Moist Lips

With her standing there, she looked so naked, so vulnerable. I ached to hold her, to kiss her neck, smell her hair and perfume. But, of course, if I did any of that our relationship likely would be over. She probably would want to fly home. I accepted it. For the moment, there's no other choice.

We head to the beach and spend a rather marvelous sunny day reading under an umbrella, taking long walks, and splashing in the surf. But it's her breasts that I can't get off my mind. The idea that she let me watch. I felt naughty doing it, as if I was 10 years old and watching my mother through a keyhole. We drop by an open-air fruit and vegetable market in the afternoon, then eat dinner at a raw bar, sitting outside right on the restaurant's awning-covered deck that overlooks the ocean. Even there, as we are sucking down oysters and drinking chilled white wine, I'm reliving the naughty feeling. I know that when I am old, I will remember that moment, maybe with my last breath.

Back at the condo -- and it is very nice, modern and comfortable -- we sit on the deck that looks out onto the night ocean. In the shadows below, people down on the beach are taking walks, most of them holding hands, a few kissing. We watch. In the darkness, they are like ghosts.

At dinner we had talked mostly about the stock market, or rather, I listened as she explained her theories, which I would never argue with since I've now made even more money from her tips. I still think maybe she's a broker in real life. But I don't ask.

But here, back on the deck, the conversation shifts to me as we talk in the dark. Who are my past girlfriends? I tell her. Am I seeing anyone now? "No, not for awhile." What kind of women do I like? "I don't know." I want to say "her" kind. Who among them was best in bed? I don't answer, knowing that she won't be on the list, ever.

"Albert, are you frustrated that I'm not sleeping with you?" she asks as we sit in the dark.

She's beside me in a lounging chair with her legs and feet pulled up against her in the chair, arms around her knees. Her summer dress is falling to about mid-thigh. In the dark, my view is muted but I can sense that the dress is loose and could slip even further exposing all of her ivory thighs. I feel a nakedness about her that is making me hard.

"Am I frustrated? Yes, and then some," I finally answer as I'm sweating, even in this breeze. "But mostly I'm just mystified." I say nothing more, just sit in silence and listen to the waves 300 feet away. At this time of night, the surf and wind mix into a salty and slightly fishy smell that I have over the years grown to love.

"It really is just who I am," she finally says. "But did you at least like watching me show you my breasts? And my nipples, I made them stiff just for you?"

"I loved it, Alexandra, which probably means I'm on the road to become a creepy old voyeur."

"Would you like to see more?"

There's no waiting for an answer. She leads me to my bedroom and tells me to sit at the end of the bed. She takes off her summer dress, and there's only wedding-white panties beneath them. They look like underwear from the '50s, high-waisted and slightly loose. But on Alexandra, they are somehow erotic.

"What do you think I look like with my panties off?" She asks me this, sitting on the edge of the bed.

I think this is all a game, her game, and asking me these questions is part of it. So I play along.

I feel more open to her, probably because she's in front of me nearly naked, she's been talking about sex and reading me erotica for hours, and we're both a little buzzed by the wine we've had at dinner. So, I speak my mind, saying things I would never allow myself otherwise.

"I think your vagina is probably small, since you're slender. And I'd guess it's smooth. And perfect. Are you going to show me?"

"In a minute. And do I have hair?"

"I think not. I'd say you prefer clean shaven," I'm merely guessing on that one.

"What do you think I smell like between my legs?"

"I don't care. Whatever it is, it is you, and nothing else matters," I say.

She smiles her approval. "Like I said, you are so diplomatic."

"Let's see," she whispers.

She stands beside the bed and, with her eyes not wavering at all from mine, she slowly pulls the panties down to her knees where they drop effortlessly to the floor. I stare. She does have hair, but just a bit above her slit, which is indeed small, and a little more hair is curling lightly around the edges. It's all blondish with a hint of brown. I am past getting an erection. Every bone in me is now aching for her. My heart is skipping beats loud and hard. I can sense my own pulse.

