Ms. E in 4Cby4ofSwords©
"You'll need to nuzzle in deeper than that to lick me, Honey." Ms. E's voice was a gentle contralto - just as calm and pleasant as it was when she greeted me in the hall.
"Are you going to crack my head like a walnut again?" She'd pulled up her skirt so our eyes could meet, and she could see that I was smiling.
"I'd never." But we both knew that she would - or at least her plump thighs would try to when she was on the verge of orgasm. The truth was that I really didn't mind, but I liked to teas her.
I gave her thighs one last kiss. I always started by kissing her thighs - her skin was so soft there, so supple that it begged to be nibbled and licked. When she wore nylons (and she often did) I couldn't ignore the curve where her pale skin blossomed fleshily out of the top of the lacy band - I was an addict.
Her legs shifted position, and her round bottom lifted from the comforter as I slid further into the vertex between her thighs. She cinched her skirt up to watch me and flinched, giggling when my lips pressed against her panties. This week her panties were cotton, but a sleek black printed with tiny purple flowers; they were always pretty and feminine. And as always, they were new - the creases had been ironed out, but they still smelled faintly of plastic beneath her subtle perfume and her own, stronger odor. I sucked them into my mouth until they were slick with my saliva, until I'd leeched out both the light dew of her anticipation and the slightly bitter stain of some excitement earlier in the day when she must have soaked them through. I often found her new panties previously (or still) moist, and I liked to imagine that she'd spent the whole morning at church thinking about the afternoon. I imagined her sitting on a hard wooden pew in my mental image of some generic church, pretending to focus on a hymnal, crossing her legs to contain the warmth flowing in her loins, but squeezing her thighs tight and squirming just enough to cultivate the pleasure of her clandestine fantasy.
For a minute or two I pushed my nose into fleshy part of her mons while I tongued and nibbled at the bulges of her labia through the screen of her panties, but that was just a wicked tease for both of us and she'd soon slipped the panties down her legs to drape around one of her ankles. It was important to her that she be the one to remove her panties herself, so while they were in place I didn't probe with my tongue or finger or push the crotch stirrup away for better access. And I pretended not to notice the pause when she pulled away from me to remove her panties. But when she settled back into place, providing my face with a full view of her luscious pussy (lit by the curtain-filtered afternoon sun, half shadowed by her crumpled skirts and angled thigh like she'd hired a cinematographer to frame the shot) - that's when I really began.
She enjoys it more than I do - or at least I hope she does - but I love it. I love going down on Ms. E. Her bush isn't shaved, but she keeps it neatly trimmed; the short, glossy brown curls frame her labia without really getting in the way. Then again, a good nibble in the brush excites us both, and it's worth the occasional hair in the mouth for a nostrilful of the scent that lingers there. I loved her smell and her taste, not because it was remarkably different from other women I'd gone down on, but because it suited her so well. She was musky, earthy, but clean and with a delicate hint of some floral perfume.
She and I were both patient, so I took my time tracing her inner and outer labia with the tip of my tongue, slowly swiping from bottom to top with wide, wet strokes that left her glistening, or sucking lightly at the bulge of her clitoris still hiding beneath the hood - whatever I felt like and whatever made her sigh and say, "Yes... like that, Honey." We paced ourselves and built slowly through the steadily increasing waves of her pleasure, so while she'd crest, running her fingers through my hair and pulling my face against her for better friction while her hips bucked, she'd take a deep breath and let go again after a moment so I could begin again to build her up again. Each crest - each time the passion overwhelmed her sense of restraint and she forcefully took her pleasure from me instead of letting me lick her - came stronger and lasted a little longer, until at last, in the midst of a session of deep, throbbing grinding that had buried my nose and lips and chin and left me breathless, the big wave came. Her calves crossed over my back, her thighs clamped tightly around my cheeks and ears, and her hips arched off the bed as she spasmed and gasped. I knew to hold my breath, because she'd keep me there, clenched in place until she'd spasm again and maybe again, then push me away as urgently as if my face was on fire.
We both lay in the bed afterward while we caught our breath, and we chatted a bit. I mentioned that I liked her panties this week, and she told me how I'd done particularly well by her today, but soon I was in the guest bathroom washing my face while she changed and started to prepare lunch.
