Odette Ch. 02

Enter her?

He turned away.

Lens went into his box of tricks, rummaged around.

I looked at Odette. Mouthed, "What do I do?"

She sat up in the middle of the huge bed, grey satin sheets, scattered pillows. Her breasts changed shape as she rose, swaying as her torso came upright. She opened her arms to me. An invitation so unambiguous, so natural, so innocent it belied the seismic shift that my acceptance would surely have on our relationship. As if what she suggested was an everyday affair, rather than something that would turn how we thought about each other, upside down. I was already walking towards the bed, as if it was important not to seem weak, even if I didn't know what I would do when I got there.

There were alternatives.

"Go to her, get comfortable," said GW, encouragingly, almost kindly.

"I could be doing that," muttered Lens.

"Shut the fuck up," said GW.

"Come," whispered Odette with a sweet smile on her face. A smile I knew so well. How many times had I bathed in its effect, often still there long after she'd gone.

My right knee lifted gingerly onto the bed: her feet, a foot ahead. I reached my left hand forward, flat on the cover, just by her foot. She leaned slowly backwards as I advanced, as if away from my approach, but her eyes stayed on mine, invitation deep within, arms still reaching out to me, encouraging me on. When her back touched the sheets, and her head sank into a pillow, she raised her knees and parted her legs, and invited me onto her length.

My right hand moved beyond my left, by her foot, to a place on the sheets between her knees. My left knee followed. On all fours on the bed, crawling up to her like a stalking predator. Right hand, left knee. Left hand, right knee. My route between her legs, my eyes on hers. My right hand to one side, beyond her legs, placed on the sheets just next to her hip. The leading knee replaced the hand between her knees. The other hand, the other side, placed flat on the sheets beside her ribs. The forward knee between her legs, high up, the tip against her crotch. The feel of her response, a closing of her knees around my legs, the gentle pulse of her, as if surprised. My weight now on my knees and arms spread wide. Flat of hand on either side of the adorable face I knew so well. So innocently trusting. Yet with it too, a hint of curiosity.

I carefully lowered myself over her to discover that what had been the cause of my resistance to taking off my briefs – a manly bit so shrunk as to be practically absent – was now rock hard, and ludicrously prominent. It stabbed her lower tummy, a stab of pain for me. She raised an eyebrow, smiled, then put a hand over her mouth. I adjusted my position, lowering my groin, reached under my hip and repositioned what was now an encumbrance, in the gap between her legs. The interlude broke the ice. We both smiled. She with pleasure, I think, at causing the effect. Me with embarrassment, and a sense of clumsiness.

"Let's try again," I whispered.

"Let's," she whispered back, her smile still there.

Our eyes stayed on each other's, but our expressions had evolved ... from her early invitation and my nervous reluctance ... the humour shared at my erection ... the dawning realisation of what would happen next ... the advancing proximity ... the shared apprehension ... anticipation of imminent contact ... growing sense of wonder ... then our expressions began to melt, as contact came, then grew.

One moment all I touched was the sheets on which she lay, but now our bodies were about to touch. I felt the heat from her skin before contact was made. The tip of my erection came into contact with the sheet between her legs, burrowed upwards, came to rest against the warm crotch of her thong: sticky, slick like syrup. The smooth skin of her thighs and hips came soft against my own. The softer meet of stomachs, rolling upwards. Contact climbing from hip, to middle, to upper part of stomach, lower chest, the upper roll of breasts. The scratch of nipples, assertively erect, as they traced a tiny path across my chest. The enveloping warmth against my own, as they sank into the cushion of her breasts, then flattened, spread.

What we intended for our heads when they came together seemed an irrelevance as her sweet, soft, warm, plump lips came softly and naturally against my own. As if someone else was in charge. Some ethereal, heavenly, stage manager. God of hormones, working overtime.

Every kiss I had ever received from Odette had been unimaginably soft, and feather light, and (agonisingly) fleeting. But the memory of every detail had stayed in my mind, stored away, to be re-savoured when I chose. Each stolen kiss had some little twist, or difference, that allowed me to categorise, remember, file away. A precious mental casket of secret delights. It was the tiny subtle differences of each, that made them memorable. But the very fact that she had ever felt the urge to kiss me at all, and had gone ahead and done so, was the greatest treasure of all.

Our kiss on the bed started out as all our kisses in the past had started out. Affection the driver, respect the constraint. The touch of her lips was as soft as goose down, as gentle as a butterfly, as innocent as a baby. My lips were equally light on hers. My hands on her cheeks held her carefully, like a priceless vase. Her arms snaked round my neck and gripped with firm assurance. Her lips moved gently under mine.