She sits on the bed, leans back against the headboard, raises her knees up and parts her legs wide for me to see, sitting just three feet from me. Just seeing her open thighs adds to my weakness. Her panties on the floor are wet in the crotch. Her slit even wetter. With the middle finger of her right hand she begins tracing around the outer edges of her vagina. Very lightly, barely touching. She looks back and forth from me to her sex, making sure I see it all. I can tell that everything between her legs is slippery. Then she moves her finger inside a little and with her other hand, opens herself up for me to look more. It is all pink. She dips a finger deep inside and pulls out clear liquid, rubbing it in circles around her clit until it gets stiff and I can begin to actually see it.

"I love doing this," she says, in a voice that's now getting raspy from her own desires that are building. "I can sit back and explore my pussy for hours and never get tired of it. Sometimes I do this in front of a mirror. There are so many nerves, so many good feelings that I can conjure up. Nothing like it. So good, so good . . ."

Her words trail off, her head leans back, eyes closed as she transports herself into some other dimension, where no one else is invited. I watch her fingers now start very lightly tapping her clit in rapid fire movement. She works her fingers faster, licks her lips with her tongue. Her eyes flutter. She's not really seeing anything. She comes, jerking her pelvis back and forth on the bed, breathing heavy, groaning, at first quietly, then unashamedly loud.

She lies silent for a few moments, her dark eyes gazing somewhere off in the distance. Little after-shocks are still cascading through her. It's amazing to watch her body tremor. There's a wet spot on the bed under her. After a while, and still not moving, she looks at me. "Any thoughts?" she asks. I shake my head no. "I don't know what to say."

"Do you want to masturbate?" she asks. "You can. I don't mind. I can watch." I tell her no and she doesn't force the subject. She leaves the bedroom and doesn't seem to come back. Eventually, I undress and go to bed, masturbating by myself into her wet panties picked up from the floor. I decide that she deliberately left them for me to do just that. But at some later point, as I'm lying in the darkness replaying the event, she comes back in, dressed in panties and a pajama shirt and crawls onto the bottom of the bed at my feet. She lies down.

"I just want to be near you tonight. Is that okay?" she asks. We sleep like that. My dick is very hard most of the night.

* * *

Breakfast and then the beach on a bright sunny morning. Everyone's out in the waves early. The sun and surf are totally rejuvenating for both of us. We read, talk about where else we'd like to travel, honing in on Europe. We sneak wine onto the beach and sip it in plastic cups. A good hour is used up people-watching. I note mentally that Alexandra's eyes wander as much toward attractive women strolling past us on the beach as they do toward men. I've grown to really like the fedora she is wearing, even with her swimsuit.

By early afternoon a summer storm bears down, coming east from out in the Atlantic, driving everyone indoors. We sit on the sofa, watching the rain through the condo's glass doors leading to the deck. The gentle waves of the morning are now snarling and breaking wildly. The sea and the sky are both gray, making the horizon indistinguishable. The rain is heavy and unrelenting.

She has changed from her swimsuit to a simple white slip. She has nothing on underneath. It reminds me of my mother before she aged, but I don't want to think about that. Alexandra reads more erotic fiction to me, this time really explicit poems that are 300 years old, from the Ming Dynasty in China. Where she gets these books I don't know. Her nipples get hard as she reads, we both are flustered. The book has erotic line drawings for each poem. She leans over to show them to me. I feel the warmth of her nearness, smell perfume. Her breast rubs against my arm. It's okay for her to touch me, I guess. I just can't touch her back. We ponder what all is transpiring in the drawings.

After reading a half hour, she opens her laptop and punches in Beethoven's Symphony No. 7, Allegretto, which she thinks is sensual and eerie at the same time. She's right about that. The orchestra fills up the whole condo, reaching crescendos and sweeping around all the rooms. She's playing it loud, and seems lost in the music for awhile. But then . . .

"Let's play," she says.

She leads me this time into her own bedroom, sitting me on the bed, my back to the headboard, then takes off her slip -- each time I lose my breath when she lets me see her naked. I could write endlessly about how intoxicating her ass is to me: soft, delicate, and that long thin divide between her hips so full of dark mystery. She climbs onto the bed on all fours with her ass facing me, as if I'm supposed to fuck her from behind.

Alexandra rests her head on the bed and, looking back at me, uses both hands to reach around behind and caress her hips, lightly stroking all around, then just as lightly gliding her hands down between her hips. She bends over a little farther, which somehow opens up her ass so that I am looking at her small anus. She is so relaxed about all of this.

