Possibilities

Morning next day, mourning lack of sleep, I was cheerfully musing on my refurbished libertine status. Greedy, wanting more of the same, I was perfectly positioned for such to come to pass.

Recent events in Holly's bed had effectively drubbed to dust my former over the hill self, inspired a youthful, jaunty bearing in me. In my conceited estimation, I was all so heroic. I had given a good accounting of myself, was quite proud of my untiring efforts.

Stateside after twelve grueling months overseas, I was making up for lost time from women, their good, bad, indifferent company. Holly's guest, a good woman if there ever was one, I was doing more than making or marking time.

My graying blond hair was askew. A shower stall, razor and tooth brush was in my immediate future. My ensemble this early a.m. cotton shorts dark as black currants, secured by a fraying white drawstring and stretching across my chest, a ratty gray tee shirt good for a few more wears, then unheralded consignment to the rubbish bin.

Adjacent to the kitchen sink, one basin cluttered with spent wine glasses, crumby saucers, crusted flat wear and for reasons unbeknownst to me, Holly's soaking wet black thong, I chugged a bottle of Aqua Fina, tasty as Tuscan wine, in two or three goes, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. A double dime of hours bedding Holly had parched me. Water liberated from the green Amana slaked one thirst. Despite Holly's draining me at every opportunity, I was eager to quench another thirst only her voluptuous, hot-blooded body could and would slake.

Starbuck's Espresso Roast brewing in a top of the line Mr. Coffee, a chrome Sunbeam toaster, a twin to one my parents purchased in 1952, twisted my eyes its way and gave a grin to my face. Functioning perfectly fifty-seven years later, our trusty Sunbeam had survived a decade in number of presidential administrations, polyester leisure suits, Beta players, my parents' abbreviated lives, my brother's two cursory marriages and my interminable bondage passing for wedlock.

This good and dependable appliance reassured me. Old, rugged devices turning to long after young pups had laid down in exhaustion inspired me to be of similar bent. Holly, freely and frequently disposing her magnificent body to my tool, the wicked device, I welded accomplishing this worthy ambition.

Retrieving an off-white cup snug in a cabinet over burdened with much dinner wear, I too noisily, averted an avalanche of crockery. Silence awkwardly stilled back, I cocked my ear, listened. No sounds of a certain she awakening.

Turning, properly smacked a large silver skillet perched on the avocado enameled cooking top. Off the stove to the hardwood floor, it crashed in a loud bang. Sounded like a bag of gongs falling on tin. Damn. If such caterwauling didn't wake Holly, she was good to go for sleeping in the noisy, often uncomfortable places, I had slumbered in. Not a smidgen of sound hinting of Holly stirring. She was proving to be not only a supremely gifted sexual partner, also a consummate sound sleeper.

Coffee poured in the waywardly handled cup, left un-doctored by cream or sugar; shuffling across the chilly tile floor on my bare feet, I found softer going on the bizarrely patterned Oriental rug in the dining room. On the maple table a too fragile crystal decanter held a pair of yellow tulips. Green stems plumper under glass, bulbs perfected by nature into canary yellow medallions. Less is more and simple is superior said in crystal clear eloquence.

Comfortable in a handsomely appointed, sumptuously padded chair, my hands cradled the cup. In a monk's motionless hush, an impromptu ceremony made of sipping and savoring coffee. I venerated the tasty, caffeine punch; the apartment's reinstated cathedral-like quiet. With greatest reverence, I applauded the delectable wench sleeping a short distance away amidst tussled sheets I had gratefully assisted in tussling.

Half an hour earlier, Holly on me like crepe bunting. Faces, hers beautiful, mine not so inclined, estranged on not too fat or too thin pillows I preferred. This choice body nestled so not awakening me. Something else did. Me, randy bastard, my cock, randy bastard's best friend, roused to the velvet bower of her hand. Not static, merely holding ground, but riotously active running up and down my length at a delightfully dawdling speed. What a commotion to awaken to. Not her engaging mouth but the third best thing.

"Like that, do you. What you going to do about it?"

What to do? Let me think.

Fuck it.

A lifetime jacked from dreamland, dealing with now immediately, sleep shrugged off in a wink. I twisted around; speared her. Holly, bright-eyed, full of mischief, drew me into my hilt with practiced ease. No make-up paving her strawberry and cream complexion, served up naturally, cleanly and tidily as an innocent, untraveled farmer's daughter, one tinctured with a bit of the slattern. Hair in a concise coiffure still remarkably disarranged considering its brevity. Arms disabused of any notion save clutching me in her grasp. Feet taking flight, sliding along my calves as I found her wet place.

