Pages of a Day Ch. 02

"And the couch?"

"Ah, the couch. Two reasons for that. First, customers often want to chat with me about cars, their cars, other cars in the shop. We could go to the mall to get a drink, but often they like the atmosphere here. But the customers can get in the way of the real work being done, so the couch gives me a place to park them away from the power tools. They love the books, too. And they know they're dealing the man in charge."

"The man in charge being Marshall Broitman, first among equals?"

"You could say that."

Sandra hopped, with a thump, off the desk and sat on the couch. Its surprising firmness kept her from sinking deeply into its innards. The velvety fabric molded around her, and she could tell the couch was expensive and well built.

"And what's the second reason for the couch?" she asked.

A boyish gleam lit Marshall's eyes. "So we can sit together and have passionate kisses." He failed to suppress a smile.

His words stunned Sandra. A deep blush covered her cheeks and crept down her neck. She felt very warm. Yes, she already sat on the couch where Marshall wanted to exchange kisses, and . . . what else? In the seconds between he spoke and she could move her lips in a coherent manner, a wave of panic washed over the blush. Marshall – how well did she know him? Some phone conversations, a second date. Sure, everything went well and she had mad thoughts of a life with him (choo-choo chugging down the tracks of love), but she was bruised enough by life before him to keep hope leashed.

He was talking to her . . . "If you want to have them, of course. I will do nothing that makes you uncomfortable."

Sandra struggled to clear her head. In her mind, in her bones, she knew who Marshall was. No artifice, no BS, no games, just a big guy with a big heart who was inviting her to make out with him, right there, right now. Other guys had tried this and Sandra had politely shook her head and left. If she demurred, she knew Marshall would never try to sweet-talk her into changing her mind. He'd shrug and say, "OK, I just thought to ask. Never ventured, nothing gained, right?"

He still was talking . . . "This isn't a now or never proposition, Sandra. If you don't feel ready, we don't have to do anything. I understand." He sounded so matter of fact. But his eyes told her something else. In them she saw pools of warmth, longing, and readiness, a man who knew what he wanted, and he wanted Sandra.

"Come, sit. Your couch is very comfortable," Sandra finally stammered. "Do you have customers who just don't want to leave?"

"If I need to go I tell them. They understand. I am not one to chit-chat when I must work. So, you like my little couch? It's nicer than anything in my apartment." Marshall sat beside her, toward the middle of the couch. Sandra sat on the side, snug against the arm rest. Their thighs were an inch apart. Marshall sat down carefully, so Sandra would not feel trapped or cramped; some women found his size – a matter of solidness and a barrel chest more than any fat – intimidating.

"I like your couch, and I like you, Marshall," she looked at him, her lips full and moist. "A passionate kiss sounds like a very good idea. Remember, we had one for the road in the car? It's time for a refresher."

They leaned together. Their lips met in another light kiss. Marshall tasted pecan with the lipstick. Strands of her brown hair cascaded forward. The strands looked very dark against her yellow pants suit with the sleeveless blouse and the big buttons that hovered, like blinking UFOs, just inches from his fingers.

The next thing he knew, Marshall felt Sandra's hand on his neck, pulling him down to her with the unquenchable force of a hungry woman. The light kiss turned insistent, probing, and his eyes fluttered open at the feminine wave surging toward him from a brown and yellow sea. He heard her panting. Gently pulling her closer, Marshall could feel Sandra heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird, fast and hard and for him. His hand on her back told him of the heartbeat, the heat, the woman so close to him. Under the thin fabric, his hand found a Sandra who was hot and a little shaky.

"Here, get comfortable," he said. His big hands moved to her waist. With an effortless tug that left their lips locked, Marshall hoisted Sandra on to his lap, so their faces were at the same level. "Better?" he said as he kissed her cheek.

"Much. I feel so at ease with you, Marshall, like I've known you for years." She held his face with her hands and kissed his lips, his head, his nose, both cheeks. Sandra tasted the salty tang of fresh sweat. Her fingers dipped inside his shirt and she scratched his collarbone. He sighed when she did that.

"Maybe we have known each other for years, Sandra, but we just didn't know it," he said, tracing a finger from her chin to her sternum, just above the first button.

"Marshall, you have your mystical side, don't you?" she said, unbuttoning his shirt. His erection pushed against her from beneath her pants. The throbs were obvious even through his Dockers.