She tells me to open the top drawer of the dresser and bring her the white towel that's wrapped up. As I give it to her and sit back in my place, she unfolds it, bringing out a bottle of baby oil, which she pours onto her fingers. I watch as she begins caressing, spreading the oil up and down between her hips, then to her anus which she circles over and over, until it gives way and her finger slips easily into the dark hole that is now slippery. She sighs.

"It feels so exquisite, so exquisite," she says. "Can you tell how good it feels, Albert?"

"Exquisite" is the only word I can get out as I'm transfixed on her finger sliding in and out.

"You like?"

"Absolutely," I say.

"Good. There's more."

Now, she pulls a string of anal beads from the towel, gives me the baby oil and asks me to lubricate it for her. I pour the oil on my hands, then grab the beads, about a foot long, and run them through my hands over and over to oil them up. They are a soft plastic and feel good, even in my hands. I've watched this done in porno movies. But it's the first time I've even seen this contraption in person, much less prepped one for a woman.

She takes them and puts the end with the smallest bead at her hole and pushes in, every 10 seconds or so pushing in another bead, each one a little larger until the largest, about the size of a golf ball, is inside. Only the holding ring is outside her ass.

She's already sighing. I'm speechless. Her ass still looks delicate, but now defiled. I am hard but am breathing too heavy. I try to calm down.

Not done yet, Alexandra unwraps a fold of the towel and takes out a vibrator, nothing fancy, just a simple straight-on vibrator. It's something else I have seen only in movies and web sites.

"When I start coming, Albert, you begin pulling the beads out one by one, slow at first, okay? I'll tell you when."

How can I say anything but "Okay."

As she lifts her head up and braces herself with one arm, she takes the vibrator in the other hand, reaches down between her legs and puts it on her clit. She can somehow keep her head turned to see me and my face as I watch. I realize she needs to see my face whenever I look at her body. For about three minutes she works the vibrator, with no sound other than Beethoven, the hard rain and the buzz of the vibrator surrounding us. As she gets close, she turns the speed up, prompting almost immediate groans and inarticulate words from her. She stiffens, arches her back and opens her mouth in a silent scream.

She tries to speak but it comes out only in a whisper. "Now." I reach up to grab the ring, mindful still of the rule not to touch. I pull out the largest bead, then the next. "Faster" she says softly, so I pull more, doubling the speed. She moans, says a few more words. "Fucking sweet" are the only ones I can decipher. "More. Faster," she then says, but now it's almost inaudible. She's incoherent. Losing all contact with this world. I begin pulling out in a steady stream, watching and listening to the little "pop" as each bead is freed of her tight anus. She is in the throes of an enormous orgasm. I can tell from her facial contortions. But she's soaring through it quietly. The last few beads are expelled by her own internal muscles, that she's lost control of, pushing them toward me. Her body tremors for a few minutes.

Then she's still, resting. I, on the other hand, am in agony. In a few minutes, she sees this and orders me to stand up beside the bed. She's up too, unsnaps my shorts, which fall to the floor, then pulls down my boxers. Reaching down on the floor, she picks up those delicious vintage panties and lays them on the bed in front of me.

"Jack off onto them," she says. It's the first time that I'm naked with her.

She doesn't hesitate. "Now!, Albert." It's a command and I'm too weak, too far gone to resist. I pick up the panties to wrap them around my very hard dick. She tells me "no." She lays them back on the bed. She wants to see my sperm shoot out. I'm in no condition to argue. There's no modesty left for me. I stroke myself no more than three times, then shoot my sperm strongly onto her panties while she watches. It seems like I keep coming forever, days' worth saved up for this moment. For some reason I feel ashamed. "You needed that," she said.

Alexandra begins to walk away, turns and comes back to me. She reaches over and kisses my cheek.

"By the way. You have a delicious looking dick. I love its thickness."

And with that, she heads into the living room, puts her slip back on, picks up her cellphone and begins rummaging through the latest stock news. I'm back on the bed lying in absolute shock.

* * *

We sleep through the rest of the afternoon rain, talk about cheesy horror movies, then walk the beach for a quarter mile to a seafood restaurant for lobster and white wine. She asks me a lot about my course teachings, but I can tell she knows almost as much as I do about American history. I realize she's much smarter than I am. On the walk back there's no moon, so it's especially dark. And the surf is pounding loudly. We're holding our sandals and walking barefoot on the still-wet sand after the rain. There are some other people also walking, but not many.

