Naked Pt. 01

Naked (Part 1)

Kathryn M. Burke

Frances McGuire (she liked to be called Fanny, in spite of the vaguely obscene overtones of that nickname) would have preferred not to share her house with her younger sister Margery, but at the moment she didn't seem to have much choice in the matter.

Margery had had all kinds of bad luck with men. On at least two different occasions she'd languidly carried on a romance for several years with what seemed like a reasonably presentable man, only to have the guy ditch her and seek his pleasures elsewhere. Fanny had to admit that Margery wasn't the most exciting woman in the world, although physically she had nothing to complain about; it was chiefly her lack of self-confidence—and, perhaps, her general lack of enthusiasm for allowing men access to her body—that prevented her from keeping a man. After her last disappointment, with a guy named Gerald, Margery seemed so crestfallen that Fanny had taken pity on her and invited her to stay with her for an indefinite period. Fanny had in fact begun to wonder whether, at forty-two, Margery would ever find a man to call her own.

Of course, Fanny herself wasn't doing so hot in that department. At forty-four, she was two years into a divorce after her husband had run off with a younger woman—a much younger woman. Fanny didn't know whether to be disgusted by the youth of this little vixen (whoever she was) or by the tiresomely hackneyed nature of the situation. Since then, she'd given men a wide berth—which is not to say that she wouldn't take up with a presentable male if he showed up.

In her career she was doing all right: she was a supervisor at an Amazon fulfillment center in a small town in Illinois. The work was hard but more or less satisfying, and it paid well. It wasn't exactly the career she'd envisioned for herself when she graduated from Knox College in Galesburg, but it could have been worse.

On a busy Thursday afternoon in early May, Fanny found herself feeling peckish, so she made her way to the smallish café (really just a tiny room full of vending machines stacked with get snacks and munchies, some of which could be heated up in a microwave) and decided to get an apple danish, which she planned to have with a cup of coffee. She didn't notice the presence of another person until she fetched the danish out of the microwave and turned around to sit at one of the few tables in the room.

That was when she saw the young man sitting there. He'd clearly been gazing at her backside.

Fanny prided herself on her self-possession and reserve. She certainly wasn't going to let this underling—he must have been a subordinate, although he wasn't under her supervision—get the better of her.

"I didn't know you were here," she said in an even tone.

The guy smiled out of one side of his mouth. "Just admiring the view."

Was that intended to be a crack—or even a come-on? It must have been, because there were no windows in the room. Fanny, perhaps thinking of what her nickname meant when referring to the human (and especially the female) body, took some pride in her posterior. She couldn't boast an hourglass figure, but her wayward husband had praised her apple-cheeked bottom any number of times—and, when she let him, did a lot more than praise it.

Even so, she had no intention of letting this little whipper-snapper (and he did seem a trifle short for a man—no more than five foot seven—even though he seemed quite muscular, even stocky) get away with what in some circles might even be considered sexual harassment.

"Oh, were you?" she said tartly, wishing she could have come up with something more pungent.

"I like this view too," he said.

Now he was really treading on thin ice! He must have known who she was. To say nothing of the fact that the guy seemed barely out of college. And yet, as he continued to stare without any sense of shame at her generous bosom, Fanny felt a blush coming over her.

She boldly sat down at his table. He didn't seem to be eating or drinking anything.

But now Fanny realized she'd failed to get herself some coffee. She was about to get up when the guy stood up ahead of her, saying, "Coffee, ma'am?"

She admitted defeat, sitting back down. "All right."

He poured out two cups from a simmering coffee pot and brought them both to the table. As he sipped, his eyes seemed to bore into her—or, rather, to canvass her face and figure as a scientist looks at a specimen under a microscope. There was just the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

"You just start here?" Fanny said.

"A few weeks ago," the guy replied.

"Do you have a name?"

"Cliff. Do you?"

"Fanny."

She silently dared him to make fun of her nickname, but he only continued to stare at her. After a long pause he said, "I like that name."

But Fanny wasn't fooled. She could tell immediately that what Cliff really meant was: I like the part of your body that that name refers to.

"Shouldn't you be getting back to work?" she said, doing her best to sound like a schoolmarm.