"I'm old enough to study the Kabbalah. You know a lot of the ancient mystical writings deal with sex," he said. His fingers toyed with the first bewitching button. A kiss on her throat had Sandra leaning her head back, inviting more, more, and more touches. "Those old rabbis in favor of it?" she said, running her hand across his curl-covered chest.

"That's another discussion, my sweet," he said. "But I'm in favor of sex."

"I'm so glad," she said, nipping his earlobe. "I see your fingers around twitching in front of my blouse. Go ahead – they won't bite you."

Marshall kissed her deeply, his tongue touching hers. Encouraged, he pressed his hand against her breasts through the blouse. Their roundness and warmth startled him. The back of his hand brushed against her nipple, hard through the lacy bra. She shivered at the first contact, and felt his cock shift in his trousers against her.

"Ahh, can you feel what you're doing to me? My boobs are so hard," she breathed. He surprised her. Expecting him to attack the buttons and get her shirt open, he instead played with her, through the layers. She squirmed as his hand brushed back and forth across her breasts. When his fingers circled a nipple and gently squeezed, Sandra practically hit the ceiling.

"Oh, Marshall, what you're doing to me. My nipples are so hard now." She pressed her hand against his, pushing it closer and firmer on to her blouse. With his fingers splayed, Marshall's hand covered her entire breast. Well, she thought, he can play around outside, but I'm going in. With a woman's deftness she pulled Marshall's shirt tail out and unbuttoned him all the way. Impatiently she pushed the Marshall's shirt down to the navel and then pulled the shirt tail out. Her clear-polish covered fingernails raked down his chest to his bellybutton, then zipped up to tweak his nipple. He jumped.

"Hmmm, boys like that, too? I like that in a man," she said. Her breasts were about the burst out of her bra. If Marshall didn't undo the center snap, well, she'd just do it herself.

"I don't have any hang-ups about you touching my nipples," said Marshall, finally fumbling with the first jumbo button. "My attitude is, how do you say it in English, what's good for the goose is good for the gander. I won't do anything to you that I wouldn't want done to me."

"I'll make a little mental note of that. This is going to be fun," said Sandra. Her hair kept falling into her eyes. She kept flipping it back behind her ears, but with the next stroke and kiss it flopped back.

"Hey, can we take a quick break? I need to get a hair band. I can't stand my hair flying around like this," said Sandra, pulling back from his kisses.

"Good idea. You do that and I'll put on some music."

"Django?"

"Of course. Don't get naked. Not yet."

"Nasty boy, making me wait."

"What's the rush?"

"You've got me so horny I want to rip your clothes off and stuff you inside me right now."

"Ah, you've been reading too many erotic short stories," Marshall joked, carefully removing his shirt and draping it over a chair. "Does that happen in real life?"

"You want it to? I sure do! I'm shameless. Now you know," said Sandra, her hair pulled away to reveal her fresh, flushed face. She curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, heart still pounding and hands frantic to hold Marshall to her again.

Django's violin swirled through the office from unseen speakers. Marshall returned to the couch. Again, with the grace of a ballet master, the lifted her in the air and settled her on his lap. In a flash Marshall, a fast learner of the intricacies of women's clothes, undid all but the lowest of her blouse's buttons. It formed a silky "V" shape tapering from her shoulders to the crotch of her trousers. Deliciously exposed, Sandra snuggled against Marshall's warm, fuzzy chest. Her breasts, straining against her filmy bra, pushed into him, piercing him with their silky heat. Beneath her, his hardness pressed through four layers of clothing to caress her most private parts. A silly but startling image struck her. Marshall was like a pneumatic jack covered in khaki. This very special jack was lifting her, bit by bit, to a new, high day in her life.

"Take my shirt off?" she said, "so we can match?"

"Leave it on, OK, for now?" he said. "A little clothing, I like that. You sure you want to keep going?"

She kissed his nose. "The road looks clear, all signals green for this race gal. Having doubts, Marshall? Time to wave the yellow caution flag? Are we going too fast? Time for a pit stop?" The car terms tumbled out of her, but they made sense.

"Green lights for me, too, so long as we're on the same track," said Marshall.

She kissed his nipple. "I like you with your shirt off. Such a sexy beast." She leaned back and apprised him. He did look like a bear – an ursine gym rat, she thought, proportioned and muscled but not so ripped to look ridiculous for a man in his 40s. And that pneumatic lift that throbbed beneath her hips, well, her curiosity about that was also rising by the minute.

