How I Met My WifebyDirty Old Man©
The dingy little beachfront bar darkened suddenly as the light from the open door was suddenly blocked. Every eye in the place turned instinctively towards the door, then stayed in awe of the man shaped shadow filling the doorway. The newcomer stood in the door for a few moments to let his eyes adjust before tipping his head clear of the lintel to come inside. He made his way to the bar and settled onto the end stool. A casual wave at the bartender produced a mug of draft beer that slid to a stop in front of the big man in the best movie western tradition.
"How much is my tab, Clancy?" The big man's voice rumbled effortlessly over the background conversation.
"Take me a while to figure the interest, O'Malley, what with you being gone these last six months. Would ye be planning on paying it, for a change?"
"Yeah, I'm going to pay it just as soon as you put a round for the house on it."
"I'll be seein' the color of yer money before I do that, O'Malley. I'm poor enough from supporting yer own capacity, without giving away drinks on yer worthless promises."
"Ah, Clancy, Ye wound me heart." O'Malley's imitation of Clancy's brogue was overdone, but the bill he waved had enough zeros on it to sooth any insult Clancy may have felt. "I won the big one, Clancy, and I'm celebrating with all my old friends now that I'm back home where I belong."
The two waitresses started taking orders, and Clancy started pouring from the top shelf as soon as the first orders for free drinks came in. Big Butch O'Malley just sat at the bar, joking and laughing with all of his new 'Old Friends' who came up to thank him. One lonely figure in a booth at the back of the bar caught his eye.
A lanky blonde man sat alone, nursing what appeared to be his third pitcher of beer, ignoring all of the fuss created by the free drinks. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but the lonely looking man looked familiar. Butch rose and gently separated himself from the crowd and went to the back of the bar.
"Byron! What's with the long face? Cheer up, man, and join in the celebration."
The lonely man looked up at Butch with bloodshot eyes.
"I can't find her, Butch. What am I gonna do? I can't live without her and I can't find her."
Butch wedged his massive frame into the booth across from Byron and waved a waitress over.
"I think Byron's had enough beer, Kaitlin. Bring him one of Clancy's famous hoagies and a pot of coffee -- on me of course."
As soon as Kaitlin left, Butch turned to Byron and regarded the only real 'Old Friend' in the bar. The drunken and bedraggled man sitting across from him was a stark change from the dapper systems analyst and sometime surfer dude he had last seen nearly a year ago.
Byron had mysteriously dropped out of Butch's circle of drinking buddies a couple of months before he left for the competition. Nobody had thought much about it as Byron often got obsessed with a programming problem and turn into a recluse for several weeks at a time. Usually he'd be out partying hard to celebrate solving whatever problem had obsessed him after a couple of weeks.
Butch hadn't thought much about Byron at the time, because he was busy training and preparing for the competition. Byron's current condition made him realize that this time it wasn't some programming problem his analytical friend was wrestling with.
Half a pot of coffee and a thick sandwich later, Byron started making a little more sense.
"Butch, I've met a girl -- no, a woman. Whatever, -- I met her and then lost her. I've got to find her again. She's the perfect woman and I've got to find her so I can convince her to marry me."
" Have you thought about hiring a detective?"
"I did hire a detective. I've spent a whole year trying to find her based on what he found out before I couldn't afford his rates anymore."
"OK, so this detective can't find her. What's this woman look like? What's her name? Just what is it that makes her so hard to find?"
"You've hit the nail on the head, Butch. The big problem is that I don't know her name, or even what she looks like. It's hopeless, Butch. I came in here today to get drunk because it's been one full year since I met her, and I don't want to be sober for my first anniversary without her."
"Byron, old friend, I have no idea what you are talking about. Start from the beginning for me and tell me everything."
"I don't see what good it will do, but I guess it can't hurt any worse than sitting here alone. Get Kaitlin to bring another pot of coffee while I go offload a pitcher of beer or two."
Byron had been gone for less than a minute, when Butch noticed a petite, and very sexy, young lady come in and sit at the bar. Clancy brought her a wine cooler, which she sipped as she looked around the bar. Butch watched her brush off a couple of over eager suitors before she caught Kaitlin by the arm and asked her a question.