"I'm entitled to a break, aren't I?" he said, his smile broadening as he sipped his coffee.

"I suppose so."

"Anyway, I thought we could get better acquainted sometime."

Fanny was taken aback. "What on earth do you mean by that?"

"I thought," Cliff went on smoothly, "that I might take you out to dinner."

Thunderstruck, Fanny cried, "You want to do what?"

"Take you out to dinner," Cliff said patiently, as if speaking to a thick-headed classmate in school. "I know plenty of good restaurants in the area."

"What makes you think I want to go out with you? What makes you think I'm not married with children at home?"

"You were married once, maybe for a long time, but you aren't now."

Fanny thought she was losing hold on reality. How could this guy possibly know that? She asked him that very question.

"You have a pale spot at the bottom of your ring finger, not to mention the impress of a ring that was probably there for years. But there's no ring now."

"Very clever, Sherlock. But why should I go out with you?"

"You'd get a free meal out of it. And some nice company."

"You'd be providing nice company?"

"I like to think so."

"Exactly how old are you?"

"Twenty-four. Almost twenty-five."

"Well, I'm forty-four. So—"

"You know," he pontificated, "Raymond Chandler married a woman at least as old as that. So did Samuel Johnson in the eighteenth century. Not that I'm thinking of proposing to you at this moment."

"How do you know all this?"

"I studied English at the U of Illinois, you see. Not much you can do with that degree, so here I am. But I have better things in mind for myself."

"Glad to hear it."

In spite of herself, Fanny found herself liking—or at least being intrigued by—this brash, overly self-confident young man. And she couldn't help feeling flattered that he wanted to go on a date with her. There were plenty of young women at this facility, and yet he'd chosen her. Maybe that was just happenstance, but she was still tickled by it.

"Okay, Cliff, you can take me out."

"Great! How about tonight? I know a great Japanese place—"

"Not tonight. I have plans."

"With a guy?"

"No, not with a guy. With my sister. We have to finish up some leftovers in the fridge. How about tomorrow?"

"Sure thing! How about if I pick you up at your house?"

Now that was slick! If she agreed to that, she'd have to give him her home address. But what was the harm?

"Okay." And she told him where she lived.

He slid out of the chair and, bending down, gave Fanny a little peck on the cheek. "See ya tomorrow!"

She watched him leave. This guy Cliff really is a piece of work.

*

The Japanese restaurant was splendid. She'd never gone there—neither her husband nor her sister cared for Japanese cuisine—but she found herself enjoying every course the waitress brought, from miso soup to gyoza to teriyaki to California rolls to green tea ice cream.

They managed to tell the basics of their lives to each other. Fanny told her she was divorced, which relieved Cliff somewhat (maybe he'd thought the absence of her wedding ring indicated that her husband had died on her, or something), and went on to note that her sister was living with her. Cliff was living by himself in a small apartment. He didn't say anything about his parents and brushed off Fanny's inquiries on the issue.

She did find a certain wry amusement in Cliff's reaction when she elaborated on her husband's departure from her life.

"He went off with a woman barely older than you. Anyway, that's how old she was two years ago."

"What a fool!" Cliff exploded. "To give up a"—and here he visibly smacked his lips—"nice woman like you!"

She didn't have to read between the lines. What Cliff meant was: a tasty morsel like you.

In fact, for all her experience with men before and during her marriage, there was something about Cliff's forthright interest in her that disconcerted Fanny. For her sins, she'd chosen to wear a dark blue dress that hugged her figure and, with its scoop neck, showed off a fair amount of cleavage. What possessed her to wear such a provocative outfit she couldn't for the life of her understand, but Cliff's response was unmistakable. He peered intently at her chest, now and then licking his lips—and not from the succulent Japanese food. Once, when she went to powder her nose in the ladies' room, she was convinced he was following her backside just as he had done in that snack room at Amazon.

So, as Cliff was driving her back home, Fanny was determined not to invite this obviously lustful man into the house. In any case, what would Margery say? In the two months since she'd been living with Fanny, no male had crossed that sacrosanct threshold. Fanny wryly thought the house was getting to feel something like a nunnery.