"Oh yes, fuck me baby. Give me your hard cock, fill me with your hot stuff." said Holly.

Words impacting my ears no less sensually than her lively, hot body wordlessly accomplished.

Unimagined hell on earth had to be in not knowing Holly, never starting, staying the course on such an exposed, sinfully gesturing female. Hearing, touching and taking her, I was in a merry band of brothers not consigned to such a Dantian inferno.

Sunlight, weakly at first blush, brawnier later, working its way into the bedroom as my cock maneuvered neither gracefully or ham handedly but capably inside Holly's receptive portal. Neighbors awakened, commenced their ablutions as we continued until we felt like not continuing.

Relaxing now, temporarily sated after gorging myself, I was in the quiet company of several healthy, humdinger tulips. Sipping this dandy tasting coffee, the sticky felt adhering to my tongue notwithstanding, I finally eyed Holly's apartment in detail.

Yesterday, eager to couple, I was oblivious to the apartment's minimalist décor. Dashing to the bedroom, I sensed more than saw pleasant digs flaunting a powdered and puffed female's floral, ambrosia scent, glimpsed pastel walls, a few disparate colors and shapes, not much else.

This morning a six foot tall Madagascar Dragon tree hove into view. As did several soothing watercolors hanging on the soft yellow walls. No entertainment zone whatsoever. Stark, uncomfortable looking furniture meant to be looked at, not lounged in. Bronze medals tucked in blue velvet-lined boxes, meritorious ones I suppose, significant prizes of some sort, three of them, equidistant apart, displayed on brass stands over the fireplace.

Unlike the crammed kitchen cabinets, the flat was a loose confederation of artifacts held together by acres of white space. Nor was there a lot of sentimentality calculated into the decor. The apartment's common thread of aloofness was a conscious effort. Such a dispersal of taciturnity signaled a well ordered mind not mental aberration. A hopeful rationalization founded on nothing more than a meager acquaintance with abnormal psychology and experience with quirky people. Ultimately, it was a place for everything important. Anything unimportant was sent packing. That was fine with me long as such detachment confined itself to the furnishings and not in Holly.

In one corner, a black music stand backing sheet music faced the one comfortable chair in this austere region. In its cozy province, I imagined Holly sitting stiffly, relaxed not a twit, the picture of grueling hard work, as her long, slender and Julliard trained fingers practiced violin by the hour. She played brilliantly no doubt. I had yet to hear her, but employment in the local, world class symphony suggested superlative skill.

Last night, resting, a pit stop before barreling back on to the track, I said something about hookers. Not hookers in their traditional sense but ones inhabiting Elizabethan England snatching valuables through open windows with hooks.

Following my hooker aside seemingly retrieved from nowhere, speaking in a hush, Holly nicely shored up our conversation with something not so off the wall. News of her musical aptitude, it's paying the freight. How her clever and practiced to the bone fingers launched her pell-mell into paroxysms of joy every time she worked her fiddle. Fondling strings with supple bow, yielding mellow arrangements, gravely serious sonatas, liberating emotive sounds, dulcet tones, she was distinct, a precious stone gushed over for its splendid natural gift.

Sex, music turned inward, claimed and calmed her oft-unruly, fidgety spirit. Sex, frequent sexual congress in all its sumptuous modes, soothed, satisfied, permitted another, more intimate, creative expression. Dancers cavorting in public, their art exhaled in graceful choreography, their fairly moving, finely tuned bodies, evoking the best nature of the human condition. Holly, her stage shrunk small, warmly personalized, and divinely intimate, was no different in her compelling desire to exhibit herself, engage her randy body in conveying the ultimate best nature of the human condition.

This part said in the first person sounded more charming, less haughty than my poor words suggest. Gently told, her voice nearly spent, beaten up by our diurnal and nocturnal buffeting, close combat of sorts, sex was therapeutic not salacious. Not a round heeled slut's tawdry confession but the declaration of a free spirit unconcerned with social convention or moral condemnation.

She said "I just love to fuck and be fucked" and I nearly shot my wad.

Flat on my back, swirls of wrinkles paid out under me, hands crossed behind my head. Holly resting on an elbow paying attention to me on the one hand, stroking me with the other as we chatted. Chattering soon put to bed as we resumed our merriment. What is a thirsty man still bellying up to the bar to do when so encouraged?