The yellow blouse brushed against Marshall's hand as it moved to her breast and cupped it through the bra. "So warm, so soft, such a sweet maidele," sighed Marshall. He sounded, and felt, like he had found something he had sought for a long, hard time. Through her haze of delight, Sandra detected the return of his accent, but not in the angry tone she heard at the attempted robbery, but a warm, loving voice redolent of places far away – a voice tempered in an ancient city on a river, Bucharest, a Latin memory on a modern tongue, rolling cadences from the land he left. She loved that voice. Rumania . . .

"Why did you say that?" Marshall's voice tickled her ear.

"Say what?"

"You said, 'Rumania, Rumania,'" he said.

"Oh," she giggled, " I was just listening to your beautiful voice. It made me think of Rumania."

He leaned against the couch. "Ah, Rumania, Rumania."

"That sounds like a song, the way you said it."

"That's because it is a song, 'Rumania, Rumania,' one of my favorite Yiddish songs. Remember Mendel's cousin's klezmer band that tours Europe? That's one of the band's show-stoppers. It's a great, rollicking song, but you've got to have a great voice to sing it properly."

"So, sing me a song."

"Ah, a command performance for the queen, Malka Sandra?"

"Only if you want to. I don't want to embarrass you."

"Well. I have been known to do a Yiddish tune or two at weddings, after a shot or two of Slivovitz."

"Do you need Slivovitz to get your pipes warmed up now?"

"Kiss me."

Their lips met in a soft, sly way, passion with a promise of more kisses, more places.

She wiggled her bottom on his lap. "I think your stick is shifting into high gear."

"It has been for a while now. You keep hitting the gas pedal and revving my engine. And your headlights are shining right into my eyes," said Marshall.

"Perhaps you should close your eyes and use your hands on the headlights."

"How about I leave my eyes open and cover your headlights up?" With his hand he deftly – more skilled by the minute with these things! – unsnapped the front clasp of her bra. The sides fell free so her breasts were open to Marshall. She felt hot, under that first full view by a new lover. She turned her head, feeling shy of a sudden. He kissed her cheek and sensed her furious blush.

She leaned against him, her nipples finally free to press against his bare chest. His workman's hand was firm but gentle on her, testing her responses to his touch. He had already pleasured her through the bra, but now, flesh to flesh, she squirmed at the more intimate touch.

"Like that?" he said, rolling her nipple between his callused fingers. "Or like this?" His index finger traced a lazy circle around her breast. "Or, maybe, this? I sure don't know what you like." He leaned her back against the couch and lowered his head to her breast, so he could kiss and then very deliberately lick around her nipple. Even as he licked he felt it grow harder against his lips. Sandra tossled his hair and arched her back to push her warm flesh against him.

"It ALL feels good, Marshall, all of it. You do it, I like it. You're making my headlights shine."

"I can tell. I can tell," he said, nuzzling her, his tongue and hands moving from one breast to another so smoothly that Sandra imagined she had two Marshall's pleasuring her. She felt totally covered, many tongues, many fingers for her delight.

"You like headlights. I'm a gearshift gal myself," she said, looking at him through half-closed eyes. She leaned forward and lightly pushed Marshall to his feet. "Stand up, you big hunk of Rumanian love." With a grin Marshall obeyed. Sandra secretly thrilled at his sudden turn from sexual aggressor to willing boy toy. What else would he do if she but asked, she wondered.

"Now, I said I like good, flexible gear shifters, the kind I can really wrap my fingers around," she said, unzipping his pants and, with both hands, yanking them down to his ankles. "I'm looking for real responsiveness. You know what I mean?"

"Ah, I believe so. Stiff but easy to maneuver around the tight curves?"

A delighted look spread on her face. "That's right, Marshall. If you've got the stick shift, I've got the tight, hot curves."

Impatiently she pulled his boxer shorts – with race cars on them! Who would have suspected such automotive devotion! – and his cock sprang out to her. She liked what she saw; "the mohel did an outstanding job," she joked, giving his cock a kiss on the tip.

"Done in total secrecy, on the eighth day," said Marshall. "My parents, the mohel, they could have all been arrested for doing so."

Her fingers formed a ring that she slipped over his cock and moved down the shaft. Marshall gulped and shuddered.