The contact shared, the movement savoured, trust enjoyed ... but looming in the background, and sensed I think by both of us, the growing realisation – like a developing thundercloud, flashes and fire in its innards – that this was not to be our normal kiss. It would not to end with a light hearted, "Hi!" or, "Goodbye" from her; would not finish with her dancing off with a wave and a smile. This was a different animal. An animal, deep in the cloud, that had intimate places to explore, bowers to examine, emotions to stir ...

Desire to tempt, and drive, and tame.

The first signs of the cloud closing in – our unaccustomed animal flexing its muscle, stretching its loins – was a marginal opening of her heart shape lips against my own. And then, a gentle thrust. In normal times, by this stage in our kiss, she'd have gone. Been half way back home, her happy farewell drifting off on the evening airs. But this was not a normal time. And she was not going home, this time. And this was not a normal kiss – not when I was naked, on a bed, and she was underneath me wearing nothing but a brief cotton thong.

I returned the kiss, cautiously. Taking care to keep the level of pressure equal to hers; the parting of lips, no more than hers. It seemed to set the rules, the way we should progress. She would lead, and I would follow. And that was only right, as I was twice her age, for me to force the pace would not be right. Her lips opened further under mine. Carefully, tentatively, like a sea anemone, testing the water with cautious fronds advanced, her lips the cautious fronds. I let my own respond. The water's fine, my lips declared, nothing to fear. With that, a growing spread of lips, the increased trust declared, caution backing off. The softer, moister, touch of inner lips. The quiet outpouring of blossoming desire. The enhanced arousal by widening lips yet further still on mine. And then I felt a cat like tip of tongue against my own.

Our mouths were open, lips spread wide against the other's lips, the taste of each now shared. As soon as our lips first pressed together, and hers had opened under mine, the immediate, almost uncontrollable urge had been to plunge my tongue roughly and forcefully into her mouth. To occupy, cause havoc, run amuck. But I had not. I had controlled myself, resisted, to see what she would do. It was for her to take the lead, we had agreed, it was our understanding. But would she use her tongue with me? Would she permit me to use mine with her?

With my predecessor, she had, I was aware, but would she with me?

I wasn't sure.

But then she did.

The tip alone, at first, slipped inquisitive into my mouth, touched mine, and stopped. I didn't move. The point of her tongue was neat, held pointed, tasted fresh. It started to feel the tip of mine like the delicate snout of a baby shrew, against another, a mother perhaps, in the dark, deep underground. It slipped around my tongue. Circled, fattened, probed. Then further in ... then slowly out. Then in again, its length against my own. A pause, and then it thickened, thrust, and with a groan her lips spread wide and her arms around my neck gripped tight and pulled me hard against her.

What had started as a gentle exploration, expanded – exploded! – into something entirely different. Had I ever imagined I would have her tongue in my mouth, doing this? Answer, Never. Or that her arms would be wrapped so tightly round my neck that she was practically strangling me? Again, No. Or that I would feel the touch, on my naked backside, of her heels, tight around my hips, drawing me hungrily against her pubis. The answer still, was No!

"Her face, I want her face," I heard the muted tones: GW to Lens.

The lights were on, the cameras rolling. Had I missed the 'Action!' call?

Or had they said it quietly, not wanting us to stop?

Odette didn't seem to notice. All she showed interest in was drawing me ever closer into the circle of her arms and legs, meld my front with hers, flatten and roll her breasts against my chest. Her hands were in my hair, her mouth on mine. Her breasts were pancake flat against my chest. One of her legs was between mine, her groin grinding hungrily into my thigh, her other wantonly astride me. All bodily parts that she could bring to bear against me, legs and arms and torso, breasts and lips and mouth, were thrusting now, against my own. Savouring all that was there.

Such sweet urgency.

I revelling in the touch of eager skin against my own, the movement of muscles honed to health by swimming lengths, the drive that forced her search for what she wanted out of me. Driven by her body's needs, following its cravings. Enthusiastic urgency, the innocence of youth, the drive of raw abandon. It acted as a catalyst, pumping arousal, fuelling passion, encouraging lust.

If this was acting, she was unimaginably good!

Odette, my little growing friend, who over the years had given meaning to bikinis that their creators could never have dreamt of. This unconscionably appetising girl, in the delightful oasis of her prime, lively and vibrant and healthy, delicately sculpted, exquisitely toned, who at this very moment was pressed hard against me, on this absurd round bed, with this ludicrous mirror overhead, giving a thoroughly convincing impression of wanting to be pressed, practically naked, against me.

As the heat of abandonment drove the two of us ever further from the point of the exercise – as interpreted by others, mostly out of shot – it caused them to step in, now and then, and correct things. But such was our involvement with each other that these small interruptions hardly seemed to matter any more. They became mere opportunities to catch our breath, adjust positions, plan next steps.