"You know, Albert," she says. "I saw you a few weeks ago at the club. I could see you in the audience sitting in the back. You know I'm 'Moist Lips.' And I'm okay with that."

"I didn't think you'd want me to know, since it's part of your private life."

"I deliberately left that card for you that showed our burlesque group," she says. "It was no accident. I wanted you to know who I am. To see if you would still want to be friends. I thought you might be put off. But you weren't, were you?"

We're best friends, I say. "Nothing else matters." I'm lying, of course. My heart feels like it's dying, I want her so bad.

"But you still don't really get me, do you," she comes right back at me, seemingly frustrated.

I ponder it a few seconds, then say: "You like me to watch, you just don't want to have sex with me."

"It's more complicated than that," she says. "I have sex with men, always have, though not very often right now. It's nice, it feels good, but it doesn't really do it for me. It doesn't ring my bell." I smile at her analogy.

She tells me that exhibiting herself, as naughty as possible, is what gets her off.

"But not to just anyone, not flashing," she says. "What I want is to show myself to someone close, a best friend, someone I can trust, yet someone whose friendship is totally incongruous with me being naked and having sex with them. That's the thrill."

"Don't you understand. If I do these things with you, then turn around and fuck you, it takes away the thrill. For me, it becomes just sex. I can have sex with anyone. But the real excitement, my only orgasms are from being with you, being wicked and vulgar and naughty with you, someone I'm not supposed to be doing this with."

"Don't you see, Albert? You're my personal audience of one. If we become lovers, eventually I'll have to find another Albert. And I don't want to. I like the one here now."

But, she acknowledges that this probably can't work for me.

I nod in agreement. "I don't exactly know what to with my own needs, Alexandra?"

"I'm not easy am I, Albert?"

"No. You're not." We leave it at that.

After a few minutes of walking quietly, I say this: "If you have no desire to flash the public, why do you go on stage as Moist Lips?"

"I want to see," she says, "if I should branch out and face an audience of strangers. What I've found is that there's no particular thrill in showing my ass to a crowd of men. But, I realize that I kind of like doing it in front of women. I've only recently begun admitting it to myself. I want them to watch me. I like to think I shock them, maybe make them wet. Make them want me. It's a new impulse, one I haven't had very long."

You do have that effect on them, I tell her. "What I saw in their eyes that night at the club was desire to do what you're doing, to have the guts enough to expose themselves to a lot of people. They weren't just lusting after you, they were jealous."

"You think?" she says. "God, that makes me so hot."

We walk on. She's quiet awhile. I can't go any farther. Too much wine. I have to take a leak. Is that okay, I ask. "You think I'm going to complain?" she shoots back a little too gleefully. She watches as I unzip and pee onto the sand. I kind of like her watching. I'm almost hard and I like her seeing that, too. I wish she would reach out and feel my dick. She doesn't.

When I zip back up, she gets playful. "Hey, you know what? I can write my name in the sand."

"I'm supposed to be impressed?" I ask.

"No, no. I mean I can pee in the sand and write my name. Or at least I can get to 'A-l-e-x-a-n.' I stream out before I get to the last three letters. It's quite a cool thing. Want to watch?"

She hikes up her dress to her waist, no underwear of course. Alexandra, I tell her, there are people walking toward us. "Okay, as soon as they pass," she says. She drops the dress just as the couple get close, but they both get a glimpse, probably enough to see her pussy, and both knowing exactly what she is getting ready to do. My guess is she was doing it for the woman, to get her reaction. I'm beginning to understand her better.

And after they walk by, she raises her dress again, telling me to stand behind her and look over from behind her shoulder so I can read her "writing." She's holding the dress with one hand, using the other on her pubic hair, with her fingers dipping below, magically manipulating herself. She pushes her pelvis out. A startling huge burst of pee shoots out at first, arching maybe two feet in front of her, spraying the sand. Then comes a steady stream and she gets to work, spelling each letter out loud. Sure enough, she makes it only to the last three letters and runs out. She dribbles some on her thigh and doesn't bother to wipe it off. For some odd reason, I'm turned on by that.