* * * * * * *
So, yes, we had a routine, but don't call it a rut. We both enjoyed it. I don't remember exactly how or when it started, but it must have been pretty soon after I moved in, because it seems like it's been forever. I have the J unit on the 3rd floor; she has condo C on the 4th - the one with the balcony big enough for more than a couple potted plants on the rail. We probably spoke a dozen times in the lift up or the stairs down, or down by the mailboxes. She was older than me - I guessed in her late 40's or early 50's - so at least fifteen to twenty years my senior - but there was still more brown than gray in her roots each month before she had her hair styled. She dressed fashionably and drove a nice car where the rest of us on the lower floors shopped at JC Penney and walked to work or rode the subway, so I suppose she had a good job, but we never spoke about it. She was the kind of woman who would have always been described as "having a pretty face." She did, too: a pert nose that looked a little more black than Puerto Rican - full, expressive lips - hazel irises that seemed to jump out of the whites the way she painted her lids and lashes - brows that arched playfully without being penciled. She was also the kind of woman who would have been been called "full-figured" or "plump", but no-one would have called her pudgy, not unless they were just trying to be mean. She had a few dimples and the beginnings of creases above her hips, her large breasts sagged (or so I guessed, since I'd never seen her out of a bra, or even really out of a blouse), but a tasteful application of make-up filled in most of her wrinkles and made her lips glisten, and her skin-tone was as firm as mine, probably due to the Manhattan skyline of bottles next to the sink in her bathroom. More than anywhere her age showed in her gracious attitude, her confidence, and her carriage. She made me want to stand up straighter and speak more carefully when I was around her. I'm not going to say she reminded me of my mother, because that's just creepy. She was like those teachers I had a crush on when I was just a kid, but in a totally innocent way.
Now I was the kind of guy who'd never been described as having pretty anything - not until I met her, anyway. She liked my eyes and told me often, whether we were passing in the entryway or whether they were all she could see beneath my tousled hair, peering at her from above the horizon of her belly. I was more average than attractive or ugly, and I was more intelligent than outgoing. I was the kind of guy who balanced my free time in high-school between cross country and the chess club, if you know what I mean. These days I had a degree and a good job, but most importantly I had an apartment on the floor beneath Ms. E's.
I vaguely remember a night a few years back when I'd been out drinking with friends. (I wasn't drunk, no matter what you think.) When I'm a little tipsy I'm prone to say things I I wouldn't otherwise, and that's probably how it started: some Friday night riding up the unbearably slow lift with Ms. E, who was either a little tipsy herself or just amused with alcohol-inspired conversation offered by the new tenant. We would have commiserated about our lack of a sex life (which wasn't entirely true - I had the occasional girlfriend), and I would have told her that in her case I found it hard to believe. You know - we flirted. Through the slightest of slurs and the overconfidence of Jack Daniels, I would told her in conspiratorial terms about the origin of the word "hysterical". As recently as eighty years ago doctors recognized that women needed regular orgasms (or hysterical paroxysms, if you'd prefer to be both clinical and out of date) in order to avoid the malady of "hysterics", which could manifest in just about whatever symptoms suited her fancy. Manual pelvic massage was the preferred therapy then, but I'd heard that more recently oral pelvic massage had come into vogue. Okay, I probably had been drunk, because I never would have said that otherwise, but she probably tittered and covered her mouth to hide a naughty grin. I reminded her that this was a serious medical condition and relief was prescribed for any need female, be she maiden, married, or widow.
I do remember now a Saturday evening: I was in the laundry room waiting on a load of whites and reading some silly book when she came down to take out a load of delicates. She made no point of hiding the lacy, satiny underwear and bras; in fact I think she was flaunting them as she pulled each piece out in turn and folded it neatly. "Big night ahead?" I asked.
"No..." She smiled slyly at me. "I'm all alone tonight. But I like to feel pretty."
"You are pretty." Once I'd let the flirting cat out of the bag and not been slapped down, I didn't need alcohol for slowballs like that.
"Thank you, Honey. I feel it around you. But I also feel a little bit hysterical..." She whispered the last word.