Kaitlin thought for a few seconds, looked over at the booth where Butch was sitting, and whispered something to the woman. The woman picked up her wine cooler and swayed through the maze of tables to the booth next to where Butch sat. Byron returned at the same time, and they slid into their seats at the same time, sitting back to back in adjacent booths.
Butch turned his attention back to Byron's problem and put his interest in the woman out of his mind. Butch noted the strange look Kaitlin gave Byron when she delivered the coffee, but soon forgot about it when Byron began his story.
"I guess it's just as much fate that you're making me tell this story today, because it is a story about Kismet. That's the only thing even close to logical I can think of to explain how this whole thing is possible. Not that there's anything logical or rational about believing in predestination or fate. Anyway, it was one year ago today...
It had been a beautiful day, and a fine evening. I had spent all afternoon, and most of the evening, girl-watching in the amusement park and along the pier. Now, it looked like the only girl watching I'd be doing for the rest of the night was my collection of adult videos.
Storm clouds were visible on the horizon, and moving in fast. A strong wind had risen and was starting to swirl and gust, presaging the fury of the storm to come. It was doing nice things to women's skirts, lifting the short ones for a teasing view of scanty panties and pressing the long ones against lush feminine bodies to outline hidden delights.
The high clouds ahead of the storm were already blotting out the stars. The clouds quickly thickened enough to obscure a full moon -- if there had been one. I just hoped I'd make it home before I drowned in the rain. The odds didn't look good for getting home dry.
I was about halfway down the pier, working my way through the crowd, when the lights went out. Not just the lights on the pier, but every light within sight. The wind must have caused a massive power failure that blacked out the whole area.
With no moon or stars, the sudden darkness was like being inside a black cat deep in a coal mine.
The crowd went silent for about three heartbeats, and then groaned in unison. For a brief moment there was a spontaneous harmony that a choir director would kill to be able to produce on demand. Then everything dissolved into cacophony, with everybody asking what happened, people screaming and shouting, and the wind howling like the darkness was it's cue to go mad.
The crowd hung on the edge of panic for no more than a minute, and then just as suddenly calmed down for some reason. The screaming and shouting turned to squeals and laughter as the mood turned from borderline panic to one of shared adventure.
I started to work my way to the railing of the pier as best as I could. I discovered that I could still do some girl watching as I moved through the crowd. I actually had more fun than earlier, because I was forced to use the Braille method.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that several women also used the Braille method to check me out. It didn't feel like big hairy hands anyway. If any guys groped me, they had small soft hands.
The darkness was so complete that only one slap landed anywhere near my face. The one slap that landed is what led to a fateful meeting. It knocked me over the railing!
It actually wasn't that hard a slap, just well placed. Stepping back from the impact, I tripped over the chain guarding an access ladder to the beach, which sent me tumbling to the sand below. I landed flat on my back in soft sand. Except for having the wind knocked out of me, I was fine.
Naked, but fine.
The chain I tripped over had snagged on my swimsuit and ripped it off me as I fell.
I got up, muttering every curse I had ever heard and making up a few new ones. I brushed the sand off and tried to figure out how to get home without making a detour to jail. Suddenly, I heard a shriek above me. I instinctively looked towards the sound.
The next thing I knew, I found myself back on the sand, pinned by a body. I quickly determined it was a petite female body. An easy determination, since she landed in the perfect position for a sixty-nine.
Apparently, the chain I tripped over was collecting shorts that evening. At least I assumed that's where hers were. They certainly weren't covering her cunt! The only thing covering her cunt was my mouth. Or was that the other way around?
A convenient hummock of sand forced my face into her crotch. I couldn't help but breathe in an intoxicating scent from the delectable covering my mouth. When I gasped for breath, I could inhale only air filled with her luscious scent.
Now, up to this point in my life, I was not an avid practitioner of cunnilingus. I'd tried it a few times, but always found the smell to be a turn-off. Every cunt I'd had my nose near reminded me of juice drained from a can of tuna. Like all 'Macho Studs,' I'd occasionally joked about girls 'making my tongue hard.' I'd always considered that just a cliché; useful verbal shorthand for expressing how good-looking a girl was.