Another coffee poured; back at the table in my comfortable chair. Holly, dressed in nothing, settled precariously in ruby-colored, open-toed high heeled slides, sashayed up big as you please. How she moved so noiselessly on those strumpet shoes was beyond me. This pair meriting approbation as did the others lovingly arranged on the closet's floor. Heels lifted nearly vertical, legs corded as such shoes are wont, punching out her ass in the most decorous fashion. Shoes doing for her body what ribbon did for what it wrapped. Her body all the more invitingly sexual planted in such showboats.

Hair brushed, lipstick and make-up smacked on. Justly proud of her natural and improved assets, she leaned down. Boy did she lean down. Creamy breasts, hefty, gravity defying, filling my field of vision, overwhelming my personal space, she kissed me full bore and with lots of twisting tongue. Tasting of mint; skin sprayed with sunlight and citrus, a scent imploring my attention, quite impotent in masking the residual smell of our earlier exertions. This implacable odor restored the immediacy of our endeavors, made me instantly erect, a mile high erect to be factual. Or maybe my arousal was triggered by something more tangible.

"Baby, you do have stamina. I cannot believe how many times you made me come. You may be an old fart but you are something," Holly said.

Word of honor, she said it. Granted, the term "old fart" stung.

"And you are what my mother warned me about."

This statement is not in truth what I actually said.

In point of fact, no snappy come backs just mean docility and dumb muteness. Bowled over by Holly's boisterous body so nakedly exposed, her tumultuous invasion of this placid place, I was deaf and dumb and happy as a rowdy conventioneer. Not blind though. Staring unblinkingly, mouth wide open, my whole configuration set to be undone in some fashion by Holly. Speechless, motionless, thoughts of impending good times roared in my head.

Wild eyed wonderment as her lavender coated hands gently stroked and cupped my roughened face. Kissing me, tongue insistently probing into my mouth, one hand dipping into my shorts, grabbing what she had swiftly pestered into prominence.

She came to a succinct decision.

"Popeye feels to me like he needs relief."

I said nothing. Hopefully, I was not making a habit of such stillness of speech. With few talents to speak of, mime not being one, I could not see my white faced self gamboling around a leafy park scratching for dimes and quarters, especially if I was incapacitated, made out of sorts, by a noticeably pronounced hard on. Instead of playing the mime, I might play my prong in public; get myself posted to a jail cell.

Holly disappeared under the table.

Dragging my drawers down, taking me in her mouth, she bumped her head on the table's underside. No, she banged her noggin on the table.

"You okay?"

My voice was found. Squeaky, off the mark, but it was back in the game.

"Right as rain. Lover, soon as I get you where it needs to be, Olive Oyle will be even better."

I gave myself up to her muscled pleasuring. Terrific bouts of pressure augmented by pulses of hot breath nearly had me rolling out of my chair.

In the infinitesimal portion of brain oblivious to Holly's attentive mouth, I recalled ancient conversations. Booze befuddled patter, yakking about women sucking chrome off bumpers and golf balls through garden hoses.

Below the table, Holly, chrome sucker extraordinaire and golf ball gulper, was doing in the indicative what we stuporous cretins in slurred speech discussed subjectively. Deliberations fueled by a superfluity of hackneyed bon mots and not much else.

There was nothing hackneyed about Holly's oral sex modus operandi. Her mashing mouth nearly turned me inside out; her blustering almost punched my fitfully shaking body through the wall into a room I had yet to see.

Yours truly, a chrome bumper on a tail finned fifties Caddy; I'd be striped clean of my nearly precious metal bark. Her fealty to my schlong—a particularly distasteful word in my estimation--was legion. Sucking, reversing gears, Holly's minty breath gusted along my cylinder; I managed to stay in my chair even as she swirled her tongue about the head of my manhood. Sweet Jesus, what she did so well to my cock. Such an uncommonly proficient mouth was to be cherished at all costs.

Holly, soundly possessing my gun, un-cocked it, allowed me no firing options. Confined in her mouth, her command and control complete, my firearm's discharge and coupled big bang were at her forbearance.

Seventh heaven bliss, not seven a.m. yet. Especially rewarding, for me, a man named Axel Campion, who in recent years found little comfort in the way of sexual fulfillment.

Toiling in the shadows, I was a man who got the job done. Sometimes smoothly, little fuss, other times too much wear and tear.