"I'm no Doctor, Ms. E." (She told me to call her that.) "But that's a serious condition and I'll be happy to help you with it."
"Would you really?"
"Come up tomorrow afternoon then. After church... 1 o'clock or so? 4C. I'll make you a nice lunch - you look like you should be eating more." I didn't bother to tell her that I didn't have any Sunday morning commitments, but I did go upstairs that Sunday at 1pm.
So it became a routine. Every Sunday when she got home from church, she'd call down to my unit and invite me up for lunch. I'd shave and shower and dress up a bit - khaki's and a dress shirt, and she'd greet me in her Sunday best. At first she showered and changed, too - until I told her how much more I preferred her natural scent to the sterility of soap. I didn't tell her that her scent aroused me - after all I was curing her hysterics, wasn't I? - but I think she knew. Apparently my preference aroused her as well - even though she wore a new pair of panties every Sunday (and not just new, but different cuts and patterns and styles I'd never see a second time) they were always filled with her odor and were often already damp even when my hand slid up beneath her skirt.
There's something you need to know about Ms. E: she was very serious about her religion. You may find that hard to believe from what I've already told you, but apparently we were exploiting some kind of loophole. "It's not a loophole," she would probably say. "The Victorians were on to something. It's not sex, any more than kissing is sex." (We enjoyed kissing, too, but it stayed friendly for the most part and we didn't make a habit of it.) Apparently it wasn't sex because there was never any penetration and neither of us undressed - she kept her panties around her ankle, remember, and I didn't so much as unbuckle my belt or slipp off my shoes unless I needed better leverage on her bed. More importantly, there was never a hint of "onanism". Look it up - I did, but the dictionary definition only hints at what she meant. Essentially it meant I couldn't ejaculate - I couldn't cum, not in her or on her or around her - or it would be some kind of sex and we would be sinning. I realize that this sounds either like a bitter rant or delusional or both, but believe me when I say it's not. We never sat down and laid out the rules - the routine formed organically and I never only really though about it as sex for the first few months; after that it was just something we did together. We weren't lovers; we weren't even boyfriend and girlfriend. We were friends. We were neighbors. I helped her change her lightbulbs and set up her computer. She reminded me to water my spider plant and made me lunch every Sunday - the best meal I'd eat all week, and often the only one with a serving of vegetables. I provided her with oral-genital stimulation. She brought me chicken soup that week I was sick. I'm not even sure it would cross her mind that we would have to stop if I ever had a girlfriend, unless the new woman was the jealous type who saw green because I shared lunch with a female neighbor.
(Don't feel bad for me - it's not like I was a eunuch or had blue-balls ever Sunday afternoon. I looked after my own needs. That just wasn't part of our relationship.)
* * * * * * *
The next Sunday was the first of the autumn, and she wore boots and a tight black skirt that hugged her ass, and sheer maroon bikini panties with a floral border. I wasn't really in a rush... maybe it was the boots, or the skirt, but once her panties slid down to her ankle I dove in and couldn't be stopped until she finally pushed me away; she squealed and giggled and actually screamed loud enough that I worried about our building's thin walls. For lunch we had a lasagna she'd prepared the night before and cooked that morning, and a tossed salad with cherry tomatoes the same color as the lipstick she'd touched up while I was washing my face in her bathroom. (That was how I marked the passing of each week: by her panties and the lunch - the two things I could count on to change each Sunday, and two of the things I looked forward to the most.)
After the meal we chatted while the food settled, and I helped her with the dishes just as I did every week. She had turned on her deck on the other room and was playing some kind of soft jazz or R&B - I never listened to either outside of her condo so I didn't know the difference, but she always played someone whose name I recognized.