Imagine my surprise, when my tongue literally got hard!
It not only got hard; it escaped from the confines of my mouth to explore the smoothly trimmed cunt covering my face. I couldn't believe what was happening! My tongue had developed a mind of its own! It eagerly began exploring and tasting the delectable treat that was smothering me.
My tongue started with the crease between her labia and her thighs. It collected and savored the salty sweat from a day's worth of sun and exercise. While tasty, it wasn't the source of her intoxicating scent. Her soft and silky pubic hair was tasty as well, but it wasn't the source of the indescribable, irresistible scent either.
My tongue continued the search by tracing the contours of her pussy until they began to swell with arousal. The fresh moisture drawn to the cleft between her outer lips led my tongue to gently explore the folds between inner and outer labia. It tasted, touched and memorized each delicious frill and wrinkle it found. Here, at last, my tongue found the cause of the scent that was driving me insane. Alas, unable to find the source of the delicious moisture, my tongue lapped up every drop it could find, searching ever deeper. Her flavor lived up to the promise of her scent.
When the girl began to squirm and wiggle, my hands proved to be in cahoots with my tongue. They wrapped themselves around the girl's firm buttocks and pulled her tightly against my exploring tongue.
My tongue explored the texture and flavor of her inner lips. Stroking and massaging its way between them, my tongue continued to search for the source of the delicious fluids. It found more and more of her ambrosial fluids. Diving at last into a tight passage, it found a bountiful supply of what it sought.
I experienced a strange sensation, a kind of surrealistic tactile hallucination, when my tongue made its first exploratory penetration. It felt for a moment as if my tongue had gone completely through her to lick my own cock. When my tongue withdrew, the tongue on my cock withdrew as well, enhancing the illusion of licking myself through her body.
We teased and played like that for a few moments. Then, her warm mouth engulfed my stiff cock, breaking the illusion. She started gently sucking and nursing in concert with my tongue's explorations.
When my tongue withdrew completely for a short rest, she immediately tried to suck my brains out through my cock. She succeeded in her efforts to the point where I gave up rationalizing and making excuses. I surrendered to the moment and tried to suck her pussy dry. I even started squeezing her butt trying to get more out of her.
The taste of this girl's pussy was unlike anything I had ever encountered. The smell was better than her flavor. The texture of her skin was smoother than the finest silk money can buy and her pussy had more interesting folds and wrinkle to explore and taste than there are words to describe them in all the languages of the world. I'd always thought the ancient Greeks dreamed up the word ambrosia to describe something that was beyond description, but they had to be talking about the juice I was sucking from her pussy. I was absolutely convinced that there was no possible way I would ever taste anything better than what her pussy was producing.
I was wrong; there was something much better as I would soon discover.
Her mouth was either very experienced, or she was the greatest of natural talents. Whichever it was, she seemed to have established a direct connection to my tongue. The better the sensations she created in my crotch, the more I strove to duplicate them in hers.
We communicated using the blood supply to my brain. When I did something nice with my tongue, the suction on my cock increased, reducing the blood available for thinking. When my tongue strayed, the suction decreased and the blood supply increased enough to allow reconsideration of my actions. With the few blood cells not occupied with engorging my cock, I managed to experiment with different techniques.
She did not seem to be too fond of broad-tongued, doggy-style lapping if I continued for more than a stroke or two. Sucking and nibbling gently on her lips however, got reviews so good I nearly passed out from low blood pressure.
We fell into a sort of arrhythmic rhythm to our mutual explorations, establishing a non-verbal communication of what felt merely good, and what felt great. I was apparently more than a mouthful for her, because she wrapped both of her soft, gentle, hands around the portion of my cock not in her mouth.
As my orgasm approached, I concentrated my attentions on her clitoris, eagerly exploring the texture and resilience of this delightful little organ. I surrounded her clit with my lips, sucking and licking enthusiastically. Her reaction let me know in no uncertain terms that she enjoyed what I was doing. I continued to suckle and lick at her clit until we exploded in simultaneous fireworks.
