Observed, Then Noted

Inhibitions fairly vanquished, Abercrombie sidled against Fili. She was warm under his searching hand. He caressed her cheek and edged a knee between her legs. These actions finally moved her to notice him. At first their lips touched lightly. His earlier impression of her duress melted. She gradually increased responsiveness. Fili's palms swept across his shoulders, arms, and back.

Her wedding ring didn't sear his skin.

Mint wafted off her breath. Abercrombie thought that a nice trigger. Were he nervous, the gentle aroma ought have activated a calming reassurance.

Fili maneuvered him into reversing his lie. This opened views for Vargas. Chagrined, it meant Abercrombie must occasionally avert his eyes, if not awkwardly screw his head away.

Fingers gently plucked Fili's crowns. Hands palmed her breasts. By now Abercrombie's leg wedged solidly between her own. Her slit moistened upon his thigh's pressure.

Abercrombie's fingers eased into Fili's first folds. Here he teased them or reached back just far enough to tickle her ass' lower cleft. His rambling suddenly ended. He snaked a thick middle finger deep into her. A third knuckle bumped her pelvis. So unexpected, Fili gasped from lightning. His finger became a thoughtful piston.

Instead of drawing further surprise, Fili accustomed herself to its beat. Shutting her eyes and overcome by a dreamy cast, Vargas' wife lost herself in reverie. Fili's arms arced above her head where fingers entwined. Following animal instinct, the woman's legs opened wide to engulf his lower extremities.

Fili whispered something in Portuguese. It sounded endearing. Vargas laughed softly. Or did he mock?

Abercrombie shifted his lips down her body. He lingered on Fili's nipples, sucking long and tenderly. He spotted the usual little kisses on her belly. Though not unpleasant, the scent rising out of her sex was stronger than he preferred.

That meant nothing. Or it meant everything. The distinction between selfish and selfless. In the end Abercrombie decided against orally attending Fili. Much as he liked pussy, her tiger was too untamed for his taste.

Besides he had something bigger and better waiting.

The cessation of his beat gradually pulled Fili back to earth. She hugged him. Genuine gratitude shone in her eyes.

His erection had lost some of its steel. Several tugs and his tool sprang back.

Leveraging on his elbows, Abercrombie centered himself between her pliant thighs. He drove into Fili on his first attempt. Her snatch welcomed his cock gratefully, as if it were an intimate friend who'd suddenly reappeared after long absence. Abercrombie snickered at his own hyperbole.

To cover his amusement, and better, see whether he could irk Vargas, Abercrombie did something out of his character. He groaned. Stage-whispered gibberish followed that. His goading worked better on Fili.

Where his diddling had sent Fili drifting, his pounding dick made her seek newer heights. Sighs derived from heavenly enjoyment. As with every woman he ever pleasured, Abercrombie could only imagine what sights flashed behind her closed eyes. Yet if Fili's expression reflected honesty, these were indeed blissful visions.

Abercrombie slowed his pace. Hiking each of Fili's thighs by crooks in his arms, he spread her legs into the widest "V" possible. He leaned into Fili off his knees. She bowed under him slightly. The new angle also tightened her box around his joint. This new sensation made him grunt for real.

At first Abercrombie snaked her deliberately. Fili's Portuguese became expansive, almost incantatory, as he slowly increased his rhythm.

He pulled until his cock head threatened spilling out; he pushed until their hips mashed. Each time he withdrew her desperate hands sought some expanse of his back or arm mass.

When instinct overtook measured beats, Abercrombie squeezed her "V." The backs of Fili's legs pressed his chest or draped across his shoulders. If he missed her sated shuddering, surely she felt his feral last lunges.

Abercrombie rocked back on his knees. Her legs slid off him and she regained length in bed. Both breathed noisily. Spent, he crept beside Fili and lay on his stomach. The rise and fall of her chest, how her neck muscles quivered, momentarily became his most vital observations.

Gradually the room quieted. Enough so that one could again hear the ice in Vargas' glass. An enigmatic smile puffed Fili's face. Once more she ran a fingertip along his nose then traced his cheek. A gesture that could've meant anything. Or nothing.

Fili left the bed first. Her departure chilled him. He watched her stand, scoop her robe off the carpet then retreat into the bathroom. Seconds later the shower started. Now was his cue to face Vargas.

Abercrombie rolled onto his back. The Brazilian matched his stare. Even after Abercrombie purposely rested upon his elbows and cracked his legs farther apart. He did so to gloriously present Vargas his flagging eminence and sagging balls. The husband remained unmoved.

Then again what response had Abercrombie expected? Laughing at his own big swinging dick foolishness, he rolled out of bed. Not bothering to collect his own robe, Abercrombie returned to the junior bedroom. There he debated whether to carry off Mrs. Vargas' scent with him into the night. Instead he showered.

Cleansed and again clothed, Abercrombie graced the main room. Both Vargases now lounged at the bar. Low Portuguese tones passed between them. Seeing him ended this exchange. Vargas eased around to the bar's working side.

"Bourbon, isn't it?"

The guest nodded. Fili had swaddled herself again in plush white. Since the pair now had few, if any, discernable secrets, both could actually gaze upon the other without her twitching or ducking. Showering just hadn't washed her, he estimated she glowed. Nor did it hurt that she'd brushed out her hair.

Vargas set a tall tumbler of bourbon and ice before Abercrombie. The liquor smoothed what last few edges remained from this arrangement. His skepticism saw that drink as the evening's first sane thing.

The trio gingerly attempted small talk. Their stunted chatter nearly stalled altogether by an admission from Vargas.

"The other night at dinner, you said something about a reading assignment. I'm still confused. What is the difference between 'Red Chief' and 'Roaring Camp Luck'?"

Several days later, the Dean of English stopped by Abercrombie's open office door. Trying to appear tweedy, the dean achieved rumpled. The department head specialized in 18th and 19th Century British Literature. If it wasn't Austen, Coleridge, Hardy or similar toffs, it existed beneath his regard. Just like Abercrombie. The two weren't adversarial. The superior merely treated his subordinate dismissively. Usually.

This day, however, the dean radiated collegiality. One hour before he'd been notified the institution received an impressive donation from "a Monte Vargas." His company even matched that with a corporate contribution! Vargas cited Abercrombie as his spur. The dean thirsted to know the impetus behind such largesse.

Telling him the truth never crossed Abercrombie's mind.

Rather, he answered, "Monte Vargas is a man who realizes how Bret Harte and O. Henry can still affect us today."