I was all too human. Squared away on the outside, internally, a mess of conflict. Depression often booted up in me; insomnia robbed me of sleep, and to my dread, loneliness frequently played peek-a-boo. Drank too much, liver worked overtime, not to mention acute hypochondria.

At eighteen, my best friend's mother seduced me; taught me with great finesse how to work my body, hers for our mutual benefit, nearly wore me. She wearied of our sexual shenanigans, found a newly minted eighteen year old prick to fuck with. Heartbroken, I shipped out on a tramp steamer, did the deck ape thing, lived poorly in Europe, eventually enlisted in the Navy. Post Navy a career veiled in secrecy. Adventure, an element of danger and necessarily nasty deeds never mentioned.

When particularly out of sorts, Holly appeared. What a coup. Trolling the shadowy, ethereal Internet realm, a cyber arena where duplicity often held sway, I had found the wonderful woman presently laboring under this very table.

Holly was everything she represented herself to be. In person she was doubly prettier. Her close held body, not the image attached to her profile, just as top notch and just as immodestly clad. Next to me, not separated by the yawning gulf of seven thousand miles, her enthusiastic sexuality was well beyond what she proffered in her electronic correspondence.

For whatever reason, without apparent ulterior motive, freely, with no coercion, she had taken me, a slightly dilapidated, somewhat depleted man, into her bed and most importantly, her body.

Grand daddy Silas, lifetime Oklahoman, longtime roué, leisure devotee, wandered through life behind a big nose and sharp chin he unfortunately passed my way. Once, taking a hearty swig of Canadian Club, loudly burping once or twice, maybe farting, he said "never look gift horses in the mouth." In my childishly naïve mind, this old saw was home grown and harvested by my dipsomaniac granddad. At the time, I had no hold on its meaning. Later, I respected its wisdom if not the wisdom giver. Now it was all the justification I needed to keep my curiosity controlled, not speculate on Holly's short term interests or long time intentions regarding me.

My gift horse finally gave me my head; I sprinted to the finish line where Holly demanded my surrender. Like those tall, rangy buckskin clad Texicans at the Alamo; I answered her demand with well aimed cannon shot. Unlike those brave buckaroos under siege in a broken down mission, my stout mission surrendered and retreated from Holly's mouth.

Holly crawled from under the table, semen dribbling from one corner of her mouth. Towering over me on skyscraper shoes, swaggering, smiling wickedly as a sneer shadowed her countenance for a microsecond. It was the snicker emblematic of a warrior, leaving the field of battle victorious.

We kissed. I tasted mint and me.

It was my turn to reciprocate.

"Just a sec baby or shall I call you Olive Oyle?" I said. I liked the Olive Oyle comment, made me sound less passive, more a player.

The vase needed a safer place, a sanctuary from what was to happen. Gently transferred to the breakfast bar near the cordless yellow telephone and pad of blank yellow notes weighed down by a slim, gold Cross pen intended for writing memorable prose not mundane note taking.

Less gently, with Holly's complicity, I fixed her across the table in a sweeping arch. Firm, sleek, drawn in rich curves, she resembled a horizontal parenthesis. I also managed the stilettos in such a way to keep them and my fetish in play.

I was conscious of my hunger, Holly's eagerness nourishing this hunger. Not much else. Yet for several solid moments, my sense of sight held sway. I stared and salivated. My eyes given teeth gnashed on Holly's impressive accoutrements, made a meal. My peepers were entitled to their moment in the sun.

Holly grabbed hold of the table. Eyes gathering her, socked her away in long time memory, hands commencing their labor of lust.

Shorts popped out of, enjoying the sweet sensation of air sweeping down my strut like wind roaring off the plains to borrow from a long ago Broadway tune. Still shirted, I was ready; I soundly smacked Holly's ass. Red splotches splashed across dimpled pink flanks granite solid from punishing workouts. Holly did nothing by halves. She had no stomach for half measures.

"Honey, smack that ass. I am such a bad bad girl."

In saying "that ass" instead of "my ass", Holly was right on the money. In our mixing it up, Holly's derriere was an independent third party, the raison d'être of our shared energy perpetrating diluted sadomasochism.

Had fortune favored me with a daughter, she'd sound nothing like Holly's campy voice. It was so over the top. Babyish, breathy, a mélange heavy on Betty Boop, some Marilyn Monroe, a dash from a kid movie star I could not name. Exaggerated mimicry, her signal of accord, fun to hear, foisted on me such good feelings as I walloped her.