As delectable and irresistible as her taste and smell had been before, what was produced by her climax was instantly addictive. I licked and sucked and probed the source of this wondrous ambrosia. I did everything but stuff my entire head inside her and wiggle my ears to encourage and prolong her climax. My entire universe and reason for existing narrowed to a need to bathe in her flowing juices. My tongue, lips, nose, cheeks, ears-- every part of me exposed to her orgasmic juices-- became an erogenous zone.
Every part of my face, even my hair, seemed to have a separate orgasm. Every little separate orgasm merged into a single massive climax unlike anything I had ever even imagined was possible.
My pleasure center overloaded and my brain shut down. My last conscious sensation was her ambrosia bathing my face as she ground her cunt into me.
I awoke to a driving rain trying to pound my naked body into the sand alongside the pier and overlapping peals of thunder shaking me to the bone. There was no sign of the girl. The near continuous lightning flashes provided enough light to see that I was alone on the beach. I scrambled for cover beneath the pier.
Wonder of wonders! As I scrambled for cover, I found my swimsuit lying in the sand behind the ladder. I also found a pair of bikini bottoms tangled with them. Miraculously, my swimsuit was wearable. There was only a small snag in the material of one leg opening. I donned my swimsuit and headed for home. I brought along the torn bikini bottoms without thinking.
The next morning, I awoke to a fine and sunny day. The previous night seemed like a dream. Well actually, it seemed like just the first of several dreams. There was a substantial wet spot on my sheets from ”nocturnal emissions." Strangely, the only thing I could remember about the night's wet dreams was the taste of her orgasmic juices.
I wrote the whole thing off as an aberrant dream and swore off anchovies on my pizzas. That is, until I noticed the torn bikini bottoms under my pillow.
In a fit of irrational anger, I threw the bikini bottoms in the trash.
Two weeks later, I had changed my sheets twenty-eight times and her bikini bottoms had taken up permanent residence under my pillow. I was totally obsessed with a girl I had no hope of ever finding. The only clues to her identity I had were the memory of how she tasted and the torn bikini bottoms.
Six weeks later, and six thousand dollars poorer, I had forty-four possibilities to check out. The private detective I had hired couldn't thin out the crowd any more than that. At least he wouldn't unless I kept up with his thousand dollars a week fee.
All forty-four girls had bought a new swimsuit the day after the storm. All wore the same size as the bottoms I had found. All had been at the amusement park or on the pier when the power went out. That was all the information that six thousand dollars bought me.
The rest would be up to me. All I had to do was meet each girl and convince her to let me suck on her cunt until she came in my mouth. That was the only way I could think of to find the one girl who produced that wonderful ambrosia I now craved. I knew that one of those forty-four girls was the woman meant for me to marry.
I just had to figure out which one she was.
"Byron, that has got to be the most incredible crock of shit I've ever heard. You make it sound like there are no other women on the planet except for this fever dream of yours from getting your gourd rattled falling off the pier."
"Somehow that reaction doesn't surprise me, Butch. Not coming from you, you're about as romantic as a mud brick.
"Still, I did meet, and eventually eat, every one of those forty-four women. Each and every one of them smelled and tasted like day-old tuna drippings. Worse yet, none of them could get me hard no matter how hard they tried. Whether it's a fever dream from a concussion, or this one woman is whom I'm meant for and no other; I can't say on any rational basis. I just know that I've got to find her, and there's no way it can be done."
The thump of a thick manila envelope landing on the table cut Butch's response short. It was several seconds before either of them thought to look around to see where they had come from. There was no one near their booth. Even the woman who had taken the booth behind Byron was no where to be seen.
Byron just stared at the manila envelope, which had his name written in a feminine hand in big letters on it. He slowly reached for it with shaking hands and fumbled it open.
Butch stare in awe at the stack of one hundred-dollar bills that slid out of the envelope as Byron tipped its contents onto the table. A thick letter was the last thing to slide out onto the tabletop. Butch picked it up and offered it to a shell-shocked Byron.