"No no no no. Cut cut!"

Time out.

Odette had slipped down my body. She had settled between my legs, pulled my briefs down, reached for my erection, and put it in her mouth.

"That's out, we can't hide it," said GW, not pleased. "We've focussed on your butt, we don't need more of that."

But she kept me in her mouth, fingers round the base like a baseball bat, eyes large and innocent, looking up at him.

I doubt if I had ever been this hard, nor ever (let us face it) been this proud at being this hard.

"Mainstream. No blow job!" GW repeated.

She moved her lips around the bulb of my erection, then sucked me further in.

"Don't blow him. He'll come. No good," GW pleaded, concerned.

She moved her head up, then down. Her hand on the shaft moved too. She kept her eyes on the rules referee, as if throwing down the gauntlet. She ran her tongue around the tip of the part of me under debate. He was shaking his head. She lowered her own. The warmth of her mouth, and the touch of her lips, slipped down my erection.

Not a good idea.

I froze, and reached for her head.

I was about to spoil things, royally.

"Okay, Okay," I said, pushing her away, easing me out of the warm moist heaven that was threatening my resolve.

She let me go. Reluctantly.

"Put this on," said GW, to Odette.

Put what on?

Odette, I discover – why was I surprised, after all that had happened? – was as accomplished at unrolling a condom over my erection as she had been at getting my pants off. And taking me into her mouth. And exciting the bejeezus out of me!

"Mainstream?" I found myself asking, vaguely, watching them dress the little fellow.

"Stop you messing the sheets, but keep it between you," he said, eyes on Odette as she stroked the finished product with affection.

He arranged us as he wanted on the bed. She beneath me, me on top, rubber and genitalia well out of sight. Missionaries involved, though I didn't catch where. Or how. Once I was on top of her she squirmed and moved beneath me, slipping off her thong ... me, the modesty screen

"Up to you," said GW, in answer to a question from Odette I missed.

"They did it in The Lover," said Odette, to him.

"Up to you." He was now out of sight.

The lights came on. I had no idea what they were talking about. Could have been a book, could have been a movie, could have been a cooking class. I was too busy settling into the other-worldly feel of having a practically naked Odette, feeling every bit as good as I had often imagined she might be, between me and the expensive sheets. Then I felt her hands snake between us, lower down, and then ...

My mouth shot open as my eyes snapped shut.

She was guided me into herself.

"Action!"

Odette's pelvis curled and thrust and her arms reached up. My head was dragged to her open mouth and keening groan and my erection thrust like a piston into the hot lovely creature I'd been of dreaming of forever.

"Go for it," encouraged GW.

A Hand Cam was stuck in my face, but I hardly noticed. The emotional universe of self that one enters when taking possession of someone as precious, to me, as Odette was, in the way I was taking possession of her – while she, no doubt, and perhaps with more accuracy, considering who was in whom, might feel it was she who was taking possession of me – was a universe usually closed.

Like a locked cinema.

But once unlocked, and opened, and the magic was permitted to flow, it became a wonderland. A cocktail of arousal that swamped the senses and hijacked the brain. It softened here, and there, yet also tightened focus other places. With encouraging force it thrusts with lust, then softens ... becomes such sweet surrender ... then back atop the steed, to drive on hard and fast.

At some stage in the midst of the conflict, engaged between we two – the older owner of the swimming pool and the younger user of the same – either her awareness of the need for centre stage – the action, after all, was all for her – or an urge to manage matters more suited to her wants, she lifted me off with a careless flip of her pelvis, moved around me, and ended up astride me, she on top. To see her there, towering over me, back arched, expression one of pained amazement, mouth agape, with guttural sounds emanating like hot lava from a volcano.

The movement of stomach like the slow motion of a belly dancer. The expression on her lovely face, of seeming pain, concern, and hints of hidden rapture. The movement of her torso, riding me as she was. The pulsing of the sheath that held me tight. The urgency apparent in her face. The beads of sweat the glistened on her skin. The power of shoulders, bulk of breasts, the swaying luscious rhythm they portrayed.

She started to scream as I lifted her up with a thrust of my pelvis, and her own angled back, and she sucked me inside her as far as I could go. Her pulsing powered, then peaked. Her fingers on my chest clawed hard as I started to pump and fill the small plastic sack at the end of the condom she'd carefully affixed. Her yelps came fast and loud and evolved into cries as she arched her back and opened her pelvis and thrust her hips. In the mirror overhead it looked as if I had grown a female-shaped penis, of rare and wondrous beauty.

"Fucking brilliant," said Lens.

"Fucking A!" agreed GW.