Fanny was actually trembling a little when Cliff walked her to the front door. She hadn't felt so fluttery in a man's presence since she was a teenager. For God's sake, what could possibly happen? This is only our first date, and I have twenty years on this guy. There's no way he'd ever—

That was when, as they were standing on the small porch, Cliff kissed her.

Cliff was in a bit of luck: he chose to perform the act while holding Fanny's face in both of his hands and gently placing his lips against hers. It was the way she'd always loved to be kissed, and it hadn't happened nearly as often in her life as she would have wished. What else could she do but instinctively drape her arms around his neck and kiss back?

But his hands didn't stay on her face very long. As he noticed her kissing back, he first put his hands decorously around her lower back—and then, in a single motion, placed one big paw on her breast and another on her bottom.

Now this was going too far! Two days ago she'd not known that Cliff Patterson existed; and now he was—

She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but the muscular hand on her butt pressed their bodies closer, and she suddenly felt a large tube-like protuberance rubbing up against her belly through his clothes. In spite of herself she was impressed: men of her own age took quite a lot longer to get hard than this randy twentysomething.

Now, aside from sticking his tongue into her mouth, Cliff was clutching a fistful of her knee-length dress and pulling it up. The porchlight was shining down on them, almost like a spotlight on a stage—or the glaring bulb of an FBI interrogation. When Cliff managed to get a hand on her underwear, Fanny decided things had gone far enough.

"Jesus, Cliff!" she whispered desperately. "We can't do this out here!"

That might have been the wrong thing to say: the clear implication was that they might be able to do it somewhere else—namely, in the house. As his hand had now pasted itself on one of her butt cheeks, its warmth and strength—not to mention the naughtiness of the whole episode—made her tingle.

Fanny McGuire had been celibate for far longer than merely the two months since her sister had been with her—it had been closer to six or seven months. The idea that an appealing woman like herself could go so long without a cock in her vagina offended her sense of the fitness of things. But now, here was this attractive younger man—okay, let's admit it, he could be my son—expressing an obvious desire to possess her, and it undeniably bolstered her self-esteem. But she liked to think that Cliff's sincere interest in her life and feelings showed he wanted more than just her body parts.

Cliff huskily articulated her own thoughts. "Why don't we go in?"

"We can't go in," she shot back. "My sister's at home."

"The place looks pretty dark to me. Maybe she's gone to sleep."

He had a point. Margery, not having much to do (she did have a job as director of human resources at a business downtown, but didn't have a wide range of outside interests), tended to retire early.

Unable to believe the words were coming out of her mouth, Fanny said, "Okay, we'll go in. But be quiet! We're heading upstairs."

She fished for her house key in her purse, feeling like a schoolgirl sneaking a boyfriend into her parents' house. When they were inside, Fanny held up a finger to her lips in a needless reminder for Cliff to be silent; then both of them padded upstairs.

Margery's bedroom—one of three on the second floor—was closed, and no light was visible at the bottom. The problem was that Fanny's own bedroom was right next to it. She didn't know about Cliff, but she herself tended to be rather noisy during certain moments of intimacy with a man. This was going to be tricky!

They tiptoed into the bedroom, Fanny closing the door behind them. Cliff raised his eyebrows at the largest article of furniture in the room: a four-poster king-size bed that took up most of the area in the place. She and her husband, Neil, had recklessly splurged on it some years back in a brief period of prosperity.

Fanny felt a little ridiculous sleeping on one edge of it (always the right side, as you looked at it from the foot of the bed), leaving a cavernous space on the other side. It only emphasized how bereft she was of male companionship.

Well, at least for one night the bed would be properly occupied.

She turned her back on Cliff to undress—and undertook the task with unusual care. Reaching behind herself, she undid the long zipper of the blue dress and let it fall from her shoulders to the ground. Then she unclasped her bra and shimmied out of it. She'd not been wearing any stockings on this fairly warm day in May, so now all she had on were her panties. After only a moment's hesitation she peeled them off and stepped out of them.

