face go flush and a wave of butterflies course through my tummy.

"Oh, I see," I said, no doubt showing my blush. I looked into his eyes. "You mean women are intimidated by your size?"

He nodded, looking away a little uncomfortably. I felt my heart flutter in my chest.

"Awww, sweetie. Really? I believe that when you really care for someone, you can overcome almost anything. There are things you can do ... to make it less ... I mean ..." I stammered.

"Not if the woman refuses to even try, or worse, if it just doesn't ... fit" he said.

As difficult as it was not to react to his confession with wide-eyed shock and awe, I tried my best not to sound TOO shocked or prying.

"My goodness! Really?? You mean sometimes you're too big to fit inside a woman's ... "

Again, he nodded.

I couldn't imagine something big enough to scare a woman off without at least trying. But then I thought about my own past.

"Can I ask, were these younger women?"

"Some," he answered. "But some were older."

"I see," I said. "Let me tell you a story from my own past. When I was much, much younger, I went to bed with a boy who was extremely large. I got scared and made excuses about not wanting to have sex before marriage, but the truth was that I was afraid he would hurt me. But when a woman matures, and certainly after she's had children, that fear goes away. In fact, sweetie, as women age, they become more and more turned on and excited about the prospect of sex with a man who's big. I'm almost embarrassed to admit this, but I regret turning that boy down to this day."

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byJulia K© 0 comments/ 84132 views/ 40 favorites

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