"Nice, nice, very good feel for the road," she said. "Needs some lubrication for extra responsiveness." His cock slowly disappeared between her lips. Her tongue darted up, down and around, then she slipped her head away. Saliva glistened from tip to base. Sandra slid her fingers lightly on the excruciatingly sensitive flesh. She felt so in control, the man in front of her, hands on her naked shoulders, his fingers tightening on her skin in response to her touch to him. "Yummy, high octane from this pump, I can tell," she marveled.

"You had better downshift or we're going to have an oil spill all over the highway, dear," said Marshall. One hand massaged Sandra's hair. He loved the feel of it, so long and clean and pulled back in a pony tail. His other hand pressed the base of his cock, so it stretched out as far as possible. Sandra's hand brushed against his. Again, she kissed him, and she tasted a drop of pre-come on him.

"We don't want that to happen before we have a lot more laps, do we?" she said.

For a moment they rested. Sandra sat on the couch while Marshall knelt in front of her. His head rested on her thighs. The music looped, sinuous violin riffs ebbing and flowing with their lovemaking, pushing them here, pulling them. Sandra wondered if Marshall liked the music for its sensual drive. As a new song began, he kissed the top of one thigh. Then the other. He pushed his head, like an eager St. Bernard puppy with a new toy, between her knees. They parted easily, so he could kiss her tender inner thighs. Sandra leaned back on the couch and sighed. As he licked his hands played along her legs, one hand on her ankle, another pushing her hip, then seemingly a third reaching up to cup a breast from below. The racing posters in the office gave her a feeling of luxury and speed.

"The way you go off-road, Marshall," she sighed.

"I like to get off the beaten path, head into the bush," he said between licks of the very top of her thigh. His tongue was agonizingly close to her cunt. "The bush, that's my destination now, in fact."

The yellow blouse, still lazily hanging from her shoulders, made her feel amazingly nude. The touch of the silk on her skin rippled every time she shifted. Bit by bit, she slid forward on the couch until she was almost flat against it. Moving between her legs, Marshall had shifted them far apart. His tongue finally grazed her cunt. She jumped.

"You OK? Too sensitive for that?" he asked, looking up, damp brown hair on his forehead.

"No, it just feels soooooo good," Sandra said. Her hands cupped her breasts, the lacy bra halves pushed to the side. Her thumbs flicked over the hard nipples. She wished she had some baby oil for Marshall to rub on them. Later.

Her eyes closed. The room faded away, the music, the couch, everything but the soft, steady, unending lapping like ocean waves between her lips. Sandra opened her legs farther and planted her feet on Marshall's broad shoulders. With her pelvis tilted upward, Marshall slid his hands under her ass cheeks. His warm, strong fingers kneaded her rump. A wave of warmth swept Sandra, moving up from his hands and down from his tongue, forming a sphere of pulsing heat deep inside her. In her mind's eye, Sandra saw a spot of fire in dusky space, like a just-struck match. This interested her – every time Marshall's tongue flicked, the flame danced and grew. His hands spread her cheeks (oh she felt so wanton now, melting in the heat inside) and the flame expanded.

Marshall loved her taste. He had never made love in his office, but the time, the woman, everything was right. He liked the way she told him what to do, then her responses to him. The pressure of her feet on his shoulders urged him on. Those strong legs forced his head down, deeper inside her. Sandra's womanly aroma filled his nose, her cleft filled his vision. The black curly hairs were drenched with his licking and her own fluids. Scotchgard on the couch, he thought crazily, thank goodness for the Scotchgard.

"I'm starting to see, see the finish line," gasped Sandra. Her fingers and his fingers and his tongue all worked in unison. Lick, stroke, push, touch. The flame began to fill her vision, hot and dancing.

"Smooth road down here, all the way," he said.

Then the flame erupted in a sheet and Sandra pushed down so hard on Marshall's shoulders that her ass lifted six inches off the couch. Marshall rose with her, his hands still cupping and opening her bottom. The hot center between Marshall's hands and tongue soared and burst, unleashing a firewave that raced up and down her synapses. Marshall felt her body arching, like a bow, and she cried a great sob of relief.

"Checked flag time, Sandra?" he said, as he licked around her lips, with little nipping kisses on her clit.

"Yes, I'm in the winner's circle for well-fucked women," she gasped. "But I'm ready for a victory lap. I'm not done yet. Stand up and get that beautiful cock in me. I can't stand just looking at it anymore."