Fanny caught a glimpse of herself on the full-length mirror attached to the bedroom closet. She had to admit she was a fine figure of a woman. At five foot six she was only an inch or so shorter than her prospective lover. Her breasts were large, firm, and high, their nipples protruding pertly. She wasn't exactly svelte, but she felt she carried her weight well; any number of men had told her, "I like a woman with a little flesh on her bones." Her wide hips surrounded a swelling mound with thick, dark pubic hair to match the dark hair of her head; and she took a certain pride in her shapely, curving bottom—and she thought she could detect a spot of red where Cliff's hand had rested on it only moments before.

But when she turned around, she gasped at what she saw.

Cliff had undressed in record time, and the figure he revealed was distinctive. His short, stocky frame showed an abundance of muscles at his wide shoulders, robust chest, flat stomach, and stovepipe thighs. For all his obvious education, there was something weirdly primitive about his bearing—an effect perhaps enhanced by the thick patch of dark fur on his chest and around his pubic area. And of course Fanny's eyes gravitated naturally toward the eight- or nine-inch phallus jutting from his groin, almost demanding attention from any female in the vicinity.

She approached him slowly. Their eyes locked for a moment, but Cliff made no attempt to embrace her as he'd done on the porch. As he stood with legs slightly apart, his unspoken direction to his partner was unmistakable. He obviously wanted her to fall to her knees and—

She sighed inwardly and almost visibly rolled her eyes. Okay, if your fragile male ego demands that I put myself in that submissive position, I'll go ahead and humor you. And yet, the moment that uncharitable thought flitted through her mind she felt she was being unjust. Cliff was simply expecting his due for the pleasure he was going to give her—and, not coincidentally, himself—in the hours that would follow.

And so she did kneel down in front of him and, taking that rigid cock firmly in her hand, put it between her lips.

Fanny was no expert in deep throat and could only get about three inches into her mouth; but that seemed enough for Cliff, as he let out a heavy sigh of satisfaction. She realized there were some advantages for the female in this position: after all, she could get a good feel of his thighs, his loosely hanging testicles, and especially his tight bottom.

After only a few minutes Cliff lifted her up to a standing position—and then he did hold her close. Not tightly, and not even attempting to fondle her (although that big warm hand did fasten itself to her bottom again)—but the contact of their bodies from head to toe was in some ways more intimate than any other position could have been. He kissed her on her face, neck, and shoulders, gently but ardently.

And then he extended a hand between her legs and, for the first time, touched her sex. It was wet, of course—wetter than it had been in a long time. So much so that, to Fanny's mild embarrassment, her fluid was leaking out of her and trickling down the inside of her thighs. Cliff's stroking was only making those juices flow more copiously, and she was getting shaky in the legs.

Oh, did she want to get on that bed!

Cliff read her mind and led her there, holding her hand like a courtier accompanying his queen to her bedchamber. She lay down on her back, and he followed at once by placing his body on her own. She thought he was going to forge right in, but he had other things in mind. Placing his head on her chest, he made love to her large, heavy breasts—kissing them all over, encircling the nipples with his lips and even nibbling tenderly on them, and pressing those wondrous globes against either side of his face. Then he moved down and, leaving a trail of saliva with his tongue, reached her sex.

It was wafting a musky aroma, and Cliff did her the honor of inhaling it deeply as if absorbing an exotic perfume. He flicked a tongue in the general vicinity, lapping up some of the juices that were pouring out of her; then he fastened his lips onto hers—her labia, that is. His hands grabbed her bottom and gave it a good squeeze while his mouth worked gently but relentlessly to stimulate her. Fanny found it hard to believe, but as the minutes passed she became convinced that Cliff was that rarest of men: one who deliberately chose to postpone his own pleasure to give pleasure to his lady.

Well, she was happy to oblige! After ten or fifteen minutes of diligent licking, sucking, and nuzzling, her climax suddenly burst over her. She had to bite her lips to prevent herself from crying out in a shriek of delight; even so, tight little mewing sounds, like a cat in heat, emerged from her throat and accompanied the quieter sounds of Cliff's continued lapping. She clutched the sheets with spasmodic hands as the orgasm caused her whole body to shake as if she was being electrocuted.

Cliff went on for minutes, realizing that her sensations could be prolonged almost indefinitely. At last she had to push his head away, curling into a ball as the remnants of her paroxysm still sent shudders through her.