So there it was - a Sunday afternoon like a hundred others we'd spent together, despite my enthusiasm in her room. That week, though... I don't know what happened. There was something different in the air. It wasn't as though she'd never worn that shade of lipstick before, or like her eyes were any brighter, her lashes any longer. She smelled the same. Her skin was the same creamy brown. But I couldn't stop stealing glances at her, while simultaneously feeling embarrassed when she caught me. I was like a kid, but she was looking at me, too, and her eyes kept dropping to my lips. We were standing side-by-side - I was washing and she was drying. My hands slipped against hers when I handed her a plate, and she gave me a little ass-bump and smiled at me... And suddenly we were kissing - suddenly enough that soapbubbles still clung to my hands and the dishtowel was pressed between us. We'd kissed before - hell, we'd kissed earlier that afternoon in her bedroom - but this was different. This wasn't just a friendly 'hello', it was passionate 'I want you'. Her neck arched back and my lips slipped down her throat. Somehow the buttons on her blouse had opened and her hands were intertwined with mine and cupping them beneath the fleshy mountains of her breasts and squeezing. Somewhere in the back of my mind a little dispassionate voice was noting that I'd never really seen her bra before - it was a lovely bra that matched her panties, especially in that the cups were sheer and I could see through the thin material that her brown nipples were hardening. Our lips found eachother's for another quick embrace before I fell into the curves of her cleavage with such desire that I'm sure I left hickeys (to my embarrassment).
I had already covered both breasts with kisses and was beginning to bring her nipples to an aching hardness with my thumbs when I felt a change. Her fingers - which were sliding through my hair and pulling my head against her - loosened. Her chest slumped back. My mouth fell away and I glanced up, and her expression of distant rapture was becoming blank, then almost frightened. We stepped away from each other, saying nothing while she buttoned herself back into her shirt and I retrieved the dishtowel from the floor.
The frightened look on her face had disappeared into red-cheeked embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. I... I didn't mean..." I'd never seen her so without her composure, but it quickly returned. "I forgot that I need to run an errand this afternoon, and I lost track of the time."
"No, no - not at all." I smiled uncertainly and dried my hands in the towel before stepping back from the counter. "I should really get back down to my apartment. I have some notes I need to review before tomorrow morning. For the boss. You know."
And then I ushered myself out the door and we all were smiles and thank you's - for the lasagna, for changing the time on her electronic clocks - and see you later's, just like nothing had happened, but we both knew something had. Something big. I could feel it, and beneath her smiles Ms. E was spooked. That same dispassionate voice in my head was suddenly worried that this might be the last Sunday for me in unit 4C.
* * * * * * *
Later in the week, when I was down by the mailboxes sorting out my junkmail for the shredder, I heard keys in door from the garage and knew it was Ms. E. Instead of the tingle of excitement I'd usually feel, there was a moment of uncertainty. The possibility of slipping away before the door opened - or at least starting toward the lift so she could ignore my back if she wanted to - flashed through my mind, but I dismissed it as cowardly. I needn't have worried, anyway - she smiled brightly when she caught sight of me and wiggled her fingers hello, same as always. She wore a long black coat over a bright fuchsia blouse, black leather driving gloves, and sunglasses that covered half her face.
"Is that a new jacket?" I asked her.
She spread her arms. "Do you like it? I just picked it up." Her keys jingled as the turned in her mailbox, and she sorted while rifling through envelopes. She glanced up at me. "Your taste in ties has improved considerably. This one brings out that color in your eyes." She caught the end of the tie between two fingers and lifted it up for inspection. "Silk!"
"And it shows, Honey." She pulled the tie toward her until the slack was gone and I nearly had to take a step forward. "Are we on for Sunday? I have new recipe for Bolognese sauce I want you to try. Maybe I'll cook up some ziti?"
"Oh. Shoot." I'd forgotten to tell her - I couldn't believe I'd forgotten to tell her. Now she'd think that I was making excuses, trying to avoiding her. "I'm going to be in Indianapolis all weekend. Cutover for work."
Her smile fell, as did my tie. She patted it back into place on my shirt and pouted a bit. "Well... next week then. I'll miss your company. Maybe I'll save you some leftovers ... or maybe I won't." Locking her box again, she strutted past me and closed the lift door without waiting for me to follow.
* * * * * * *
The job in Indianapolis ran long when we couldn't get the phone company to make repairs on a weekend, so I didn't get back home until Wednesday. I blew off the rest of the week at work and just watched TV and avoided email or going out or anything more strenuous than ordering pizza delivery. That lasted until Friday evening when the cabin fever built up to a level I just couldn't stand anymore. I showered, shaved, put on my last clean shirt that didn't have luggage wrinkles, and stepped out the door.